Soldier Dog

by Sam Angus

  Orderlies collected Bones from the ambulance and carried him past dimly lit mess buildings, dipping vats, isolation huts with latticed windows, pneumonia wards, mange wards, to an operating theatre.

  An officer wearing a white apron over his khaki, his eyes circled with dark creases, approached.

  ‘Lieutenant Fielding, Jolyon Fielding.’ He stuck out his hand. Behind Fielding stood rows of horses, in splints or bandaged, being cleaned and dressed.

  Fielding put a hand on Bones’s heart, studying Stanley as he did so. He pulled the blanket down. In the yellow lantern light they both saw the striped coat gleaming like candlelit velvet, and below, the pink and white guts, the metal barbs.

  ‘Oh . . .’ Fielding looked up. ‘Did he – did he run home like this?’

  Stanley nodded, voiceless. Fielding held his gaze for a second or two, then shook his head.

  ‘There’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry.’ Fielding took Stanley’s hand, ‘He’s very little time left. You must stay with him to the end.’

  Still mute, Stanley nodded again. Fielding watched as Stanley climbed up on to the table and lay beside the dog.

  ‘Good boy, good,’ said Stanley, and he laid his head next to Bones, his hand on the dog’s flank, feeling its faint rising, faint falling. Fielding pulled the blanket over them and said he’d be back before long.

  ‘Good boy . . . good. Go, go, boy, let go,’ whispered Stanley, caressing the tall ears, the deep muzzle. ‘Let go.’ Silent tears coursed down his cheeks, ‘Go, boy, go.’

  An hour or so passed before Stanley felt the quiver of a single ear against his own cheek, gentle as the beat of a wing.

  Etaples

  The next morning

  Drunk with exhaustion, disembodied with grief, Stanley walked unseeing, unhearing, past tents, past troops, towards Central Kennel HQ, no soft padding at his heels, no large head to rest a hand on. He had one single idea in his head: to go home, to go to Lara Bird, to Nethercott. He’d collect his pay, tell them he was underage and he’d leave.

  ‘Keeper Ryder, sir.’ Stanley saluted the Major at the desk of Central Kennel HQ.

  ‘Ah.’ The officer leaped to his feet. ‘Keeper Ryder.’ He moved around his desk to stand in front of Stanley. ‘I’m sorry, lad. Corporal Hunter cabled to say . . . We heard, Ryder, we all heard what your dog did.’

  ‘Corporal Hunter?’ Stanley asked dully.

  The Major nodded, closing his eyes. ‘Yes, he cabled to say the battalion was saved, by the message your dog carried. Not C Company. There – there was nothing anyone could do – but the back lines, the remains of the front line, they got back. Ten minutes after Hunter sent his last cable, the Station was hit. He was killed outright. That cable said the dog deserves a VC, that his courage and sense of duty were the equal of any man.’

  Numb and helpless, Stanley allowed himself to be steered by the Major towards the door.

  ‘They counter-attacked in the late afternoon with fresh troops – the Australians under Colonel Milne took two German divisions. Well, we haven’t stopped the Hun dreaming of Villers yet, but we’ve kept him off for a bit.’

  Stanley, lagging a little behind the Major, kicked at the white dust.

  ‘You’re one of our best men, Ryder. We’ll get you back up there as soon as we can.’

  ‘No . . . no. I don’t, I don’t – I won’t – go back up, I don’t want another dog.’

  ‘Follow me.’ The Major seemed to be practised at not hearing. ‘We’ve a dog waiting. The vet will tell you about him. Something else might turn up, but start on this one, and we’ll soon get you back to the Front.’

  With no strength to resist, Stanley found himself being led to the Kennels’ Veterinary Hut where he was passed, like a helpless child, from the Major who wished him well, to Lieutenant-Colonel Thorne. Thorne was steering Stanley round to the back of the hut. He took lots of little, fast steps on small, rather dainty feet. Thorne was all chest, his hips and legs tailing away like a tadpole’s.

  ‘Here he is. Pistol.’

  Stanley didn’t look at the dog, was looking directly at Thorne; he didn’t want to be given another dog. Thorne was all puffed-up and pigeon-chested. His face was bird-like, too, round-eyed and sharp-nosed, but he was smiling now, his face crinkling into a bright, surprisingly likeable smile, and he seemed to want some kind of response from Stanley. Stanley looked and saw, briefly, a still, silent dog, coiled on the dusty ground, some sixty feet or so away. Stanley looked back at the Lieutenant-Colonel.

  ‘I don’t want a new dog. I want to go home.’

  The Lieutenant-Colonel had probably heard this before, Stanley realized – was as practised as the Major at shepherding men back into line – but Stanley had nothing to give, no strength, no love, no courage; he had been emptied by grief and loss. He wanted, simply, to be at home. Soldier and Bones had taken all of him with them. He looked away over the blinding white expanse, through the rows of kennels to the tents beyond. He saw only a world drained of colour and feeling. So many men, so many men, but still a boy could drown in his own aloneness. Yet, if Bones had not run home, Stanley thought dully, he too would have been in that Signal Station, he too would have died.

  ‘You could do the dog some good, help him along . . . He’s had a bad shock.’

  Thorne was drawing tentatively closer to the dog. It rose to its feet and whipped around, snarling, cringing, curling its lips, baring its teeth. It was hairless in places, with tufts of hair the colour of steel in others. Its listless eyes made Stanley want to look away, feared to see the head that hung like a weight, the flesh dotted with open sores. The dog widdled where it stood without so much as lifting a leg. Now it was crouching and cowering, every fibre expressing extreme fear. The Lieutenant-Colonel, looking a little hurt, had scuttled back to stand by Stanley.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Stanley simply. ‘Who did this?’ The dog crouched so low that the raw skin of its belly grazed the ground.

  ‘Well. It’s a long story . . . This urchin was a stray, rounded up by police in Liverpool. They’re not killing strays any more, you see, that’s how Colonel Richardson got him. Macy, the vet, treated him – he’d a bad case of sarcoptic mange, that’s why the skin’s rough, like a hide in places. Macy gave him a mange wash and its been on the mend for a while now.’

  Stanley was looking away, far beyond the tents. I could just start walking, he was thinking, just turn around and walk and walk till I get to the boats.

  ‘Now look, Keeper Ryder, this dog might not look much but he’s muscular and light, he’s strong and he’s clever. They have brains usually, these summer breeds, and it’s cleverness that you want. He’s good – you won’t have to teach him anything.’

  The dog whimpered and dribbled more urine, featherless tail tucked low between its legs, and then sank down to the ground it had just puddled.

  ‘No,’ Stanley would have shouted to the skies if there’d been any strength in him, but he simply looked at Lieutenant-Colonel Thorne and shook his head. ‘No,’ he repeated out loud. He would be heard. He would go home. Perhaps all officers were used to men saying no, because the Lieutenant-Colonel was still speaking. ‘Don’t be put off by his looks. You see there, around his neck – those patches of skin were very sore, but now they’re softer – see? – bristling with new hair. He’ll look better every day. Earn his trust and you’ll make him a good soldier.’

  Stanley saw the dry cracked skin around the ears, the patches of raw flesh. He felt spiritless, sickened, then turned away, unable to fight his revulsion. It wasn’t lovable, this dog, it wasn’t like Bones. No dog could ever be like Bones. Thorne was stepping inside his hut, perhaps to fetch something.

  ‘N-n-n-no,’ said Stanley, too late for Thorne to hear him. ‘I won’t go back up.’

  Remote, and disconnected from all around him, Stanley was still thinking, I will just walk, walk and walk and if they stop me, I’ll tell them I’m too young.

  The grey dog gave a strange, heart-rend
ing whimper, prodding Stanley from his dreams. In spite of himself, in spite of his weariness, Stanley crouched and remained a minute or so looking at the dog.

  ‘Why are you so sad?’ he whispered.

  Still crouching, Stanley moved forward. The dog flinched and whipped back with a shotgun reflex, baring his teeth.

  ‘You’re all spent, aren’t you? As empty and all gone as I am.’ Numb with exhaustion, revulsion and pity, the boy stayed there, head bowed now over his arms. Thorne was at the door, holding out a collar, message cylinder and lead. ‘Wh-what happened? What happened to him?’ Stanley burst out. ‘M-mange, mange on its own – mange doesn’t do this to a dog.’

  The Lieutenant-Colonel took a deep breath, his chest inflating beyond all reasonable probability.

  ‘Pistol saw a short spell of active service but his keeper . . . well, his keeper got shell shock – a bad case, nasty case. He lost his head and lashed out, picked up a gun –’ Thorne covered his eyes – ‘so we were told – held it to the dog’s head and fired . . .’

  Stanley reeled. Pistol’s own master had picked up a gun . . . Thorne was still talking.

  ‘Someone stepped in and pushed the barrel aside, but the dog knew . . .’

  To point a gun, Stanley was thinking, at a dog that would give his all, his everything, for you! Disgusted and sickened, Stanley looked at the innocent grey dog on the ground.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Oh . . .’

  A few minutes passed.

  Stanley moved a little closer.

  ‘No wonder,’ he whispered. ‘No wonder.’ Still crouching, keeping his hands by his sides, Stanley moved forward again.

  The dog turned his head towards the boy. A second or so passed and the dog’s nose twitched, then twitched again. He blinked and slunk forward two or three paces, stifles bent almost to the ground, then stopped and waited, nose twitching. He began to quiver. His brows flickered up and down, his hairless tail flipped across the sand raising clouds of dust. Stanley stayed where he was. The dog was quivering now from head to tail. Thorne was silent, watching. The dog slunk closer and his tail flipped once more. Slowly Stanley opened his palm flat beneath the long narrow jaws. Slower still, he inched it up to the sore, cracked skin under the neck and further up around the ears. The dog rested his long snout on the boy’s lap, his tail whipping back and forth.

  ‘Well, I never,’ said Thorne, looking pleased, his chest swelling.

  ‘Everyone else,’ whispered Stanley, ‘everyone else is sad too. Broken. Terrified. Every man here.’ Stanley kept whispering, now edging his hand back along the dog’s flank, feeling the seismic shivering beneath his fingers. ‘I can see the whites of your eyes. You’re terrified too, aren’t you? You don’t know or care, do you? You’re beyond caring . . .’

  Pistol was a mix of some kind; it would be difficult to tell what he was until his coat improved, but he was broad-chested and leggy – all long nose, slender limbs and no belly. Stanley saw the dog’s seriousness, his soulfulness, and felt, like a knife wound, Bones’s humour, his truculence, his naivety, his bullish enthusiasm. Stanley bowed his head. No, he thought, I have no strength myself, I am myself too weak to look after you. I cannot look after myself. Stanley moved his hands so they were beneath the dog’s jaws and lifted its head from his lap, feeling as he did so the dry scabs behind the ears.

  ‘No.’ Stanley half rose, saying to himself, ‘I can’t go back up, can’t take another dog.’ To Thorne he said, ‘No. I can’t. I can’t do this.’

  Thorne looked upset, then distraught as the dog reared up and clung pitifully to Stanley’s legs.

  ‘No,’ said Stanley to Pistol. ‘Stay. Sit.’ To Thorne he said, ‘No. I’m going home.’

  Stanley turned on his heels before he could hear Thorne’s response and marched away. He’d go back to the Major and tell him he was underage, that he wanted to go home. At the door to HQ, Stanley paused, seeing with a wave of irritation that the strange, silent dog was suddenly at his side.

  ‘No. Go. Go.’ The dog looked grief-stricken. Stanley’s exasperation grew. ‘No. Get away. Go.’

  The dog stood his ground, full of conviction that it was in the right place.

  ‘Go. Boy. Go.’

  It lifted a forepaw. Where did the boy want him to go, if not here?

  ‘Go, boy, go.’

  Stanley stood between the door and the dog, frustrated. He must speak to the Kennel Staff, must say straight away that he was going home – but he must also rid himself of the dog. He turned and marched back to Thorne’s hut. The dog trotted, light as a wisp alongside him, long snout raised to the boy’s hand. Stanley marched faster, angry with himself, angry at this wretched grey dog. The dog followed right at his heels, head upward, jaws open in a half-smile.

  ‘No,’ Stanley hissed at last. ‘I don’t want you. I’m going home.’

  The strange grey dog nuzzled Stanley’s legs. Stanley shook him off and marched on.

  Thorne was waiting by the door. He’d seen everything. Stanley took Bones’s lead out of his pocket, attached it firmly to Pistol and handed it to Thorne.

  ‘No. I will not go. It is no place for a dog.’

  Thorne’s small head was nodding up and down, compassionate and patient, as though coaxing a recalcitrant, wounded animal, but Stanley didn’t want compassion or understanding, he wouldn’t give Thorne time to speak, and his quick, cross steps blew up clouds of dust as he marched away.

  He reached the blue and white crossed flags of Central Kennels HQ and turned to check, before entering, that Thorne still had the dog. As he did so, he saw the dog tear round and rip the leash through Thorne’s fingers, watching horrified as the dog flew towards him, racing with every fibre in his body, back coiled, tail outstretched, neck outstretched, his smooth, liquid movement, his entire form, the perfect expression of a powerful, single-minded will. Thorne’s head was bobbing sadly against his chest and Stanley found himself liking the man for being more affected by the dog’s distress than by his own insubordinate behaviour. It arrived at Stanley’s feet and sat, his eyes narrowed, panting, his tail whirring, grinning up at the boy.

  ‘Stanley, laddie, is it you?’ The boy turned from the maddening, grinning dog to the familiar voice. It was Hamish, the same Hamish who’d always looked out for him at Chatham, running towards him.

  Hamish hugged Stanley, then with a hand on each shoulder, drew back and looked at him carefully. ‘Aye, they told me –’ he tipped his head towards the HQ – ‘they told me about your dog.’

  A sudden wave of grief washed over Stanley and he nodded dumbly.

  ‘They say he was a great dog . . .’

  When Stanley came to, Hamish was bending down, caressing the strange, silent grey dog. Stanley shook his head.

  ‘I’ll never have another dog, Hamish, never.’

  ‘Aye, this fellow’s no’ so bad . . . there’s deerhound in it somewhere . . . Aye, he’ll be canny enough . . . a good ’un. Silent too –’ Hamish tousled Pistol’s raw ears – ‘like his master.’ Hamish grinned at Stanley, then turned back to the dog. ‘Poor wee thing, your heart’s in the Highlands, so it is. You’re mebbe still young?’ Hamish pushed back the slender lips, ‘Ever so young. Same age perhaps as a nine-year-old child. Aye, with a summer breed a puppy can surprise you as it grows. You’ll be thinking it’s going to be medium-sized and smooth and – look – it’s a shaggy giant.’ Hamish grinned and tousled the dog’s ears again. ‘Aye, ’tis a Highland hound, sure enough, the sum and substance of the canine species no less, laddie.’ To the dog he said then, ‘Aye, you’re a cracker, you are.’

  Hamish looked at Stanley once more, scrutinizing him.

  ‘Come, ah’ve got two Signaller’s bikes and we’ll go and get something to eat . . . That’s the fun about these blue and white bands, we’ve more freedom to move around than the poor old infantry, and you look like you’ve no’ eaten in a wee while. Will we take this fellow along too?’

  Stanley paused and half turned, saw Thorne
nodding again, happily now. He’d wanted to go home, but to what? Where was Tom? If he returned home, he would miss the letter from Tom, which was surely on its way. Hamish put an arm around him and once again Stanley allowed himself to be led.

  The army bicycle was much heavier than Stanley’s old bicycle at Thornley and cycling on cobbles was bumpy. Biting back his tears, and focusing on the road as he went, Stanley told Hamish about Bones in an unstoppable flood of words. They passed a sign offering one egg and fried potatoes and tea and butter and pastries, all for 2 francs 40.

  ‘Aye, and that’s more words together in one go than I’ve heard before,’ said Hamish, studying Stanley as he pulled up at a second sign, offering two eggs and fried potatoes and tea and butter and pastries, again all for 2 francs 40. ‘This is the business,’ said Hamish, resting his bicycle against the sign. ‘Keep talking, laddie.’

  Stanley ate ravenously, surprised by his hunger, unable to remember when he’d last eaten. He felt better for being with Hamish, better for the eggs and fried potatoes and the warm crusty bread and the milk that wasn’t powdered, but his hand kept slipping to his side, and in place of the large square skull of Bones there was this leggy animal, light as a whisper or a shadow, and always at his side.

  10 April 1918

  Etaples

  Stanley and Pistol were making their way towards the dunes. Yesterday Hamish had told Stanley that his brother James had orders to go up to the Front, that he too was going up, would be serving under James. Two brothers working together. Stanley, after so many months away from home, had still not found Tom. There’d still been no letter. Nothing from Father Bill either, from the priest with the shiny spurs. Nothing from anyone. Surely he’d hear any minute now from Tom. As soon as Lara Bird had told Tom, then surely he’d have written.