Before Jake could answer, it seemed like a piece of black detached itself from the night beside him. Not until he felt a tongue lick his cheek did he realize it was a dog.
—
Charlie paced the trenches. He was still tempted to risk punishment and crawl back into No Man’s Land. If Jake and Thomas were still alive, they needed help. If they were still alive, they needed to be rescued before daylight, when the enemy would see them out in the open.
If—
He heard a shout in French.
“Viens ici!”
Charlie knew just enough French to understand that someone had yelled, “Come here!”
With Colonel Scruffington behind him, Charlie hurried down the trench, cursing each new glob of mud that clung to his boots and slowed his progress. But maybe he wasn’t about to get good news. Maybe he should just stay where he was and let the mud prevent him from learning something that he dreaded hearing.
Lieutenant Norman was already there.
The lanterns showed the French handler was patting the head of a medium-sized dog, black and silky.
The dog’s saddlebag was open.
Charlie instantly understood what that meant. Someone—out there in No Man’s Land—had been able to take out the first aid supplies. That meant someone—out there in No Man’s Land—was alive.
“Bien, Biscotte,” the French soldier said. He patted the dog’s head. “Bien”
The French soldier pulled two pieces of cloth out of the dog’s mouth. He held the pieces of uniform out for Lieutenant Norman.
It didn’t matter to Charlie that he couldn’t understand the rest of what the French soldier said. Charlie knew that the mercy dogs would tear a piece of uniform from a wounded soldier and bring it back to the handler. Then the dog would lead men back out to the injured.
Two pieces. Two soldiers.
The flickering light showed that the pieces came from uniforms that belonged to Canadian soldiers.
“Hold it to the Colonel,” Charlie said. “Let him have a sniff.”
Lieutenant Norman knelt to the dog. Colonel Scruffington caught the scent and began to prance and whine. He’d been taught not to bark in the trenches.
“Sir,” Charlie said immediately to Lieutenant Norman, “I’ll go. I’ll follow the dog back out to them. We won’t need lights, so the enemy won’t be able to see us. We will be safe.”
Lieutenant Norman hesitated, but only a fraction of a second. “Find some stretchers,” Lieutenant Norman said. “We’ll take two other men, and the four us should have them back in the trenches in no time at all.”
Prusco was a French dog that looked like a white wolf. Like all mercy dogs, Prusco had been trained to find wounded soldiers and not to bark when he found one, as this would draw gunfire from the enemy.
During one battle, Prusco allowed an injured soldier to hold onto his collar and dragged the soldier into a depression, safe from enemy fire. He repeated this to save the lives of three soldiers that day. In all, Prusco is credited with saving more than a hundred lives.
A French Red Cross dog named Michael, as trained, returned from the battlefield with the glove of a wounded soldier named Henri. Michael led first aid attendants to a remote part of the battlefield where Henri was lying. The doctor examined Henri and declared him dead.
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Again and again, Michael returned to the medics to try to make them come back to Henri. They ignored him, and eventually Michael disappeared until late that night, when a French guard noticed an eerie sight—a large dark object moving closer and closer: Michael, returning with Henri, dragging the man along the ground.
That’s when medics took another look and realized Henri was breathing. They rushed him to the hospital where he recovered from his battlefield wounds.
LUXURY IN ENEMY TRENCHES
Because the Germans were first to choose their defensive positions, they occupied the high ground, which meant that rainwater traveled down from their trenches to form the miserable mud endured by the Allies. The Germans also had the time to create huge dugouts to serve as meeting rooms, kitchens and full-sized living quarters.
The luxury was impressive enough to make it into a 1916 issue of Architectural Digest, where an Allied officer described a captured German trench that was “designed to house a whole company of 300 men, with the needful kitchens, provisions and munitions storerooms…an engine room and a motor room; many of the captured dugouts were thus lighted by electricity…[In] the officers’ quarters, there have been found full-length mirrors, comfortable bedsteads, cushioned armchairs, and some pictures.”
Another Allied soldier described finding in the German trenches “a veritable home from home, with bread and bottles of wine on tables. There was also a piano, the top of which was covered with picture postcards.”
In contrast, the British and Canadian officers saw their own rough trenches as something that would not allow their soldiers to become soft.
Maybe it was this toughness that made the difference when it came to trench raids in the dark: Germans soldiers rarely ventured away from their trenches, while Canadian soldiers grew bolder and bolder in attacks on the Germans at night.
THE TRENCH RAID
At night, small teams of Canadian soldiers would use burned cork to make their faces black, then cross No Man’s Land and drop into the enemy trenches. Their mission was to capture enemy soldiers, disable machine guns, gather intelligence material such as maps and written orders, and demoralize the enemy.
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Trench raids were a Canadian invention. Nobody else on either side had considering raiding the enemy during the stretches of time between major battles. The Princess Pats, as the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry was known, decided to try it in February 1915, by sending one hundred men across in a “smash-and-grab” attack. In November of the same year, the 7th Battalion (British Columbia) took this one step further. The front had been quiet and the Canadian soldiers were bored, so 170 volunteers rehearsed an attack for ten days, and when they struck, only two of the soldiers were hurt in a raid that was so successful that it became a model for future raids. As a result, the Canadians became the acknowledged experts on trench raids.
And in January of 1917, Calgary soldiers from the 50th Battalion learned from a prisoner captured during a raid that the Prussians—trained professionals with a long military tradition—were about to enter the line. The prisoner warned the Canadians—who came from varied backgrounds like teaching, accounting and farming—that the Prussians would show them what “real” soldiers were like.
In response, the 50th organized another raid as the Prussians were moving into place and still not organized, and they captured Prussian prisoners to deliver back to the Canadian trenches.
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APRIL 8, 1917
VIMY RIDGE, FRANCE
“Please do not take this as a complaint,” Thomas said to Jake. “But I do not like this at all.”
“Because you have to stop singing to complain,” Jake said, “I’d be happy if you kept complaining. Also, you are so off tune, I think it is cruel to make the horses listen to you.”
Each of them were holding the reins of a packhorse. The horses carried canvas bags, one bag on each side. Each bag held four massive shells that looked like gigantic bullets. Two shells together weighed as much as a full-grown man.
Just beyond them were the massive guns that fired those shells. It took a team of twenty men to load those guns. And there were nearly a thousand artillery pieces firing at the enemy.
Jake and Thomas were in a group of hundreds of soldiers who had been given the job of leading the packhorses from the rail lines to the guns.
Jake shifted his feet. He was standing in muddy water. His leg was sore from where the bullet had torn through his thigh six weeks earlier. He was covered in slime from mud. He itched from lice. His hands were cold.
“Besides,” Jake said, “it is jus
t another day in paradise. Why would any of us complain?”
“I just said it was not a complaint. I said—”
Thomas did not get to finish his sentence. A new barrage of shells thundered. It had been like this for seven full days. Thousands of shells each day and night rained down on the enemy trenches. Thousands!
Soon, the Canadians would advance. But until then, the enemy would not be given time to eat or sleep or even time to shave. They would be getting tired from constantly being ready for battle.
In the short silence that followed, Thomas finished speaking. “What I do not like is how horrible it is for these horses. You and I had a choice. We volunteered. And we can speak when we need help. Not these horses.”
Thomas pointed at his horse. “Louise here, she—”
“Louise?”
“She reminds me of my aunt Louise. Very patient. We can pick off the lice from our skin, but these sores? Mange. From mites. She must be in constant pain, but she does not fight her load or kick at me.”
Thomas ran his hand along her ribs. “Have you noticed each day we have to cinch the straps another hole? These horses are starving.”
Thomas lifted Louise’s front foot. “This hoof. It is like all the others on Louise. You are a farm boy. You know what that is. This horse is miserable.”
The hoof was splitting because it was constantly wet. Jake sighed. “Canker.”
Thomas knocked on his helmet. “I have protection. This horse does not. Horses are shot at and shelled and hit with poison gas. When this war is over, I hope they are given good treatment. They deserve it.”
Before Jake could reply, another huge round of shells thundered from the big guns. It was too loud to hear conversation, even if someone had shouted in his ear.
As it turned out, someone was trying to shout in his ear.
Jake felt a hand on his shoulder and turned.
Charlie’s face was filthy with mud, but he had a wide, white grin.
As the thunder lessened, Charlie said. “Hey you two! Lieutenant Norman sent me to look for you. The doctors cleared you to join the platoon for active service. We all cheered when we heard. You can come back with me straight away.”
“No,” Thomas said.
“No?” Charlie echoed. “In the hospital, you said you would do anything to get back to the fight.”
“That has not changed,” Thomas said. “But these two horses depend on Jake and me to get them back for the night. Then we will join the platoon.”
—
“This is like mail call for Thomas,” Lance Wesley told Jake. “Chocolates for him. Wagonloads of feed for the horses. Even some barrels with oats.”
They stood in a field, surrounded by hundreds of other packhorses and hundreds of other soldiers.
There was only a half hour of sunlight left. Wind was picking up with the first traces of sleet. None of them commented on the weather. In Canada, they had faced much worse without complaint. They took pride in this, knowing the British and French soldiers marveled at a Canadian soldier’s toughness and endurance.
Lance’s hearing had returned, but he had an obvious limp that kept him from active duty, so he had not been cleared for battle.
Lance ran his hand along Louise’s right front leg, feeling for injuries. He cared very much about all the horses.
He frowned. “Anywhere else and any other time, these horses would be getting rest and feed. I am glad, Thomas, that you donate all your chocolate and treats for the horses, but they need more than that.”
“I am very aware of this,” Thomas said. “I wish I could do more.”
Lance said to Thomas, “What’s your secret? Why do you get so many packages with chocolate from so many women?”
“There is no secret,” Thomas said. “It should be obvious. A fine warrior like me turns heads anywhere.”
“Either that,” Jake said, “or a fine warrior like him is very good at writing letters.”
“Letters?” Lance asked.
“Letters?” Thomas said, trying to sound innocent.
“Thomas,” Jake said, “I found one of your half-written letters where you had dropped it. I put it back in your notebook while you were asleep. Of course, I read it first. Such sweet words to a lady in London named Nancy. And of course, I then looked for other letters in your notebook. And found other names.”
“Oh,” Thomas said. “Those letters. I only do it because it makes all of them so happy to help a poor, lonely soldier. It is a sacrifice, but someone must do it.”
Lance said, “I don’t understand.”
“British newspapers,” Jake said. “There’s a column called ‘Lonely Soldier.’ It’s for soldiers at the front without friends or relatives who write to the newspapers and give their names. Women in England send food and candy and letters to cheer up the lonely soldiers.”
Thomas grinned at Lance and Jake. “It was one of your people who said that the pen is mightier than the sword. I am happy to learn your ways when it is convenient or useful. After all, that is why I use army socks in Cree moccasins.”
Lance laughed. “I’m going to miss you, both of you. It’s been nice to have a couple of weeks with mates from the platoon. But I understand why you want to get back.”
Soldiers in a platoon were closer than brothers. They fought hard in battle because they did not want to let down their brothers in arms.
Jake knew that Thomas had an extra motivation, however. Thomas believed if he returned to Canada with ribbons of honor that no one would deny his right to equal citizenship.
“I do want to get back,” Thomas said. “But first, Louise deserves a fine meal. Oats you said?”
Lance nodded. “Over there.”
“Thank you.” Thomas grabbed an empty feed bag and headed to the barrels.
“Any idea when?” Lance asked Jake.
Jake shook his head. Everyone knew that the Canadians were preparing to attack Vimy Ridge. Even the enemy troops knew. The only question was when.
To fool the enemy, General Byng had ordered extra heavy barrages of shelling to come without warning. The first few times, the enemy troops had prepared for a charge. But now they were exhausted after days of shelling. The enemy officers had difficulty getting their men in position because the men believed each new barrage was just a false alarm.
“And how is your leg?” Lance said. “Don’t lie to me. I’m not your doctor.”
“It could be better,” Jake said. “It’s the same with Thomas. Another week with the horses would be good. But any time we will get the word. So we can’t wait. I’m sorry you can’t join us.”
Lance started to nod, then his eyes widened and he looked past Jake.
“What the…”
Jake turned.
He had never seen Thomas run so fast. His friend pushed past a few other soldiers and then dove into a man who was lifting a feed bag of oats to a horse farther down the line.
Both of them tumbled into a ball.
And within seconds, four soldiers stood above Thomas, their rifles pointed downward.
“Stop right there!” one of the soldiers yelled.
Jake began to sprint in his friend’s direction. He didn’t feel any pain in his leg. Only fear for his friend.
—
When Jake reached his friend, Thomas was still on the ground, with rifles pointed at him.
“Jake, take that horse by the halter,” Thomas said. “Do not let her eat those oats. Look for nails.”
Jake didn’t ask why Thomas wanted him to do this. He had learned to trust his friend.
Jake took the horse by the halter and lifted her head away from the ground.
Tiny nails were scattered on the ground among the oats.
Jake turned to the soldiers. “Look at this. If the horse had eaten those oats, the nails would have torn apart her stomach.”
One of the soldiers glanced at the nails on the ground. He lowered his rifle and picked up the feed bag that had fallen. He shook oats and mor
e small nails out of the feed bag.
This soldier spoke to the others. “Let him stand. He was saving the horse.”
As Thomas stood, he said to the man he had tackled, “I found nails in the barrel as I was getting oats for my horse. I did not know if you would listen in time if I yelled for you to stop feeding your horse. I am sorry. I saw no other way but to tackle you.”
The man did not answer. He was shaking as he rolled onto his knees. Beads of sweat covered his face.
He stood.
He punched Thomas across the cheek.
Thomas rolled his head with the punch. He rubbed his cheek. “I take it then that you do not accept my apology.”
“I could have stopped the war,” the man said in a choked voice. “I could have stopped the war!”
The man dropped to his knees and tried to gather the nails on the ground. “Help me. Help me. I can’t stand the noise anymore. We need to stop the horses from taking shells to the guns. If we kill all the horses, the war will stop. Help me. Help me.”
The man was frantic. He began to sob.
Jake let out a long sigh of sympathy for the man. Obviously, killing all the horses would not stop the war, but this man just as obviously believed it. Jake suspected the poor man was shell-shocked. This happened to some soldiers after enduring the strain of constant battle.
Jake looked at the other soldiers. “Can you take him to a doctor and ask them to examine him? My friend and I will check the rest of the feed to make sure there are no more nails.”
—
It took Jake and Thomas a full hour of walking through the muddy water in the maze of trenches to reach the Storming Normans platoon. By then, night had settled, but the wind had not, and it drove sleet over the top of the trenches.
The welcome from Lieutenant Norman was warm, however.
Not as warm as from Colonel Scruffington. The dog stayed in full salute for one minute, even after Thomas said “at ease.”
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