War Dogs by Rebecca Frankel Page A

body as a shield. If bullets were to hit them, they would hit his vest. But under his weight Anax squirmed, fighting his hold. He snapped his jaws at nothing, at everything and finally made contact, sinking his teeth into Whittaker’s hand, three of his canines piercing through his glove and skin. A full-mouth bite, his jaw closing around the whole of Whittaker’s hand—catching him near his thumb and down around his pinky finger. But in the heat of the commotion, Whittaker barely registered the sensation.
    The barrage lasted two full minutes, and then the air shifted and Whittaker noticed the shots sounded different—it was his guys who were laying down suppressive fire, not the enemy. If they were going to move, they had to move now. He pushed himself up off the ground, ready to run, but his dog, who was always out ahead, wasn’t even moving. Whittaker glanced back and saw that Anax’s eyes were open; he looked as if he wanted to follow but couldn’t. He was frozen. And that’s when Whittaker knew something was very wrong.
    He grabbed Anax by the collar and, giving up hope of reaching the others, dragged the dog to the nearest cover, a solid wall just a few feet away. Whittaker’s hands flew along the dog’s body, assessing him from head to tail. The dog was breathing, but he was whining and twisting in pain. And then Whittaker saw the blood on the dog’s hind legs.
    Fear set in. He didn’t have his medical kit with him. He’d left it on the truck, still over at the dismount site. He pulled the bandages from his own medical kit, pressing gauze to Anax’s wound to try to stem the bleeding. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. The thought hurtled through his mind again and again.
    By that point, an air weapons team had been called in and the firefight was basically over. Whittaker finished wrapping the gauze around Anax’s leg as best he could. A lieutenant got on the radio to let command know they needed an IV for Anax, as well as a helicopter to get him to treatment.
    But the medic couldn’t help Anax: he was occupied treating a civilian, a contractor riding in the convoy who had sustained a head injury when it was attacked. A medevac had already been called for the injured man and was on its way to the dismount site. All they had to do was get there in time and the medevac would transport Anax to a hospital.
    The site was a mile and half away.
    Whittaker took Anax in his arms and heaved him up, cradling the dog. He tried for one short, stilted step and then another, but as he trudged forward he could feel the dog’s fur slide from his grip, the pair of them nearly dropping to the ground. Anax was just 80 pounds of dead weight in his arms. It was after nine in the morning and they’d been out in the hot sun forhours, having walked for miles. Whittaker was drenched in sweat. He was so exhausted he could not carry his dog more than a few feet.
    The Czech EOD guys who had stayed with Whittaker and his wounded dog rushed to help. Stripping off their blouses they tied the fabric together, knotting their shirts into a bridge of cloth. Together they pulled the dog up, but with his wriggling and writhing his canine body slipped out of the makeshift stretcher, slowing their efforts to get him to the medevac with every step. Now Whittaker’s panic was full blown; they weren’t going to make it. Anax’s eyes were glazing over, his gaze was distant—the dog was about to go into shock. Even if they made it back to the dismount site, he knew that the medical kit alone wouldn’t be enough now; Anax needed emergency care.
    Whittaker shouted at the lieutenant, “I need to get my dog on that bird! We have to get on that bird!” He yelled it again and again.
    Then Whittaker heard the sound of a truck. It was an Afghan local. Whittaker heard the voices, the sounds of negotiation. The EOD guys managed to communicate the