He told us this story; One night, he was in a foxhole, waiting out the shelling from the Germans nearby. Over the sounds of shells hitting and bullets whizzing, my father heard a dog, crying piteously, somewhere in no-man's-land, between his foxhole, and the German lines. Disregarding his fellow soldiers telling him he was an idiot, Pop crawled on his belly, out into the warzone, trying to follow the sound of the dog. He found the animal, after searching for a period of time. It was (of course) a German Shepard. NOT an American style Shepard. THIS, was a Nazi Police dog, that had become separated from it's handler. It was huge. Pop crawled up to the terrified dog and spoke to it in German. He got ahold of it's collar and leading the dog, crawled, back to his foxhole.
That was that. Pop had a dog. It went with him everywhere; on patrol, to the mess tent, to the latrine. Pop saved him and he KNEW it, and showed his devotion accordingly. Unfortunately, the dog only knew German. The Captain of Pop's unit confirmed by the animal's tags, that it was indeed a Nazi Service Dog. My Pop was the only one who could communicate with the animal. Which lead to some disturbing situations with his buddies in the unit. It was not uncommon for them to not be able to get back into the foxhole, or tent, or bombed out farmhouse they were staying in, unless my father called off the dog. lol.
Pop fully intended to bring this massive animal home with him. He had already informed Mom and his own family. The Captain of the unit was going to assist him with the paperwork.
One day, Pop can back from an errand, and the dog was gone. No one knew anything. Pop knew one of them had killed his pet. He never did find out who. My father would tear up when he told this story. It took a lot to move my father in such a manner. I know he loved that dog.
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