Three weeks later, at the end of her shift at the hospital, Elizabeth Reed walked out to face a sunny afternoon that was warm even for early August. A large man in a Canadian uniform approached her.
He was fumbling with his cap in his hands, twisting it with obvious nervousness, so she gave him a smile for encouragement. This was a soldier on leave. The men would spend two weeks in the trenches, and then be given a full week away from the fighting.
Elizabeth knew how important leave was for the soldiers. They could shower and get warm, eat a full meal and sleep without worrying about rats crawling into their blankets or shells dropping from the dark sky.
Her smile wasn’t enough to set him at ease. He kept looking at his shoes as he twisted his hat.
“Hello,” Elizabeth said. “I haven’t seen you before. Are you looking for a friend in the hospital?”
For such a huge man, he was extremely quiet.
“Yes,” he said, still staring at the ground. “Only…”
“Only?”
“It’s one of the birds, you see.” He finally lifted his eyes to hers. “And I’ve been told you’re the one who made sure she’s alive.”
That’s when Elizabeth understood.
“Little Abigail!” Elizabeth said.
The huge man grinned. “Yes!”
He seemed to lose his shyness as he spoke. “You might not understand. We all thought we were goners. Then, like magic, the shells stopped getting closer. And when…”
He stopped. Not from shyness, this time, but from the gratitude that was overwhelming him.
“Yes?” she said.
“And when we saw another Canadian platoon, it was like a miracle. They’d fought their way past the enemy to rescue us. That’s when I knew that, somehow, Little Abigail had made it here. So I asked. They said it was you who made a surgeon put her on the operating table.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Indeed. Would you like to see her?”
“Yes!” The huge man seemed transformed into a little boy.
“My name is Elizabeth,” she said.
“I’m Mark,” he answered.
“Come with me,” she said.
As he followed her, Elizabeth kept speaking.
“By the way,” Elizabeth said. “Have you heard the other news about Little Abigail?”
“No.” Suddenly he was nervous again.
“Don’t worry,” she said. They had reached the bird coop, and sounds of cooing pigeons filled the air. “Look for yourself.”
She pointed at a medal hanging from the cage. “It’s wonderful news. Everyone knows how plucky she was and how many lives she saved. She’s a real war hero. When the French president heard about her, he decided she deserved one of France’s great honors—the Croix de Guerre.”
The Cross of War! Mark felt like his face was splitting from the huge grin that hit him. But he was more concerned about seeing Abigail than admiring the medal.
There she was in the corner, head tilted and a gleam in her eyes.
“I’d like to hold her,” Mark said. “Would that be all right?”
“Of course,” Elizabeth said.
Mark reached into the cage. Abigail allowed his big hands to fold around her. He pulled her out. That’s when he noticed that someone had carved her a wooden leg to replace the one that had been shattered by a bullet.
He didn’t even care that his eyes filled with tears and he was crying in front of a woman he’d just met.
On October 4, 1918, US Army Major Charles Whittlesey and two hundred soldiers were trapped in a small depression on a hillside. This was their second day of battle, and they were in a desperate situation. Incoming fire from their own artillery, meant to help protect them, was instead landing closer and closer because their precise position was unknown.
Major Whittlesey had sent out a number of pigeons over the span of the battle, and his final bird was named Cher Ami, which means “dear friend” in French. Cher Ami had been on the front line for several months and had already flown twelve missions.
When Cher Ami was released, enemy gunners were waiting and fired such a volley that three bullets struck the bird. One bullet blinded Cher Ami. A second bullet tore through his chest. And a third bullet shattered his leg.
Cher Ami fluttered to the ground. Then, to the soldiers’ disbelief and joy, Cher Ami struggled back into the air and flew forty kilometers (25 mi.) to deliver the message, saving the trapped soldiers.
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Medics from the 77th Infantry Division saved Cher Ami’s life but could not save his shattered leg, so they carved him a wooden leg as a replacement. French soldiers heard of the brave bird and awarded Cher Ami one of the highest medals of honor in the French army.
Later, Cher Ami was sent to the United States and received a hero’s welcome. When Cher Ami died about a year later, his body was preserved and put on display at the Smithsonian American History Museum in Washington, D.C.
THE CARRIER PIGEON IN WAR
With the ability to deliver messages at speeds of up to one hundred kilometers (62 mi.) an hour, carrier pigeons were a vital part of World War One communications. Once released, the pigeons had to avoid enemy fire and the enemy’s trained falcons. Over 100,000 pigeons were used during the war, and they had an astounding success rate of 95 percent.
The pigeons were kept in mobile lofts behind the front line, drawn either by horses or automobiles, then taken into the trenches as necessary. Pigeons delivered messages from ship to ship as well, and were even sent from airplanes. They were also released with messages when sailors or pilots faced shipwrecks or crashes. One pigeon, launched from a ship wrecked out at sea, managed to deliver a message 305 kilometers (190 mi.).
The importance of the pigeons in the war was such that nearly thirty years later, despite many advances in technology, there were double the number of pigeon messengers in World War Two.
COMMUNICATION DIFFICULTIES IN WORLD WAR ONE
Communications were crucial to coordinating the efforts of tens of thousands of soldiers. Messages had to be sent and received to warn of ambushes and enemy presence, to shift soldiers to new locations during battle and to ensure that soldiers knew what orders to follow.
Traditionally, armies communicated with flag signals and messengers on foot or horseback, but telephone and telegraph had been introduced. These were not new technologies. Telephone was preferred, as it offered immediate two-way communication. But this kind of communication meant having to lay hundreds of kilometers of wire throughout the trenches, usually buried a minimum of thirty centimeters (12 in.). Also, the enemy was capable of listening to conversations; until the introduction of insulated lines, all it took was adding a wire on the ground nearby to intercept messages.
Laying wire also came at a tremendous cost of lives. During major offensive operations, engineers scrambled to lay wire or replace wire destroyed by shelling, putting themselves in the line of fire. For the British Royal Engineers Signal Service, as an example, the casualty rates were sometimes as high as 50 percent.
Worse, when soldiers had advanced or retreated, they moved away from the wires, basically cutting off their communication.
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As the war went on, the armies on both sides began to try wireless units. Although wireless, they weren’t exactly portable. In 1916, a wireless set for an aircraft weighed over 136 kilograms (300 lb.) and required an antenna dangling from the airplane that was 137 meters (450 ft.) long.
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In the trenches, an operator carrying a wireless set needed the assistance of two helpers, each carrying antenna wires. One would walk fifteen meters (50 ft.) in front and the other the same distance behind.
It is no wonder then that so many lives depended on animal messengers, including dogs and carrier pigeons, for reliable and fast delivery of messages.
UNDERSTANDING HOW CARRIER PIGEONS DELIVER MESSAGES
Sending a message via carrier pigeon, often called “Pigeon Post,” usually cons
ists of writing a message on thin, light paper that is then rolled into a small tube and attached to the bird’s leg.
However, some pigeons are trained to carry up to seventy-five grams (2.5 oz.) on their backs. In England and France as recently as the 1980s, pigeons were used to transport medical samples between hospitals for the simple reason that it was much faster and more efficient for a bird to fly direct than sending human couriers in cars or on bikes on crowded roads.
Once in the air, the pigeon orients itself and travels the shortest route possible to its home base. Some researchers believe the birds rely on the Earth’s magnetic field to form a mental map and compass. The researchers have learned that the top of the pigeon’s beak has a large amount of iron particles, and they believe that these particles align themselves to face the north, no differently than compasses used by humans.
Other researchers, however, think that pigeons use sound frequencies below what humans can sense to understand location. They believe that the length of sound waves at this level explains why a pigeon must circle a few times before leaving: the pigeon has to mentally map the sound. Researchers have also been able to use these sound waves to disrupt or even redirect a pigeon’s navigation.
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Regardless of how pigeons are able to find their way home, there is no doubt that those who merely see them as urban pests are missing what makes them so fascinating.
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LATE AUGUST, 1916
COURCELETTE, FRANCE
During any other time in his life and at any other place, it would have been impossible for Jake to sleep in the conditions of the trench. He’d grown up on a farm in Manitoba, sharing a bedroom with two little brothers. His bed was warm and dry, and the only sounds at night would be coyotes outside and the gentle snoring of his little brothers sharing the other bed in the room.
For all of his teenage years, he’d thought the farm was boring. He fell asleep each night dreaming of adventure that would come when he could finally leave it. Until his first few nights in a trench, he’d had no idea how wonderful the peace and security of his own bedroom had been.
His first nights in the trench seemed like years ago to Jake instead of just months. Then, sleep had been impossible. The muck was a thick goo that sometimes pulled his boots loose. When it rained, all he had for protection was his helmet and overcoat. Attack from the enemy coming over the top of the trench could happen at any moment. Sometimes artillery fire was so intense that a soldier could read a newspaper by the light from the constant explosions.
But very soon, Jake, like all the soldiers, had discovered that exhaustion could overcome all of that and that they could sleep through almost anything, even dread.
Tonight, in a few hours, Jake would be sent on a mission to No Man’s Land—the area between their trenches and the trenches of the enemy. Jake should have been too nervous to sleep. But his body needed sleep so badly that he didn’t care about the danger ahead.
Even though other soldiers tramped past him, he was asleep within seconds of lying on a board across the top of the mud. He began to dream about Thanksgiving dinner, where he was smiling at his little brothers as he helped carve a roast turkey. In his dream, he began to explain to everyone at the table that he’d never understood how something as simple as a dinner with family could be one of the most enjoyable things in life.
But the dream lost its joy when a hideously large rat popped out of the inside of the roast turkey and crawled up his arm. His family ignored the rat and pleasantly continued their conversations. Jake’s throat was frozen by shock and it seemed he couldn’t move his arm, and the rat kept climbing. Onto his shoulder. Onto his face.
The dream was so real that Jake felt the clammy cold feet of that rat on the skin of his cheek, then felt a tickle of whiskers across his forehead. He was just starting to realize that it was more than a dream when a sharp pain tore through the lobe of his left ear.
A rat had just bitten him!
He thrashed his arms to slap at his face, and the rat disappeared in a flash.
Yes, in the trenches, a soldier could sleep through almost anything. Except for the visits from rats.
At night, they scurried everywhere: from within the bags of grain for horses to under blankets and inside backpacks. More and more, though, the Storming Normans were facing fewer rats. This was the first one to bite Jake in a week, thanks to a cat named Boomer who patrolled the trenches.
Jake rubbed his ear and tried to fall asleep again, but his heart was pounding. His exhaustion was overwhelming, and he needed sleep to be alert for his mission tonight.
With his eyes open in the dark, waiting for the dreaded appearance of another rat, it seemed like he was hearing an unfamiliar noise. It took him a few moments to realize it was the sound of a man quietly sobbing.
To one side of Jake, Thomas Northstar snored gently. It seemed Thomas could sleep through anything. Nothing frightened or disturbed him. Except spiders. And that was a different story altogether.
The sobbing came from Jake’s other side.
Charlie Austin. Blundering, blustering Charlie Austin. Tonight would be Charlie’s first mission out into No Man’s Land.
Jake’s reaction was not scorn, but sympathy. He wondered if he should try to talk to Charlie. Maybe not now. Later. Now was the time to try to sleep. Jake needed the sleep to be alert in a few hours when he went into No Man’s Land. His life depended on it. And the lives of other soldiers in the platoon depended on him.
Jake closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe with long, slow breaths. Then he heard a sharp, short squeal.
That put a smile on Jake’s face.
Boomer had just added one more to the count. Jake hoped it was the rat that had just nipped at his ear.
Jake began to relax again and drifted into sleep.
—
Farther down the trench, Justin Biggs also woke to a soft touch of whiskers across the forehead. These whiskers made him smile; he knew they belonged to his cat, Boomer.
Justin had been out in No Man’s Land on the previous night’s mission. It would be a while until it was his turn again, so he wasn’t quite as desperate for sleep as Jake. Besides, Justin never minded when Boomer returned to him.
He also knew why Boomer was back.
Boomer was a black and white cat with a scar over his right eye. Justin had rescued the cat from a huge dog back in one of the French towns when he was on leave. His cat loved him as much he loved his cat. No doubt Boomer had just brought him a present: a dead rat. This gift from Boomer showed that the cat wanted to help out by sharing his food with his friend.
The war had turned life upside down from Justin’s previous world as a math teacher in an elementary school in Berlin, Ontario. It was so upside down that some of the letters from home told him that many people in the city wanted to change the city’s name because it had the same name as the city in Germany.
Back in Canada, before the war, Justin would have been horrified at the sight of a rat, and even more horrified to have one dropped beside him as he was sleeping.
Not here.
Boomer had already returned ten times tonight and would soon prowl for more. In the morning, the soldiers would count them all and cheer for Boomer. One of the lucky soldiers would win the jackpot, because every night Justin ran a pool for those who wanted to pay a few pennies to guess how many hated rats Boomer would remove from the trenches.
Boomer pushed his face hard against Justin’s face and rubbed. Someone had once told Justin it was so that Boomer could mark Justin’s face with scent from glands on the cat’s face. It meant that Boomer regarded Justin as his property.
If it was true, Justin was just fine with that. It didn’t matter to him if he belonged to Boomer, or Boomer belonged to him. As long as they were together.
Boomer purred for a few moments against the side of Justin’s face, then slipped into the night to hunt.
—
Too soon, Jake’s sleep end
ed.
Lieutenant Norman was above him, tapping his shoulder.
Jake sat up and yawned.
Lieutenant Norman moved to Charlie Austin and tapped Charlie too.
“You have your orders, York,” Lieutenant Norman said to Jake. The officer was just a dark outline. His voice was soft. “Repeat them back to me.”
“Three hours of observation at the post at the halfway mark,” Jake said.
“And?” Lieutenant Norman said.
“Sir?” Jake said. He didn’t know anything else had been added to the orders.
“Return safely,” Lieutenant Norman said. “This platoon needs both of you.”
The returning safely, Jake knew, was an unnecessary order. Everyone did their best to return safely. It was Lieutenant Norman’s way of telling his soldiers that he cared about them.
“Yes, sir,” Jake said.
“Austin,” Lieutenant Norman said. “Cat got your tongue? If so, I wouldn’t be surprised if Boomer is the guilty one. Notice that the rats are nearly gone from our part of the trenches?”
“Sir,” Charlie began in a weak voice, “it’s just that I don’t want to…”
Jake had a horrible feeling that Charlie was going to try to beg not to go. That would lead to a shame that Charlie would never forget.
Jake jumped back into the conversation.
“Lieutenant Norman,” Jake said, “I’m with Charlie. I don’t want to see any more rats for as long as I live. So while we’re out there, we’ll be cheering for Boomer to get rid of as many rats as possible.”
“Cheer silently,” Lieutenant Norman said. “I want you back.”
“Of course, sir,” Jake said. He kept talking so that Charlie couldn’t interrupt. “I’ve got my bet placed on the number twenty-three for the night. What’s your number, sir?”
“Seventeen. Boomer is amazing, but no cat is good enough to make it past twenty. Some of those rats are almost as big as a cat. Too bad we can’t shoot at them in the trenches.”
Innocent Heroes Page 2
