In the spring of 1946 I was stationed in Fairbanks, Alaska. This was during my hard drinking days, and a good thing too, as everybody else there was engaged in the same pursuit.
I was trying to find my way back to camp from a cabin in downtown
Fairbanks (don’t ask) about 2 AM. It was raining hard, there was a dense fog and it
was quite a distance to the base. I’m sorry, but it WAS a dark and stormy night.
I was wandering around, totally lost, having no idea even in what
direction I was supposed to go. It was very quiet and somewhat eerie. An
immense white dog suddenly appeared. I called to him, as I usually do to
any dog I see, and he came right over and greeted me. I scratched his
ears and told him to take me home. He promptly set off, with me
following. I tagged along behind him for several miles, and lo and
behold, the next thing I knew I was at the main gate of Ladd Field.
It was still quite some distance to my billet. While I was trudging
along in the rain, a car stopped. An officer asked if I wanted a lift.
Still being a few sheets to the wind, I told him sure, but only if my
dog could come too. He looked a bit dubious, but agreed, only asking me
to try to keep him off the seat. Both of us, dripping wet, climbed into
the back seat and he dropped us off at my Quonset hut.
I took the dog into the hut, collapsed on my bunk and was out. When
I awoke the next morning, I vaguely recalled the dog, but upon looking
about saw no sign of him. I wondered if perhaps I’d dreamed the entire
episode, so I asked my buddy if he’d seen a big white dog.
"My God," he exclaimed, "was that your dog?"
"Sure," I responded, "Why?"
Well, it appears that when the rest of the guys in the hut awoke and
started to move about, the dog commenced snarling and growling at them.
He cornered them at one end of the hut. One guy finally crawled out a
window, came around to the door and opened it. The dog gave a final
snarl, turned on his heel (heels?) and stalked out the door with great
dignity.
After cleaning up, I went over to the mess hall to get some coffee
and saw the place was completely disrupted, with knots of people
standing around talking. Asking what happened, I was told the following
story: shortly before, a monstrous white dog stalked into the mess hall,
growled and threatened everybody, walked over to the coffee urns and
lapped up coffee from the overflow tray. He then proceeded to the
serving line and helped himself to several servings of eggs, bacon and
rolls. One cook made the mistake of flinging rolls and pans at him. The
dog started after him, growling fiercely, and the mess hall emptied.
Only after the dog finished his repast, did he leave the mess hall and
start down the road, the last he was seen.
Someone called the MPs. I tried to explain what happened, but they
were skeptical. They did, however, give me a ride around the base trying
to find the dog, with no success. I still find it astonishing that he
was so friendly to me, that somehow he mysteriously got me back to camp,
yet was so vicious toward everybody else with whom he came in contact.
For months afterwards, whenever I was in Fairbanks, I looked for him,
but neither I nor anybody else ever saw him again. I don’t know why, but
people tended to look at me oddly for some time afterward.
