Tiger the Lurp Dog: A Novel
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
A landmark novel of the Vietnam War
an abbreviation to Marvel anymore. “Six—” This was printed out, and Marvel wondered if Wolverine was such a lifer he felt it disrespectful to let a numeral stand for the lieutenant, “wants us to lay dog here until NVA past J. D. Pass along.” Hoping Mopar would notice that Wolverine was still using a white-paged field pad even though they were now available from supply in discreet shades of light brown and pea green, Marvel passed the note around. Culculine was sure becoming a bad-luck
more desperately into the air waves: “Tacky Blinker Two-One, Tacky Blinker Two-One … This is Tacky Blinker Six Alpha, over …” and “Two-One, this is Six Alpha. If you hear me break squelch by code.” Again and again the radio relay tried to raise J. D. on the horn, but there was no answer, and after an hour Mopar decided it was time to wake Wolverine. He bent down to touch him on the shoulder, but Marvel stopped him. “Let him sleep. There’s nothing any of us can do now but keep our ears next to
attack without being wounded only to be bitten by a rat while rebuilding a bunker that had been destroyed by a NVA satchel charge. Now they were on their way to Nha Trang to receive a series of rabies shots, and no matter what Marvel said, he couldn’t shake their belief that they were in for an easy three weeks of rear-area ghost time. “What’s a shot, anyway?” the guy who had seen McKinney take a burst across the chest said in airy dismissal. “Once a day we take a pinprick—then bam! We’re gone!
morbid fear of mines, and he didn’t like the thought of repairing that perimeter. Even Master Sergeant Cardiff had a fear of his own riding on Tiger. “Tom Stagg is gonna skin me alive if that dog just wags his fuckin’ tail!” he whispered to the young medic. “I’ll give you three to one on your jump pay he blows his ass away.” It was always good policy to bet against sentiment and self-interest. That way, you were protected whatever happened. Cubby Cardiff was a sharp old schemer, but the young
heard a sound that made him stop and listen. Someone was playing a bamboo flute. The sound was faint, and if the breeze hadn’t shifted in his direction, Wolverine wouldn’t have heard it. But he had heard it, and he recognized the sound. He’d had another pointman once, a Vietnamese pointman who had played a bamboo flute, and no matter how faint the sound, hearing it now gave him the chills. “Listen!” he whispered excitedly. “Do you hear it?” Mopar closed his eyes for a second and tried to