The young corpsman had heard the cry many times. Too many times! Another soldier had been wounded and was crying for help. Soon
the cry, "Corpsman", "Corpsman" rang across the battlefield. The young corpsman began his crawl toward the sound of the cries. Toward
danger! Toward fear!
Being the smallest member of the company, the young corpsman took a lot of abuse at boot camp. It seemed he could not go through a
day without someone causing him some kind of trouble. Children's clothes would be put into his footlocker, as a spoof on how small he
was, just before an inspection. Dirty greased rags were run through his weapon while someone would distract him. All making him look
like a fool and an incompetent to his sergeant. During physical training runs, he was not always last but certainly always near the end. Try
as he might, he never really seemed to be able to measure up. Somehow though he was there the day the company shipped out to war.
It was here on the battlefield that the corpsman had proven his worth. Here where the sergeant had given him his nickname, here where
all in the company learned to respect him. He seemed able to find the wounded almost before the call would go out. No matter where the
wounded were to be found, he would go there and bring them back..
Tex, was a big man. He was the first to be wounded. The young corpsman found Tex amidst the sounds and fury of the battle. He treated
his wounds and then to the amazement of all that saw it, carried, dragged and otherwise brought Tex back to safety.
Later that day the sergeant related the story to a captain. He was heard to say that the corpsman reminded him of a bird dog he once had.
He went on to explain that this dog when still a pup was confronted with a goose that the sergeant had shot down. The goose was still
very much alive and wanted nothing to do with the dog. It pecked at and flapped its one good wing at the puppy, causing some bruising
and some pain. The puppy somehow though, was able to bring back the goose, and finish the retrieve. Just as the corpsman had
retrieved Tex.
The Retriever! It seemed a simple name but from the first telling of the story the name had stuck. He really didn't like the name but as with
many things he had no choice. At least when others used the name now it was said with friendship and respect for what he had done
many times. He truly had become the Retriever!
Crawling toward the cries for help this day was no different than any other. Bullets whizzed by on all sides. Bombs blew and shrapnel
flew. He had not felt the pain that his patients had, and thus did not understand the pain in his lower leg. He just crawled on! Yes, it was
harder but on he did go. Arriving at the wounded soldier he found a lucky man. A piece of shrapnel or a bullet had glanced off the
soldier's helmet and sliced his shoulder. The blow had knocked him out, but the wound was not bad.
The corpsman tried to stand to carry the soldier back to safety but he could not, so he began crawling and pulling the soldier along. About
halfway back he lost his hand. It did not matter how, it just was. He did not think of his own pain only of getting his patient back to safety.
Time seemed to slow down and it was a surprise to him when at last he was back at the aid station. It was there that he died of his own
wounds after making one last retrieve.
The Muddler Minnow shot out from the tip of the fly rod and landed softly beneath the overhanging limbs of the willow tree. Allowing the
fly to sink slowly down to where he had just seen a large trout rise, the young man anticipated the strike. With only the slightest
movement of the rod tip, the trout was hooked. Wanting to keep the fish from getting entangled in the roots of the tree where they
intersected the stream, the young man stepped lively up the bank and was able to maneuver the large trout away from that obstruction. It
was truly a very large trout though, and there were many more battles fought before the new state record brown trout was landed.
The old man languished in this memory under that very same tree, starring at the water from which fame had come. He remembered how
he had been written up in all the local papers of the time and was the envy of all his friends. He had called his father at work to tell him
the news, forgetting he should have been at school studying instead of fishing. His father though, was excited for him and only later
reminded him that a good job and the freedom to do as you like, came with the wisdom learned in school.
He studied hard and graduated with honors from high school. He went on to college and after sometime decided that he would become a
doctor. What seemed like centuries ago he had graduated medical school and began to practice medicine in a small town. When he could
he would steal some time away and return to this river to fish for more memories and whatever else might come along.
It was here, years later, that he first felt the pain down deep inside. For a month he tried to ignore it and hoped it would go away. It did
not and after some testing he knew he did not have long to live. The pain had grown worse over time and soon enough he had had to
stop practicing medicine.
The old doctor found himself here under the willow tree having trouble breathing. He had been fishing the river as he had done when he
was younger, walking for miles along its bank. As he had got to the willow tree he had made a cast like the one when he was younger and
had hooked a small trout. He had reeled in the trout and released it as he had many others that day. Having made this last retrieve, the
old doctors heart stopped beating as he stared out at the water.
Beyond the millennium of time or maybe some ten years ago, my kids and I were driving along a country road in Washington State. It was
one of those roads where although it was the middle of the day, not much light came though the overhanging canopy of trees. It was a
spooky road as someone commented. Yes, it was a spooky road in many ways.
Our conversation drifted towards a discussion of whether or not the existence of a Bigfoot would be possible. I had serious doubts that it
would be possible, thinking that some hunter would have by now, brought one down and having done so, become famous. For my
children, being of a younger age back then, it was a bit scary to talk about. But we did and each added what they could to the
conversation. I noticed that each of the kids seemed to be sinking lower in their seats and trying not to look out at the beautiful scenery
as the conversation moved along so I changed the subject.
"What shall we name the new puppy?" I asked. Heads popped up from their hidden positions and the wheels of the younger minds began
to move. This was a much better and less scary thing to talk about.
My old dog Radar was getting very old and would soon die. All the children had grown up with him. It was a sad thing to think about but
Calou our other dog would need a friend and I thought the children would need a new puppy to soften the blow of Radar's passing.
Names were being discussed, when down the road appeared a black and very large animal. Since it had not been so long ago that we had
been talking about the Bigfoot, all had the same thought and voiced it at the same time! "A Bigfoot" was the cry from all. Well it turned out
to just be a very large dog, and when I noticed this I blurted out, "No it is a Littlefoot."
Thus was the name of our next puppy was chosen. He was larger than most springer spaniels come and had larger than normal feet, so
Littlefoot may not have been the appropriate name but it stuck. I had seen the mother of Littlefoot in a yard in western Washington while
on the way to work one day. She was just gorgeous and I stopped and asked if the owners would be willing to sell her. They said, " No ".
"Are you going to have puppies from her", I asked? "No", they said. I left, looking in my rear view mirror at Littlefoot's mother, play in the
yard. Six months later while driving past the same house, I noticed several new puppies running around the yard.
Yes, they would be happy to sell me one of the puppies. The owner tried to have me take one of the larger pups but the one that looked
and had the same coloring as the mother was the runt of the litter. The one that I would call Littlefoot.
Littlefoot has gained a measure of fame over the years at my opening day bird hunting spot. Many who visit the same spot along the
Snake river each year have seen Littlefoot help fill the back of my vest with birds. One retrieve in particular was seen by many on the bar.
A big rooster pheasant was finally spooked out of his hiding spot along the banks of the river. Shots were fired but the bird flew on,
heading for the other side of the river, apparently unharmed. Then when about half way across the river, the pheasant fell to the water
dead.
Littlefoot had been in the deep brush and weeds along the river when the pheasant flew. He had not seen what way it went or that it had
gone down. I would have to send him on a blind retrieve. It was so far across the river that friends suggested that I not send him,
thinking that he would never see the bird nor swim that far. I pointed though and sent him swimming with my signal of "Dead Bird".
Out he went swimming hard, knowing I would not have sent him if there were not a bird out there somewhere. I am not sure how he saw
the bird so soon but it was obvious that he did very early in the swim. One friend asked if I wanted him to run back and get the boat and
bring Littlefoot and the bird to shore. Such was the distance Littlefoot would be swimming. "No boat would be needed," I said.
Other hunters had seen us shoot at the bird and had also seen it go down in the river. They were sitting down taking a break from their
own hunting watching the show. Like at a football game we were all cheering when at last Littlefoot made the pickup. It was obvious that
Littlefoot was tired and I wondered if maybe I should not have sent him out there, but he was headed back and swimming strong.
A group of hunters in a boat came along as Littlefoot was swimming back and offered to bring him to shore. Somehow though, maybe
because of my own vanity or out of respect for what Littlefoot was doing I asked them to just follow along and make sure he made it in OK.
Back he did make it, giving me the beautiful peasant, shaking the water off, then it was back to work, looking for more birds. Throughout
the rest of the day, I would meet others hunters in the area and they would ask if that was Littlefoot. Such had become his fame that day.
So many retrieves and memories later, it was hard to listen to what the Vet was saying about Littlefoot. An obstruction blocked his
stomach and it would be best if he was put down. As I had with my other dogs, I told the Vet I would take care of Littlefoot myself. At home
that night I know I was short with the family and in general not in a very good mood. The next day I went out and sat down with Littlefoot to
talk to him. We had two more weeks in the hunting season and Littlefoot thought he could make it to end. I told him that if it got to painful
and it was too much for him to go on, that he should lie down and I would ease his pain. Somehow I know he knew what I was trying to say.
Littlefoot had been losing a lot of weight because of his sickness and I worried about his ability to keep up. The first weekend we had a
very good hunt and though Mishka, Littlefoot's son, did most of the work, Littlefoot held his own and put up several birds and made many
retrieves. It was obvious the next weekend that Littlefoot had slowed down even more but he showed that old enthusiasm when I went
out to get him and Mishka that morning. Barking and whining at three in the morning, upon my approach, as usual.
We were going after Chuckar and that meant a lot of hard hiking. Birds were shot and retrieves were made and Littlefoot began to lag
behind. A flock of birds came up in front of me and I was able to drop one. The problem was it fell across the gully and into some deep
snow. Both dogs were having a hard time finding the bird. Mishka gave up and started looking for new birds. Littlefoot though, kept up
the search and finally found the chuckar. It was now getting very late in the day.
As Littlefoot returned to me with the bird in his mouth, he was reluctant to give it to me. It was though he wanted to savor the moment for
as long as possible. I headed for the truck with Mishka out in front looking for new birds and new adventures. Littlefoot followed very
slowly with the bird in his mouth. Down the mountain a ways, Littlefoot finally had had all he could take and laid down with the bird still in
his mouth. I walked back up near him and sat down on a rock. I reached for the bird and he gave it to me. If I could describe the look on
his face I would have to say it was one of relief and of contentment. I am sure he was happy to have made one last retrieve.
the cry, "Corpsman", "Corpsman" rang across the battlefield. The young corpsman began his crawl toward the sound of the cries. Toward
danger! Toward fear!
Being the smallest member of the company, the young corpsman took a lot of abuse at boot camp. It seemed he could not go through a
day without someone causing him some kind of trouble. Children's clothes would be put into his footlocker, as a spoof on how small he
was, just before an inspection. Dirty greased rags were run through his weapon while someone would distract him. All making him look
like a fool and an incompetent to his sergeant. During physical training runs, he was not always last but certainly always near the end. Try
as he might, he never really seemed to be able to measure up. Somehow though he was there the day the company shipped out to war.
It was here on the battlefield that the corpsman had proven his worth. Here where the sergeant had given him his nickname, here where
all in the company learned to respect him. He seemed able to find the wounded almost before the call would go out. No matter where the
wounded were to be found, he would go there and bring them back..
Tex, was a big man. He was the first to be wounded. The young corpsman found Tex amidst the sounds and fury of the battle. He treated
his wounds and then to the amazement of all that saw it, carried, dragged and otherwise brought Tex back to safety.
Later that day the sergeant related the story to a captain. He was heard to say that the corpsman reminded him of a bird dog he once had.
He went on to explain that this dog when still a pup was confronted with a goose that the sergeant had shot down. The goose was still
very much alive and wanted nothing to do with the dog. It pecked at and flapped its one good wing at the puppy, causing some bruising
and some pain. The puppy somehow though, was able to bring back the goose, and finish the retrieve. Just as the corpsman had
retrieved Tex.
The Retriever! It seemed a simple name but from the first telling of the story the name had stuck. He really didn't like the name but as with
many things he had no choice. At least when others used the name now it was said with friendship and respect for what he had done
many times. He truly had become the Retriever!
Crawling toward the cries for help this day was no different than any other. Bullets whizzed by on all sides. Bombs blew and shrapnel
flew. He had not felt the pain that his patients had, and thus did not understand the pain in his lower leg. He just crawled on! Yes, it was
harder but on he did go. Arriving at the wounded soldier he found a lucky man. A piece of shrapnel or a bullet had glanced off the
soldier's helmet and sliced his shoulder. The blow had knocked him out, but the wound was not bad.
The corpsman tried to stand to carry the soldier back to safety but he could not, so he began crawling and pulling the soldier along. About
halfway back he lost his hand. It did not matter how, it just was. He did not think of his own pain only of getting his patient back to safety.
Time seemed to slow down and it was a surprise to him when at last he was back at the aid station. It was there that he died of his own
wounds after making one last retrieve.
The Muddler Minnow shot out from the tip of the fly rod and landed softly beneath the overhanging limbs of the willow tree. Allowing the
fly to sink slowly down to where he had just seen a large trout rise, the young man anticipated the strike. With only the slightest
movement of the rod tip, the trout was hooked. Wanting to keep the fish from getting entangled in the roots of the tree where they
intersected the stream, the young man stepped lively up the bank and was able to maneuver the large trout away from that obstruction. It
was truly a very large trout though, and there were many more battles fought before the new state record brown trout was landed.
The old man languished in this memory under that very same tree, starring at the water from which fame had come. He remembered how
he had been written up in all the local papers of the time and was the envy of all his friends. He had called his father at work to tell him
the news, forgetting he should have been at school studying instead of fishing. His father though, was excited for him and only later
reminded him that a good job and the freedom to do as you like, came with the wisdom learned in school.
He studied hard and graduated with honors from high school. He went on to college and after sometime decided that he would become a
doctor. What seemed like centuries ago he had graduated medical school and began to practice medicine in a small town. When he could
he would steal some time away and return to this river to fish for more memories and whatever else might come along.
It was here, years later, that he first felt the pain down deep inside. For a month he tried to ignore it and hoped it would go away. It did
not and after some testing he knew he did not have long to live. The pain had grown worse over time and soon enough he had had to
stop practicing medicine.
The old doctor found himself here under the willow tree having trouble breathing. He had been fishing the river as he had done when he
was younger, walking for miles along its bank. As he had got to the willow tree he had made a cast like the one when he was younger and
had hooked a small trout. He had reeled in the trout and released it as he had many others that day. Having made this last retrieve, the
old doctors heart stopped beating as he stared out at the water.
Beyond the millennium of time or maybe some ten years ago, my kids and I were driving along a country road in Washington State. It was
one of those roads where although it was the middle of the day, not much light came though the overhanging canopy of trees. It was a
spooky road as someone commented. Yes, it was a spooky road in many ways.
Our conversation drifted towards a discussion of whether or not the existence of a Bigfoot would be possible. I had serious doubts that it
would be possible, thinking that some hunter would have by now, brought one down and having done so, become famous. For my
children, being of a younger age back then, it was a bit scary to talk about. But we did and each added what they could to the
conversation. I noticed that each of the kids seemed to be sinking lower in their seats and trying not to look out at the beautiful scenery
as the conversation moved along so I changed the subject.
"What shall we name the new puppy?" I asked. Heads popped up from their hidden positions and the wheels of the younger minds began
to move. This was a much better and less scary thing to talk about.
My old dog Radar was getting very old and would soon die. All the children had grown up with him. It was a sad thing to think about but
Calou our other dog would need a friend and I thought the children would need a new puppy to soften the blow of Radar's passing.
Names were being discussed, when down the road appeared a black and very large animal. Since it had not been so long ago that we had
been talking about the Bigfoot, all had the same thought and voiced it at the same time! "A Bigfoot" was the cry from all. Well it turned out
to just be a very large dog, and when I noticed this I blurted out, "No it is a Littlefoot."
Thus was the name of our next puppy was chosen. He was larger than most springer spaniels come and had larger than normal feet, so
Littlefoot may not have been the appropriate name but it stuck. I had seen the mother of Littlefoot in a yard in western Washington while
on the way to work one day. She was just gorgeous and I stopped and asked if the owners would be willing to sell her. They said, " No ".
"Are you going to have puppies from her", I asked? "No", they said. I left, looking in my rear view mirror at Littlefoot's mother, play in the
yard. Six months later while driving past the same house, I noticed several new puppies running around the yard.
Yes, they would be happy to sell me one of the puppies. The owner tried to have me take one of the larger pups but the one that looked
and had the same coloring as the mother was the runt of the litter. The one that I would call Littlefoot.
Littlefoot has gained a measure of fame over the years at my opening day bird hunting spot. Many who visit the same spot along the
Snake river each year have seen Littlefoot help fill the back of my vest with birds. One retrieve in particular was seen by many on the bar.
A big rooster pheasant was finally spooked out of his hiding spot along the banks of the river. Shots were fired but the bird flew on,
heading for the other side of the river, apparently unharmed. Then when about half way across the river, the pheasant fell to the water
dead.
Littlefoot had been in the deep brush and weeds along the river when the pheasant flew. He had not seen what way it went or that it had
gone down. I would have to send him on a blind retrieve. It was so far across the river that friends suggested that I not send him,
thinking that he would never see the bird nor swim that far. I pointed though and sent him swimming with my signal of "Dead Bird".
Out he went swimming hard, knowing I would not have sent him if there were not a bird out there somewhere. I am not sure how he saw
the bird so soon but it was obvious that he did very early in the swim. One friend asked if I wanted him to run back and get the boat and
bring Littlefoot and the bird to shore. Such was the distance Littlefoot would be swimming. "No boat would be needed," I said.
Other hunters had seen us shoot at the bird and had also seen it go down in the river. They were sitting down taking a break from their
own hunting watching the show. Like at a football game we were all cheering when at last Littlefoot made the pickup. It was obvious that
Littlefoot was tired and I wondered if maybe I should not have sent him out there, but he was headed back and swimming strong.
A group of hunters in a boat came along as Littlefoot was swimming back and offered to bring him to shore. Somehow though, maybe
because of my own vanity or out of respect for what Littlefoot was doing I asked them to just follow along and make sure he made it in OK.
Back he did make it, giving me the beautiful peasant, shaking the water off, then it was back to work, looking for more birds. Throughout
the rest of the day, I would meet others hunters in the area and they would ask if that was Littlefoot. Such had become his fame that day.
So many retrieves and memories later, it was hard to listen to what the Vet was saying about Littlefoot. An obstruction blocked his
stomach and it would be best if he was put down. As I had with my other dogs, I told the Vet I would take care of Littlefoot myself. At home
that night I know I was short with the family and in general not in a very good mood. The next day I went out and sat down with Littlefoot to
talk to him. We had two more weeks in the hunting season and Littlefoot thought he could make it to end. I told him that if it got to painful
and it was too much for him to go on, that he should lie down and I would ease his pain. Somehow I know he knew what I was trying to say.
Littlefoot had been losing a lot of weight because of his sickness and I worried about his ability to keep up. The first weekend we had a
very good hunt and though Mishka, Littlefoot's son, did most of the work, Littlefoot held his own and put up several birds and made many
retrieves. It was obvious the next weekend that Littlefoot had slowed down even more but he showed that old enthusiasm when I went
out to get him and Mishka that morning. Barking and whining at three in the morning, upon my approach, as usual.
We were going after Chuckar and that meant a lot of hard hiking. Birds were shot and retrieves were made and Littlefoot began to lag
behind. A flock of birds came up in front of me and I was able to drop one. The problem was it fell across the gully and into some deep
snow. Both dogs were having a hard time finding the bird. Mishka gave up and started looking for new birds. Littlefoot though, kept up
the search and finally found the chuckar. It was now getting very late in the day.
As Littlefoot returned to me with the bird in his mouth, he was reluctant to give it to me. It was though he wanted to savor the moment for
as long as possible. I headed for the truck with Mishka out in front looking for new birds and new adventures. Littlefoot followed very
slowly with the bird in his mouth. Down the mountain a ways, Littlefoot finally had had all he could take and laid down with the bird still in
his mouth. I walked back up near him and sat down on a rock. I reached for the bird and he gave it to me. If I could describe the look on
his face I would have to say it was one of relief and of contentment. I am sure he was happy to have made one last retrieve.
With one of his
first retrieves.
Littlefoot never
did like having
his picture
taken. He
always acted
like we were
punishing him
when taking the
picture.
first retrieves.
Littlefoot never
did like having
his picture
taken. He
always acted
like we were
punishing him
when taking the
picture.
The Last Retrieve
 | |  | |  | |  |
