Capt. John Marshall, 468th Field Coy, RE
The woods were infested with packs of dogs from the destroyed towns and villages. They had run quite wild, but picked up a good living from the bones thrown away by soldiers. These packs contained the most curious assortment of the canine species that one could imagine: pugs, Pomeranians, Dalmatians and dachshunds, nearly all long-haired and bushy tailed, looking most extraordinary, when running in a pack in search of food.
Pte William Golightly, 1st Northumberland Fusiliers
We had a forward post in front of our trench with the Lewis gun on it. We had managed to camouflage it pretty well and the Germans hadn’t spotted it. I remember looking out one night through a little hole and I saw a pair of eyes looking back at me. God almighty! Do you know what it was? It was a bloody cat. It scared the living daylights out of me. There were domestic cats, lost or abandoned and left to run wild, and they survived by eating off the dead, fighting with the rats for food.
Throughout the war, each side attempted to dominate by frequently raiding opposing trenches or by aggressively patrolling no-man’s-land at night. At the same time, as part and parcel of protecting the trenches, listening patrols were at work while working parties mended the barbed wire in front of the trenches; on all of these occasions it was critical that near-silence was maintained so as not to alert the enemy. However, working in silence naturally magnified all other sounds, sounds that brought a man on patrol out in a cold sweat.
Pte Thomas Williams, 19th King’s Liverpool Rgt
It was exceedingly dark when the patrol ventured out. We heard them scramble through our wire and then, without the slightest warning, a perfect hubbub of loud, wild calls broke the stillness of the night. Flares were sent up from the German trenches; a machine gun started to cackle and soon the bullets were coming from all directions. When the firing had died down the party made a decidedly hurried return! They tumbled back into the trench excited and breathless as though the devil himself had been after them. The sudden and unexpected medley of calls had sounded almost unearthly in the pitch-black silence of the night.
When safely back under cover, every member of the patrol laughed heartily, especially when they realised what had been the cause of the disturbance. In crossing a swampy patch of ground they had nearly trodden on a party of wild duck! It is, of course, a well-known fact that flighting duck will descend to almost any splash of water at night-time and this habit probably accounted for their presence in front of our wire.
2/Lt John Gamble, 14th Durham Light Infantry
For a day or two, a large black dog had appeared occasionally, running about on the German parapet and behind the lines. It was only when he was able to escape the vigilance of the Boche in the trenches, evidently, that he managed to take these little trips, as he was invariably hauled in by unseen hands, or unheard coaxings. He was quite safe, however, as we never fired at him, and it was novel to see a dog running about amongst that inferno.
Well, on Tuesday night, I was out between the lines with an NCO, a grenadier, and another man, reconnoitring the ground . . . when the NCO touched my arm to get my attention, and silently pointed in a half-right direction. There we distinctly saw someone moving. We were of course quite prepared for meeting an enemy patrol similar to ourselves, and were fully armed to the teeth. The movements were under a broken-down tree near the German line, and we could clearly see black-looking figures running about. Everything was very dark and quiet, and a flare light had not been sent up for some time. We waited and waited, on high tension, but still they did not approach us, and I was just wondering whether we ought to stalk them, when up went a brilliant flare, lighting up the whole surroundings. We kept absolutely flat and still, but with a gentle, imperceptible movement I raised my head, and saw that black dog, calmly examining something which had probably been thrown out of the German trench – possibly meat or other wasted food, as he appeared to be in an eating attitude.
When I got back, and related the experience to the other officers over a cup of hot cocoa, we simply screamed, and the following morning when the animal appeared on the parapet for a few moments, he was greeted by laughter from everyone who knew about it.
Pte Robert Renwick, 16th King’s Royal Rifle Corps
I had a mate called Jim Morris from Macclesfield. About half a dozen of us were sent out on a reconnoitring patrol to try and get a prisoner, and we met a very heavy German patrol. Jim said, ‘I’ll give out such a yell they’ll think there’s a battalion coming.’ He did, and the Germans scattered, but we collared one prisoner and a dog. I suppose the dog was meant to smell our scent and warn of our approach. When we got back into the line, the bombing officer was on duty and he said, ‘Halt! Who goes there?’ And Jimmy shouts, ‘King’s Royal Rifle patrol, a prisoner and one dog, sir.’ We adopted the dog. Once Jerry’s mascot, now it was ours.
It was not beyond the wit of most men to muse about how man, so predominant a species in the world, did not dare to stick his head above the parapet while animals had the right to pass freely from one side of no-man’s-land to the other, as happy to be friends with the Germans as the British. Such thoughts no doubt occurred to German soldiers too, and perhaps with this in mind a dog was used to offer a peace that, sadly, no one could take up. Private Voigt recalled hearing the men comment about the incident, revealing a surprising sense of kinship with the enemy.
Pte Frederick Voigt, Labour Corps
I reckon Fritz is a bloody good sport. We ought ter shake ’ands ’an make peace now. Peace at any price, that’s what I say . . . I tell yer a thing what ’appened when I was in the line. We ’ad a little dog wi’ us an’ one night she must a strayed inter Fritz’s trenches. The next mornin’ she came back wi’ a card tied round ’er neck an’ on the card it ad: ‘To our comrades in misfortune What about Peace?’ I reckon that was a jolly decent thing ter say. Jerry wants ter get ’ome to ’is missis an’ kiddies just as much as what we do!
Pte Christopher Massie, 76th Brigade, RAMC
The war dog is subject to every other condition of war except discipline. So he is not a soldier. He is always deserting from one regiment and joining another; hiding himself among the French or Belgian civilians. He has been known to go over the top with the first wave of our infantry and return again – a prisoner – among the German prisoners, laughing mightily as though this was one of the best jokes in the world. The war dog is a gypsy, a vagabond, a loveable scoundrel, affectionate when he is hungry, disdainful when he is full, a born thief, an artful rogue, a prodigal who is always sure to turn up at the killing of the fatted calf.
Massie did not have a pet. Some dogs remained utterly faithful to their owners, and the feeling was mutual. For men on both sides of the line who were fortunate enough to have the full affection of their pet, the bond was total.
Lt Andrew McCormick, 182nd Labour Coy
When we were at Quéant I noticed a strange wolf-like dog with a coat of yellowish tinge. It always stood at a spot near to which had been a Boche hospital. It seemed to be wearing its heart out looking for its master. I coaxed and cajoled it on many occasions, but it was averse to eating anything until I had gone away from the food. I had made progress, however, for on one occasion it took cheese from my hand. It was touching to see that dog daily returning to the same spot and looking longingly for its master – loyal and devoted to its own yet intractable and regardless of the stranger. I had determined to try to find out what was on the collar of this one I saw at Quéant with the patient, devoted look in its eyes, but the exigencies of war gave us another hurried move forwards and I often wonder how the faithful wolfhound solved its problem; and hope that it met with good treatment for its constancy to its old masters.
Maj. Neil Fraser-Tytler, D Batt., 149th Brigade, RFA
Soon after we were back in action, fate dealt us a cruel blow. My Irish pointer, which had joined us a month previously, was reclaimed by one who declared himself to be the rightful owner, so off went Mehal-Sha
hal-Hash-Baz, which was his name for short, meaning in Hebrew ‘rending and destruction’, and right well did he earn his name if ever he was left in a dugout alone!
A rumour which I did not contradict got round the battery that I was prepared to give a large sum for the dog if returned to me on our march away from here, at a safe distance from Henin Hill, so the many professional and unprofessional dog stealers in the battery set to work to effect his recovery from his home about half a mile to our flank. By day, however, the dog was carefully guarded, and at night kept securely tied up in a dugout in a trench. The plans tried were many and various. Individuals carrying telephones and pretending they were signallers looking for an imaginary battery at night asked the guard of the dog for directions, while another gang came up from the wagon line and with Red Indian stealth tried to stalk the sentry and get into the dugout unobserved. Others again started sapping up a disused trench hoping to tunnel into the trench, and it was only our move out of the locality that brought to an end these pious efforts.
Lt Andrew McCormick, 182nd Labour Coy
I was sitting in the mess one night when one of my corporals flung a puppy inside the door, remarking in the most casual sort of way – ‘a souvenir for you, sir’, and before I could even thank him the door had closed. It was a dear wee Manchester terrier, black with brown points. It certainly brought brightness and liveliness into the mess. It was chameleon-like in its movements. It captivated everybody about the place – but still it was my dog – and my dog I was determined it would be. One day about a fortnight after it had thus been gifted to me, I was walking along a road when a lorry drew up. An NCO hopped down, saluted, and as he said, ‘Excuse me, sir, but you’ve got my dog’, he picked it up. I observed the dog struggling to get away. I said, ‘How long have you lost the dog?’ He said, ‘About a fortnight, sir.’ I said, ‘We’ve just had it a fortnight and we’re very fond of it’, and he said, ‘And I’m fond of it too, sir.’ I thought, well, I’ll see whether you are or not – and so I said, ‘Would ten francs be any use to you?’ He said, ‘I’ll be glad to let you have it for that, sir.’ And gladly I paid him the filthy lucre, for I thought that anybody who could part with that dog for 7/6 [seven shillings and sixpence] should never have the privilege of keeping a dog.
Like all soldiers’ dogs ‘Teddie’ was made a great deal of, but she repaid it all many times over. She fed as and when she pleased, and even made free with my bed – although she knew that my batman banned sleeping on my bed. Often when I came in late, as I turned on my flashlight I would see where the wee doggie had been snugly lying and would just catch a glimpse of her hind legs disappearing into her own box. She loved to sit on my shoulders, and one day an old French woman, seeing her sitting there thus, addressed me: ‘Ah, M’sieur, bonne piccaninnie!’
We dubbed the doggie ‘Teddie’ because she loved to dance round on her hind legs when ‘Are you there little Teddy Bear?’ was played on the gramophone. Bell, my batman, took a great pride in Teddie. He used to try to undo all the bad habits I taught her. Being a soldier’s pet dog, I just felt that she did so much to cheer me I could scarcely do enough for her in repayment. Chocolate at 5/- [five shillings] a packet was entirely consumed by Teddie, and when the magic word ‘choco’ was uttered she just danced with delight. Bell was firmer with her – at any rate where the bedclothes were concerned. When he caught her on the bed he would look angry and say, ‘I’ll warm you, my lady’, but I’m sure he never had it in his heart to hit her. He used always to say, ‘If we have to part with that dog, sir, I’ll shoot her first. It wouldn’t be fair to leave that dog behind.’
Lt Reginald Dixon, 251st Siege Batt., RGA
Soldiers love animals and will make pets of any strays they find. After the Vimy Ridge battle, the battery I was serving with at that time found in the battered village of Thélus a small mongrel dog that had had its front paw shot away by a shell splinter. The brigade MO had treated it, the wound had healed, and the MO had actually made and fitted a little artificial wooden leg for the little beast. We named him Thélus, because that was where he was found, and he became the battery pet, running around among the guns as if the business of war was his natural milieu.
It was not only French farmers who used dogs in a working capacity. Dogs worked on an official basis in the army, running messages from the front line back to headquarters. Senior commanders had had to be convinced that dogs were capable of carrying messages in battlefield conditions, and after extensive trials in 1916 Airedales were found to be among the most reliable. However, despite this evidence, a large number of varieties were used in France and Belgium with varying degrees of success, although, as a rule, dogs with darker coats were chosen as they blended in better with the surroundings. Each dog was given a name such as Rab, Nipper, Ray and Surefoot, with notes including the name of the handler and the battalion to which they were attached. Records were also kept as to what happened to the dogs. Rab, an Airedale and Ray, a whippet, were killed in service, Surefoot, a collie, was destroyed for ‘being useless’, while Nipper, an Irish terrier/Airedale cross, survived the war.
Rifleman Alfred Read, 1/18th London Rgt. (Irish Rifles)
My first job was to take a dog up the line. The idea was to train this one (and others) to bring back messages. Anyhow, they were a complete failure, because whenever a shell came over they would dash into the nearest dugout and sit whining, so that the boys would make a fuss of them, and they would not leave. One dog, a black retriever, was at Bedford House [a destroyed château used as HQ]. The strange thing about this one was that he would never leave the place. As one brigade took over from another, so he would attach himself to the newcomers. He was named ‘Wipers’ and was a marvel at catching rats. Shortly after, orders were issued that all dogs found within three miles of the front line were to be destroyed, because it was discovered that the Germans had been training some of them to cross our lines. Old ‘Wipers’ must have known something, because he suddenly vanished.
A number of soldiers referred to this order to shoot stray dogs. Certainly both sides brought bitches on heat into the front line to distract enemy messenger dogs from carrying out their duties.
Sapper Albert Martin, 122nd Signal Coy, 41st Div., RE
We have some dogs that have been trained as message carriers. They go backwards and forwards between us and certain stations in the line. They are fairly big, ugly looking mongrels and they are persuaded to do their work by the prospect of food at the other end. That is to say, a dog that is to do a journey is kept from food for a few hours. From experience he knows that he will get a meal at another certain spot, so as soon as he is released, with the message fixed to his collar, he makes a beeline for grub.
The principle of focusing on food was used in exactly the same way when it came to the army’s use of carrier pigeons. Unlike dogs, pigeons had been trusted messengers from the earliest days of the war. By the end of 1915, fifteen pigeon stations were in use on the Western Front but with the introduction of mobile lofts on the Somme, their number had grown exponentially with several thousand available to carry messages during the battle. There were some clear advantages to using pigeons. Unlike dogs, pigeons were less likely to get bogged down in mud and, given their relative size, they made a difficult target to shoot. However, they remained vulnerable to attack by birds of prey and more susceptible to failure and capture in adverse weather.
2/Lt Frank Mitchell, Tank Corps
A squad of officers was marched into the pigeon hut, where a sergeant explained to them, with great detail, how and when to feed a pigeon, how to release it from its basket, how to roll up and attach a message to the clip on its leg, and how to start it off on its journey.
One weary pigeon acted as a demonstrator. Each officer advanced in turn, grabbed the poor bird in one hand, attached the message with the other, and replaced the pigeon in the basket. These lessons were going on all day long, and the wretched bird had become so used to being clumsily handled by scores of offi
cers that it scarcely made a movement, realising perhaps that passive resistance was the wisest plan.
It is interesting to recall that when a pigeon is released with a message from a tank in action, it is thrown downward so that its wings will open out, and it can then rise swiftly and fly away.
Colour Sgt William Meatyard, Plymouth Bttn, RMLI
The artillery had a telephone in the dugout, so that we could soon get a message through to the guns. Pigeons were kept in case of emergency only, the message being fixed to their leg in a small aluminium cylinder. The bird when let loose would make for its loft at Brigade Headquarters. There, by entering its loft, pushing through a trapdoor, an electric bell rang, which told the attendant that a bird had arrived. A fresh couple were then let loose with a practice message, ‘Wind S.W.’ or something. Only water was given them whilst up in the trenches so that they went quickly for grub. These birds will fly through artillery barrages and even gas, although after a time gas would affect them and for this purpose a sack treated with chemical was kept in the dugout.
Lt Murray Webb-Peploe, 23rd Heavy Artillery Group
I went for a walk with the doctor this evening and we captured a Boche carrier pigeon which was apparently exhausted. It just flopped along in a field and we caught it quite easily. It has a nickel ring on one foot with NURP and some figures on it. Haven’t found a message on it so far. I suppose it will have to be sent to the Intelligence Department. We have it in a cage and are feeding it on water, oats and bread. Had another look at it just now and found my servant had supplied the pigeon with a liberal slice of bread and jam!
The bird had become exhausted from flying into the wind and died a few hours later; whether this was from overexertion or jam poisoning, Webb-Peploe was never sure.
Tommy's Ark: Soldiers and Their Animals in the Great War. Richard Van Emden Page 21
