Soldier Dog
Page 17
Stanley shuddered and covered his eyes with his hands. He couldn’t turn back the clock and new understanding couldn’t give him ease or release. Still the memories of Bones, of Soldier, of Da, burned like boiling water on open wounds. Stanley pummelled his forehead with his fists.
Shouts of friendly competition from the rowers on the lake shimmered up to the satin sky. The cheerful whistling of the cobblers eddied up from the township of huts below the lawn. Stanley heard the cries of the rowers, and in them heard manliness and hope, and he dipped his head in shame. The soldiers here liked to row and to dance, to go out on to the lawn with their blankets and their dominoes; they were happy to be alive, they were grateful, and they were all quite blind. They had been carried over the dead point and faced their futures with courage and hope. Stanley had no courage left, no hope, had remained washed up at the dead point. As Da had been when Ma died.
Only Stanley, in this creamy Regency Villa, would recover his sight fully. When he looked in the mirror, he could see that his cornea were bright and clear, but his eyes were older, beyond tears, beyond laughter, an old man’s eyes in a young man’s face. He’d been lucky, very lucky, so Matron said. She kept saying, too, that his was a joyous case, that he’d regained his sight almost entirely. But she’d say that with her troubled voice and he knew he shouldn’t still be here, that perhaps they needed his bed for another man, that Matron didn’t know what to do with him, that the Adjutant didn’t know what to do with him, that the Commandant didn’t know what to do with him.
Tom.
This morning he’d been so sure he might hear from him. If Tom were alive, there’d be a letter from him. On this day of all days, there’d have been a letter. Fifteen today. Tom wouldn’t forget, had never forgotten his brother’s birthday before. But when they’d all filed along the linoleum path after breakfast, towards the terrace room, with its smell of beeswax and fresh-cut flowers, the Voluntary Aid Detachment nurse (VAD), with her white cap and apron with the red cross on the bib, had had armfuls of post, but nothing for Stanley.
A card from Lara had arrived yesterday. She’d asked after his eyes, said how lucky he was and hoped he’d be home soon. She hadn’t mentioned Tom or Da and Stanley had let the card drop, didn’t know where it was now. Joe had sent Stanley another pack of playing cards and a note saying that he was on a winning streak, was looking forward to playing with Stanley again, longing to hear all he had to tell. Father Bill had written too, to say he was glad Stanley was back in England, to wish him a full recovery, but he’d made no mention of Da or Tom.
Then when the VAD had read aloud from the Illustrated News, there’d been an item on Kemmel and she’d read of scenes of appalling horror, of five thousand unidentifiable French dead, of six thousand captured. The numbers of British dead had not been mentioned. If Tom had survived Villers, would he have had orders for Kemmel? Would Da have been at Kemmel? James and Hamish – where were they? And Fidget?
The huge clock projecting over the terrace rang out. The two life-sized carved figures bobbed their heads and clubbed their bells. Once, twice, three times. At half past three it would be Visitors’ Hour. The hour Stanley most dreaded, the hour of most cheerfulness, the hour of most laughter.
‘Happy birthday to you . . .’
Stanley opened his eyes and there, in the dappled light, were Matron’s white stockings and black boots. Matron was nice, but she wasn’t Tom and she wasn’t Da. Stanley summoned a forced, watery smile. Matron’s outstretched arms bore a cake. Behind Matron was a tail of men in single file. From the scattered chairs and tables, the other men with useless eyes left their games and gathered around, guided by their VADs.
‘Happy birthday to you . . . Happy birthday, dear Stan–ley . . .’
Stanley didn’t feel fifteen. He was an old man, an empty vessel, but still he must smile, still he must be grateful.
‘. . . Happy birthday to you!’
He leaned forward and blew.
Out of the fifteen, three quivering flames to go. He must blow again. Matron handed Stanley a knife.
‘Cut a slice, and make a wish.’ He looked her in the eyes. She knew his wishes needed angels and archangels, cathedrals and choirs, not fifteen candles and a jam sponge.
Matron sliced the cake, chatting all the while. She was used to talking to Stanley and getting no answer. He liked her for not expecting answers, nor forcing them. Matron rose and bustled about with napkins and forks. She stopped by Jim who had no arms. Matron broke off bits of his cake and fed them to him.
Jim grinned. ‘Mmm. Chocolate cake.’
‘No, Jim, it’s a nice sponge cake, with nice jam in the middle and nice butter icing on the top.’
Jim would never see again but he could still smile and enjoy sponge cake. Stanley could see, knew that he’d been lucky, but he could not feel, could not care.
Matron returned to Stanley and picked up the Veterinary Science book beside Stanley’s chair. ‘I hope you’re not straining your eyes – only two hours a day . . . it’s very small print.’
Stanley heard in her voice that sort of troubled tone she seemed to keep just for him. Matron was running her hand back and forth along the book’s spine, thinking. Stanley, too, looked at the spine, thinking he must study hard, return to school, be, one day, a vet.
The visitors had begun to arrive, were hurrying down the steps between the roses on to the lawn. The group around Stanley dispersed. Matron drew up a chair.
Had there still been no word about Soldier, about Tom, about Da, from the Secretary’s Office?
Matron was looking away towards the French windows. Stanley would speak first, he would ask his questions first; he’d ask her again, hadn’t asked since yesterday. He wouldn’t ask more than once a day but he longed to know, to be certain about what had happened. If Soldier had been found . . . The AVC who’d seen Bones had said ‘any dog unfit for service’ would be shot . . . Someone must know, the Dog Service must know. The office conducted an enormous correspondence and finding a missing dog wouldn’t be a priority. Perhaps not even a possibility. But he had to know.
‘Did you hear anything, Matron? Did they trace him? His number was 2176. Did you tell them that?’
Matron’s mouth opened and closed. She glanced again towards the terrace. Stanley tugged her hand.
‘Has the Secretary still had no news?’
Matron hesitated, then leaned forward, pulling him towards her, her soft bulk enfolding his stiff, unyielding self. Had Soldier been shot? Been left to die in an open grave? Matron kissed the top of his head and stepped back, resting a hand on each of his shoulders.
‘Stanley, the living are more important than the dead. You must remember the living. And you must go home to them.’ Her eyes creased and a dimple formed in each cheek as she smiled a sort of secret smile. Again she glanced towards the door as though at any moment a visitor for Stanley might materialize where one never had before. She hesitated, then turned back, looking awkward and a little lost for words, her hands seeking refuge beneath her apron in the side pockets of her skirt.
‘We’re going to get you home this week. Your eyes are good now, and your lungs. You’ve been so lucky, Stanley.’ Stanley looked away towards the dotted sunlit groups, the loving clusters of sisters and brothers, sons and daughters, mothers and wives visiting the other men. Go home to what? Where were Tom, Da, Soldier?
‘Here . . .’ Matron pulled her right hand out of her pocket, ‘This is for you.’
‘FOR JUNE 8th’ was marked in capitals across the top left of a white envelope. That was Tom’s writing – and that was an ordinary Post Office stamp – Tom was alive and he was home.
‘You have a father and a brother Stanley, and they love you,’ Matron said. Stanley tore at the envelope, read in one stumbling, breathless rush:
Stanley looked up at Matron, tears in his eyes, his chin and lips wobbling. Tom was home, Tom was safe. Stanley read on, at breakneck speed, breath held. Da? Soldier? What of them?
‘Soldier, Soldier . . . he was my dog, Tom . . . the dog I named for you . . .’
Da safe. Tom and Da safe.
Tom, Tom! What of Soldier . . . ?
Stanley read and reread, revelling in pieces of it, agonizing in others, reading again and again the whole of it; Tom was alive, he was back and back for good. He and Lara Bird were both at Thornley. And the campion was up and there’d be honey on the table.
A hand ruffled Stanley’s hair and he felt the callused skin of a large palm on his cheek. Stanley froze. His eyes shifted a fraction from the letter. Matron’s white stockings had vanished, in their place stood a pair of shiny boots and puttees. Slowly at first, all of him trembling uncontrollably, Tom’s letter rattling in his hands, Stanley’s gaze rose inch by inch, now shot upward.
Above the high, weathered forehead, Da’s white hair was dappled with luminous spots of sun. Stanley flung aside his blanket and sprang up, scattering a shower of cake crumbs – He’d come – Da had come to find him – He’d come not once but twice –
‘Da—’
‘Wait, Stanley. Wait.’ Da’s hand was on his shoulder, holding him down. ‘Close your eyes and hold out your hand.’
Feeling like a small child, Stanley clenched his eyes, but not before he’d seen the proud carriage of the once bent back and the warm light in Da’s eyes. Like a child again, Stanley held his palm flat and open. Something cold and metallic was dropped on to it. Stanley paused, then his wary palm cupped it, feeling a cylinder, shaky fingers searching for the opening around the belly of it, thumb finding the ring that once attached it to a collar. His eyes flew open.
The cylinder was engraved:
WAR MESSENGER DOG No. 2176
‘Open it, Stanley.’
Stanley pulled the halves apart, took out the message and read in Da’s unpractised hand, ‘Yours to keep.’ Da was stooping over a large hamper, untying twine. The lid was forced up and like shaggy rolling surf something unleashed itself, and in a surge of silvery light vaulted on to Stanley. Balancing on the unsteady ground of Stanley’s thighs, it furled and unfurled itself, turning and turning, nosing and nuzzling him. Stanley clenched fistfuls of the long rough coat, smelt Soldier’s sweet hay smell, smelt the doggishness of him, felt his tongue lick the wet from his own cheeks and the swoosh of a feathery tail.
‘They had to tear the two of you apart, the medical men told me,’ Da said. ‘When I found him, he was still there, still waiting. He’s a great dog. They told me, your McManus brothers – they came looking for me, Stanley, for me to give you this, and they told me what he did that day – what you and he did together.’
Stanley looked at his Da. ‘What happened to them, Da? Are they—?’
‘They tell me Fidget was sent home after that first morning at Kemmel – shell shock, not wounded. Hamish and James, they were both at Kemmel, Stanley, and like Tom, they were lucky.’
Soldier organized himself to hold his nose towards his master, waggled his haunches, waggled them again, whirred his tail, tossed his head and opened his jaws to smile.
‘I smuggled him over,’ Da said. ‘He’s been pretending to be a sandbag for that long – on the boat – on the train – in front of Matron. So he’ll be wanting to go home now . . . will be that happy to go home and be a dog again . . . for you to be a boy again.’
Soldier steadied his forepaws on the narrow arm of the deckchair, joggled his haunches, raised his snout skyward and hurled a salvo of woofs to the rustling tracery of the acacia. Away, under the mulberry, the visitors looked up and gawped. By the candyfloss roses Matron stood open-mouthed, gulping, her mighty bosom heaving, her throat constricting as though to expel a frog. Stanley ran his hand down the dog’s haunches, tracing the firm raised scars. He tilted his head upward, felt sunlight on his temple and he saw Da turn aside lest anyone should see his tears.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
VILLERS-BRETONNEUX
Villers-Bretonneux was not a great battle but it was a decisive one, putting an end to the German plan of taking Paris. The carnage at Villers-Bretonneux continued until the night of 26 April 1918 when the town and its immediate surroundings fell once more into British hands. During that night French troops relieved the British and Australian forces of a position which had cost the lives of around 10,000 men, killed, wounded and missing.
Villers has the largest of all First World War military cemeteries.
THE BRITISH MESSENGER DOG SERVICE
When hostilities were declared in August 1914, the German army had 6,000 trained dogs while Britain had no official dog cover.
Colonel Edwin Hautenville Richardson had spent fifteen years training dogs. At the outset of war he decided not to re-enlist, but to continue this work. However, when he offered his help to the War Office, a General responded that his own duty ‘as a commanding officer would be to prohibit, under all circumstances, the use of dogs . . .’ For the next two years, the War Office continued to reject Richardson’s offers. However, in 1916, he received an unofficial request for dogs from a Colonel Winter. Richardson sent out two Airedales, Wolf and Prince. When all telephone lines had broken and visual signalling was impossible, Prince delivered a message that saved a battalion of the Sherwood Foresters.
Finally, in November 1917, as casualties soared, the War Office summoned Richardson and established the Messenger Dog Service, to be run as a branch of the Signals Service, with Richardson as Commandant of the Training School. Dogs were recruited from the Battersea, Birmingham, Liverpool and Manchester homes. Then the Home Office ordered police all over the country to send in strays. Finally, an appeal to the public brought an overwhelming response – 7,000 dogs came forward at once.
Commanding officers were, at first, sniffy about the dogs, often ignoring them, until instructions from HQ taught them how to use them. A central kennel was formed at Etaples, from where dogs and keepers were posted to Sectional Kennels behind the front lines. From here, the keepers were sent, with three dogs apiece, up to Brigade HQ. The dogs were then led away by infantrymen up to the front line, while their keepers remained at Brigade HQ, watching for their return, ready to deliver the messages they brought to their commanding officer.
The work of every British dog on the Western Front – each run they made, its distance and destination – is recorded in the DGHQ Central Kennels Register of Dogs and Men (GR Army Book 129). Airedales were eventually named the official breed of the British Army, though it was the ordinary half-bred lurcher that stood out as the messenger dog par excellence.
Some of the events of Bones’s and Soldier’s lives are based on the dog known as Airedale Jack, who came from the Battersea Dogs Home. In 1918 Airedale Jack was sent to France and taken by the Sherwood Foresters to an advance post at the Front. The Germans cut off every line of communication with Headquarters. No runner could have survived the barrage of gunfire. Jack was released, stayed close to the ground, taking advantage of whatever cover there was, but came under heavy bombardment. A piece of shrapnel smashed his jaw. A missile ripped open his coat from shoulder to thigh. Jack staggered on, using craters and trenches for cover. His forepaw was hit and still he dragged himself along the ground, on three legs, for the last few miles. He reached Headquarters, delivered the message and, having saved the battalion, Airedale Jack fell dead.
In early November 1918, it was ordered that all infantry battalions were to be given messenger dogs. After the Armistice, Field Marshal Haig’s final dispatch paid tribute to the work of the dogs. In March 1919 the Service was liquidated.
During the course of the Great War, 100,000 dogs served with the warring nations. Of these, 7,000 were killed.
SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY
Allen, Tony, Animals at War, 1914–1918, Great War History 7 (Holgate, 1999)
Baker, Peter Shaw, Animal War Heroes (A. & C. Black, 1933)
Baynes, E. H., Animal Heroes of the Great War (Macmillan, 1925)
Blenkinsop, L. J., and J. W. Rainey, Veterinary Services, History of the Great War
(HMSO, 1925)
Clabby, Brigadier J., The History of the Royal Army Veterinary Corps 1919–1961 (J. A. Allen & Co., 1963)
Gray, Ernest A., Dogs of War (Hale, 1989)
Hamer, Blythe, Dogs at War: True Stories of Canine Courage under Fire (André Deutsch, 2006)
Moore, Major-General Sir John, Army Veterinary Service in War (Brown, 1921)
Richardson, Major E. H., British War Dogs, Their Training and Psychology (Skeffington, 1920)
——, War, Police and Watch Dogs (1910)
FROM THE ARCHIVE OF THE IMPERIAL WAR MUSEUM, LONDON:
Waley, Major A. C., GHQ Central Kennels, Register of Dogs and Men
Waley, Major A. C., Messenger Dog Service, July 1917–April 1919
War Diary of OC Carrier Pigeon and Messenger Dog Service 1915–1919
Sam Angus was born in Italy, grew up in France and Spain, and was educated rather haphazardly in most of these countries, at many different schools. She studied English Literature at Trinity College, Cambridge, where she kept a dog until he was discovered being smuggled out of college in a laundry basket. She taught A level English before spending a decade in the fashion industry and now writes full time.
She lives between Exmoor and London with improvident numbers of children, dogs and horses.
First published 2012 by Macmillan Children’s Books
This electronic edition published 2012 by Macmillan Children’s Books
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