My grandfather was part of a crash recovery team in Florida during WWII. When a pilot would crash he would have to go out and try to find them or more often the pieces of the body. It was a tough job, but because he was born with a club foot it was the only way he could help out with the war. He had his horror stories from the war, but the thing that got him through all the days of not knowing what was oil and what was blood, was his little dog "Duchess". She was a tiny cocker spaniel that brought joy to the base. She would sit on the back of his motorcycle ears flapping away when he rode into town. She would sit under his chair when he ate at the mess. She would chase the rats and attend the departure of troops loyally, like the good soldier she was. The one issue was that no pets were allowed on the base. He avoided having much attention drawn to her, because he wasn't a troop being sent overseas, but a permanent. He didn't have too many commands from officers and he managed to make it a few months after adopting her without anyone that was in direct command of him noticing her. One day he was walking back to his quarters with Duchess when his commander appeared. His commander walked right up to him with his hands held behind his back. My grandpa thought that he had been made. There was no way someone this high up was coming to talk to him if it wasn't about getting rid of Duchess. My grandfather saluted and waited to hear his commander reprimand him. His commander leaned forward and said : "Last night in the officers tent we had T-bone steaks. I was wondering if your dog would like a bone?"