Free Cracker! by Cynthia Kadohata

for “Victor Charles.” In the army every letter of the alphabet had a word assigned to it, so radio operators could make sure no mistakes were made while they talked to one another. “A” was “alpha,” “B” was “bravo,” “C” was “Charles,” or “Charlie,” and so on.
    “Then what’s the point of giving it to us?” Rick asked.
    “Are you mouthing off, soldier?”
    Rick could see that U-Haul was about to explode. “No, Sergeant, I’m trying to learn,” Rick said. “I appreciate your superior knowledge on all matters, Sergeant.” Tact and diplomacy, dammit.
    “That’s the right attitude, mister. Malaria’s a problem over there. For the information of you know-nothings, malaria is carried by mosquitoes. You can use bug juice around camp but not out in the forward areas.”
    Rick wanted to ask, Why wear us down before we even get to Vietnam? He considered sneaking bug juice on his face. But if he got caught, he might even get written up again. He squished a mosquito on his arm, saw the blood gush out of it.
    He tried not to think about it. Instead, he stuck his fingers into Cracker’s coat and felt her for ticks. Then he ran his fingers backward through her hair, then forward. Then he brushed her hair. Cracker had already shed her inner coat. German shepherds had two coats, but the inner one, which was mostly down, shed every summer or in hot weather. Cracker’s eyes shone as Rick brushed her.
    She relaxed as his fingers moved back and forth. Good Rick. Good boy. When Rick tried to stop brushing her, she pawed him for more. She liked his sweaty smell. She liked the way he brushed her. She liked the food he gave her. She liked being outside. She pushed up close to him. She liked being outside near his smell with him brushing her.
    Tristie walked over to sniff at her. They touched noses, and then Tristie returned to Twenty-Twenty.
    As he brushed Cracker, Rick calculated. Several of the handlers had made multiple mistakes today. He’d made only one—not that he cared about a trophy or anything. He figured the time would come when even Bruno and Cody would make a mistake while Rick and Cracker would not. He lit a cigarette from the one he was already smoking. For some reason, he always savored the first drag of a cigarette the most. Theoretically, if you couldn’t use bug juice, you couldn’t smoke a cigarette, but since U-Haul chain-smoked a combination of cigars and cigarettes, that rule went down the drain.
    The men began opening their C rations. Rick blew smoke into the air as he listened to some guys talk about the Atlanta Braves and the Falcons. He saw Cody eyeing everybody’s C rats, probably thinking up deals to strike. Rick had pulled ham ’n’ chokers, which everybody except Cody agreed was the worst C rat available. The “chokers” were lima beans—that is, the nastiest vegetable Mother Nature had ever invented. Cody said, “Trade you for my meatballs?”
    Rick jumped at it. “Deal!” Spaghetti and meatballs was considered one of the primest of the prime C rations. Even with just the meatballs, Rick felt like he’d struck gold.
    Rick took out the empty can that they all carried as a stove to heat their meals. You placed Trioxin heat tabs inside and poked holes in the bottom to keep fumes from building up inside the can. The army issued these heat tabs, but supposedly, soldiers in country used C-4 explosive to heat their food. C-4 exploded only with heat and impact. A match caused the C-4 to heat up like the devil himself was cooking your food. Rick and some guys had tried it once during advanced infantry training. It was like putty, and you shaped it into a ball the size of a quarter, with a little point on top. Cooked your C rats in thirty seconds flat. Heated your coffee instantaneously.
    Sarge was enjoying a cigar, alternately puffing on it and smiling at it. Cody leaned toward Rick. “U-Haul almost wigged big-time when you questioned him about the bug juice. You better