The Last Retrieve
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.
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.
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