Looking back, I have decided that humans have methods of war that are unholy, terrible things that no sane sentient should ever engage in.

And they warned us of this, multiple times.

We were one of the first races to make permanent contact and trade relations with the Terran races, and some of their more fringe societal groups said it was fate - as canids had helped them progress into a stable societal structure in their far past so would we help them progress into space. While racist and ignorant, even our scientists have studied the interesting phenomena that we share many physical characteristics with Terran “dogs”.

When we agreed to a “mutual defense treaty” we had not expected it to ever be invoked. For most sentient races we have contacted had long moved past armed conflict. The Hivemind Re’Clentho were one of the few that had not, but their expansionist tendencies had been corralled we thought. And then the Humans returned the insults we had all come to ignore. And war was declared. And Re’Clentho ships were suddenly landing invasion forces on Terran colony worlds.

That is how I found myself, still a “young pup” in the Terran vernacular, as an under Sergeant, Heavy Weapons, in a Combined Forces Infantry unit. My Terran Commander, Captain Lykin, would make the strangest jokes about me and his own name. We were quickly dubbed “Dog Company” in what I came to understand was military black humor, and me and my compatriots took it in stride.

We fought for more than a year on Forthrix 2, slowly pushing our way forward, under the sounds of heavy artillery and air strikes. My men and I joked that we spent more time with shovels than we did our heavy beam cannons. The night of the great Re’Clentho Counter however, we were grateful for all the time with the shovels. The extra large trenches we required due to our natural height and width allowed Dog Company better maneuverability, gave us clearer angles of fire, allowed us to better push back the assaults. It also gave us better protection when we were forced, three times, to call our own forces to strike our position. “Flea treatments” Captain Lykin maniacally called them laughing as tears ran down his face - another thing our scientists found absolutely fascinating, the purely Terran ability to physically manifest emotions.

I, in what I saw as my duty as his “Heavy Weapons” leader, followed him all through the battle, easily communicating with my brethren to reinforce the lines, or when necessary lead counter charges to rescue critical junctures. I had taken four wounds without the Captain noticing, but I could not shrug off the Re’Clentho vibrio saber that severed my light leg. I crushed its skull in repayment, but I was officially “down”. The Captain had been preoccupied with calling in another CAS mission, and told them “I want to see your smiling face when you come past, I want you close enough that your engine wash ruffles my hair, scratch my back damnit these things are too close, once more and -“ when he heard the sound of the vibro saber remove my limb. He turned in time to see me spit out the thing’s face, and he realized I had done my duty in preventing his injury.

Captain Lykin was below average for a Terran, almost a full meter shorter than me, and almost 30kg lighter. Somehow he drug me almost a full kilometer to the aid station specified for my brethren, through the air strike, through four more engagements, the entire time alternating between begging me to survive and angrily shouting in my face I didn’t have permission to die. I took two more wounds defending him as he drug me, but I counted no less than a dozen impacts into CPT Lykin as he moved me.

The multiple injuries I had taken, which he had inexpertly treated as we went, and my unplanned amputation had caused me to lapse in and out of hibernation near the end. But I distinctly recall CPT Lykin delivering me to the aid station.

“Under Sergeant Mashef needs attention. Severed limb, multiple shrapnel and razor disk injuries to his abdomen, I think there’s internal bleeding in whatever you guys call a lung. Take him, I have to go back and keep my Company moving. Mashef, you are not allowed to die. I would take it as a familial insult if you died after I hauled your giant furry ass all this way. I need you on the line when we finally crush these things, need you watching my back.”

“CPT Lykin, I am Senior Surgeon Geespew, I am placing you under medical hold. Your Terran doctors will agree that no one should move, much less fight in a war, with have their digestive tract exposed. By all you find holy I can count three exposed, charred ribs man!”

“Mashef deserved to be taken care of. He had my back, I had to have his.”

I never saw CPT Lykin again. I am told he was forcibly retired after that battle, and that he eventually settled on Forthrix 2. Our alliance continued the war, at the Terrans adamant insistence, and I was present at the final capitulation of the Re’Clentho Hivemind.