A Soldier's Friend

by Megan Rix

  The Battersea Beasts had been moved up from the support trench line to the front-line trench a few days before.

  ‘What’s that?’ Oliver asked Patrick, putting his shovel down.

  ‘Don’t let the sarge see you stop digging,’ warned Patrick.

  ‘Listen, I can hear voices from over there – out across no-man’s land. I think it’s the Germans.’

  The afternoon sun was disappearing in the sky; there had been no action that day and it felt eerily quiet.

  Oliver couldn’t understand what the Germans were saying, but they didn’t sound happy.

  ‘Probably complaining about all the trench digging they have to do too,’ he said as he and Patrick dug their shovels deep into the squishy mud.

  A few days later Oliver was on duty in the safer area behind the reserve trench when he saw the horses arriving. He hurried over to see if they needed any help getting settled.

  He wasn’t used to horses, but he was fascinated by them, as he was by all animals. Horses looked so majestic to him and almost regal, yet also gentle, and their eyes … their eyes seemed so wise and knowing. He reached out a hand to stroke the white blaze on the forehead of the chestnut mare nearest to him.

  ‘See you like horses, soldier,’ a voice behind him said, and Oliver turned round to see a colonel with a moustache standing behind him. He was holding a small dog wearing a colourful bandana round its neck.

  ‘I do, sir,’ Oliver said.

  ‘Ever ridden one?’

  Oliver shook his head. ‘Never even been this near to one before.’

  The colonel put the little dog down on the ground and it came trotting over to Oliver.

  ‘This is Dobby,’ the colonel said as the chestnut mare nuzzled her face to his.

  Oliver bent down to stroke the little dog.

  ‘And that’s Sammy, our mascot.’

  ‘Hello, Sammy,’ said Oliver.

  Sammy wagged his tail.

  ‘He’s a bit frightened of horses to tell you the truth,’ the colonel told Oliver. ‘Which is a bit of a problem for a cavalry mascot dog.’

  ‘Well, they are a lot bigger than him!’ Oliver grinned.

  Just then there was a shout from Patrick.

  ‘Hey, Ollie, look what the cavalry brought with them.’

  Patrick was holding up a leather football. ‘They’ve challenged us to a match.’

  Oliver looked back at the colonel. It seemed rude to just leave, but he did want to be part of the cavalry against the Battersea Beasts football match.

  ‘Go on then,’ the colonel said, and Oliver ran over to the improvised pitch.

  When Sammy saw Patrick throw the ball to Oliver, he barked and raced towards it as fast as he could. Oliver and the other soldiers watched, astonished, as he started running with the ball. Sammy was in his element, but the soldiers were worried he might bite it and ruin it.

  ‘Get that off him!’ the sergeant shouted, and the men ran after the little dog, which Sammy thought was all part of the game. A ball and people running about, calling to him and waving their arms happily – what could be better? He ran on as soldiers swerved and dived, leapt and fell in an attempt to catch him and the ball. Sammy raced in and out and behind them and even through the soldiers’ legs.

  ‘Get that ball!’

  ‘We’re trying, sir!’ Oliver shouted back. But it wasn’t easy. The little dog was a better footballer than most people he knew – at least when it came to dribbling the ball and evading being tackled.

  Twenty-two soldiers against one dog whose legs were shorter than most of the men’s feet were long was hardly a fair contest. A cavalryman dived at Sammy, and for a moment the little dog lost the ball, and Patrick kicked it through the air to Oliver.

  ‘Here you go, Ollie!’

  Sammy raced after the ball and sat down on the ground and looked up as Oliver held the ball above his head so that the little dog couldn’t reach it. Sammy looked at Oliver and then back at the ball. He panted, looked at Oliver and then at the ball again. He didn’t want the game to be over already.

  He put his paw out to Oliver and Oliver understood only too well what he wanted.

  ‘He didn’t bite the ball,’ the adjutant from the cavalry said.

  ‘No, he didn’t,’ Oliver agreed, and he dropped the ball and Sammy went running off with it again.

  The colonel stroked Dobby as he watched Sammy and the men. The little dog was obviously very happy with the young lad and his friends. His tail wagged constantly as he made his distinctive yipping sounds.

  They’d be at the front tomorrow, leading the charge against the Germans. The horses they had with them had no choice but to go into battle, but Sammy, well, he was their mascot, with them to boost morale and keep the men’s spirits up. A job he’d done admirably ever since he’d arrived from Battersea Dogs Home. A job he was doing even now as the men chased after the ball he’d got hold of and shouted and laughed as he outmanoeuvred them. Did Sammy really need to be taken into the terror of the battle that was to come?

  As the colonel watched Sammy and Oliver both running after the football as if it were made of gold, he decided that he didn’t.

  ‘Look after Sammy for me,’ the colonel said, coming over to Oliver when the match was over. The cavalry had won 3–2.

  ‘Sir?’ Oliver said.

  ‘He won’t be needed in battle and I’d like you to watch him,’ the colonel said with a sad smile. ‘I can see how much he likes you.’

  Sammy looked up at Oliver and wagged his tail.

  ‘I think it’s the football he likes more,’ Oliver laughed.

  The colonel shook his head. He was going to miss Sammy terribly, but it was the best thing for the little dog.

  ‘I’ll be back for him tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Sammy can stay with you tonight. The cavalry will be busy getting ready and I worry about him being underfoot.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Oliver said as the colonel nodded and walked away.

  Sammy watched the colonel too, his head cocked to one side, and then he barked, just once.

  The colonel looked back: ‘See you tomorrow, Sammy.’

  ‘I’ll take good care of him, sir,’ Oliver called out.

  ‘I know you will.’

  Chapter 16

  Mouser was quite happy being fussed over in the German trench. She liked the Bavarian sausage they fed her and didn’t mind the bully beef either. She certainly wasn’t hungry any more when she saw the rat scuttle past her, but she caught it anyway and dropped it at the German sergeant’s feet.

  The soldiers were over the moon when she did so and called her ‘Liebchen – sweetie’ and ‘Schnuckel – darling’ as they stroked her. She didn’t recognize the sounds the men were making, but she could tell they were pleased with her by the way they spoke the words. She was the perfect cat, everyone agreed.

  Mouser licked her paws clean as she watched the soldiers stand on their fire step and raise their rifles up into the evening sky. She jumped slightly as they shot bullets into the air, but she was slowly getting used to the loud noises that seemed to happen around her every day. Then she watched the soldiers climb back down again and have their dinner.

  Mouser fell asleep curled up next to the sergeant in his sleep hole. It was part of the side of the trench that had been dug into more deeply to form a mini cabin, and Mouser had discovered it was better than sleeping alongside the other soldiers, who were often forced to sleep sitting up as there wasn’t enough space for them all to lie down.

  Late into the night Mouser woke to very loud cracks and bangs going on all around her. The soldiers were running this way and that, shouting and firing their weapons. She didn’t understand what was happening and cowered down out of sight.

  Suddenly there was a particularly loud crack and mud sprayed into Mouser’s face and eyes.

  The sergeant was already up and shouting commands to his men.

  Mouser shrank deeper and deeper into the sleep hole until she was as far back as she c
ould go, but even there it didn’t feel safe. She crouched low, but was ready to spring into attack mode at any moment.

  She stayed where she was even when the shouting and the guns had stopped. She waited and waited, until she was sure it was safe, and then she crept forward and peered out. She couldn’t make out much in the gloom, but her new friends were nowhere to be seen.

  Mouser heard faint voices further along the trench and crept out to investigate, only to be confronted by a large slathering guard dog. Mouser wasn’t frightened of most dogs, but this one looked particularly vicious. It growled at her and Mouser hissed back. The next moment the dog lunged towards her and Mouser yowled and jumped up on to the top of the trench as the dog gnashed its teeth below.

  ‘Halt!’ a voice shouted in German as the dog tried to jump up at Mouser.

  The dog whined and looked back at where Mouser had been a moment before.

  Mouser ran on and on, across the waste that was no-man’s-land, desperate to get away from the dog.

  Finally, covered in mud and too exhausted to go any further, she scratched at the ground until she’d dug herself a small hole and listened to the loud bangs and cracks, and the shouts of men, and watched the bright flashes that lit up the dark sky every so often. She didn’t understand this place; it was so different to her home.

  The next morning she took a sip from a muddy puddle and caught a large brown rat for breakfast. It wasn’t hard to do because the rats were everywhere.

  She looked around her and listened carefully: everything seemed quiet again so she trotted on.

  ‘Here, kitty …’ soldiers called to her in French.

  Mouser looked round; once again, the sounds the voices were making were new, but they seemed gentle and she was tired and desperately wanted to find a safe place to rest. But she couldn’t see any humans.

  The French soldiers had seen Mouser though, through their periscope, but they couldn’t put their heads up for fear they’d be shot at. They tempted her closer by throwing pieces of cheese and meat like a breadcrumb trail of food to their trench.

  Mouser was glad to find that the French soldiers did not have a guard dog and very surprised to find that they had two cats there already. A ginger tomcat called Leon immediately came over to say hello by putting his head to one side of her head and then the other. And a black cat called Beau waited for Mouser to come over to him, but was equally friendly.

  Mouser nestled in between Leon and Beau and finally went to sleep.

  Chapter 17

  Oliver liked to run early in the morning through the dawn autumn mist down the communication trench, past the reserve trench and HQ and out along the farm track, where it was safe. He was still training to be a messenger and he wanted to be the best he could; he knew how important his job would be when the time came. Sergeant Wainwright’s warning that his message might be all that saved the men from a gas attack was etched on his mind. Sometimes Patrick ran with him, but more often than not Oliver ran alone. He liked it that way.

  The morning after the colonel had left Sammy with him, Oliver woke early and ready to run. He was already wearing his boots as none of the soldiers in the trenches took them off when they slept.

  Sammy’s button-brown eyes watched him. He’d instantly woken as soon as Oliver had stirred.

  ‘Back soon,’ Oliver whispered as he stood up.

  The weather was perfect for running: bright and crisp and cold. He’d heard some action up at the front during the night, but he’d managed to get a decent night’s sleep all the same.

  He started to run along the dirt track, slowly at first until his muscles warmed up. But then he heard a yip and, when he looked down, he found Sammy running along beside him, looking up at him, panting, as his little tongue hung out.

  ‘You look very pleased with yourself,’ Oliver said. ‘We’re not off to play football again, you know, and I won’t be carrying you back if you can’t keep up.’

  But even as he said the words he knew they weren’t true. If Sammy needed to be carried, he’d carry him – for a hundred miles if necessary.

  Sammy wasn’t used to running as far as Oliver and Oliver’s legs were a lot longer than his. But even though he was panting hard he kept up as they tore down the farm track towards HQ.

  When Oliver arrived at the dilapidated farmhouse that was used as HQ, everyone made a big fuss of Sammy and the little dog was petted and chatted to and fussed over.

  ‘Who’s this then?’

  ‘What a sweet little doggie.’

  One of the soldiers ran to fetch Sammy some water and they all watched as he lapped it up.

  Oliver remembered how the old soldier had told him that stopping a messenger dog from doing his job was a court-martial offence. It really didn’t seem fair, and an extreme punishment for a soldier who was missing his home and no doubt the dog he had there. Petting Sammy was bringing a smile to just about everyone’s face and there was no doubt Sammy liked all the attention.

  Oliver was glad Sammy was a mascot rather than a messenger dog, although he did very much admire the bravery and determination of the messenger and mercy dogs he’d heard about.

  Sammy looked up at Oliver and wagged his tail when he’d had enough to drink.

  ‘Good dog,’ Oliver told him.

  ‘What’s going on?’ an officer asked, coming out of the kitchen with a cup of tea in one hand and a biscuit in the other. He looked at Sammy and then at Oliver. He knew Oliver from his runs. ‘What’s this dog doing with you, private?’

  ‘The colonel of the cavalry left the dog in my charge, sir,’ Oliver told him.

  The officer nodded gravely. ‘I’m afraid to say the cavalry suffered some terrible losses in the battle yesterday.’

  He then noticed how the little dog’s eyes were focused on his hand, the hand that was holding the biscuit.

  ‘Do you want this?’ he asked Sammy. Sammy wagged his tail and then sat down and put out a paw to show that he did.

  The officer gave him the last of his biscuit and Sammy gobbled it up.

  ‘Thank you,’ Oliver said.

  ‘Any time,’ the officer said. ‘Where did you run from?’

  ‘The reserve trench,’ Oliver told him.

  ‘A good run for such a small dog. Definitely deserves a bit of biscuit as a reward. I’m more than happy to give him some of these. If I’m not about when you come next time, just ask for Lieutenant Morris.’

  When they got back from running, Oliver had a long drink of water from his tin mug and Sammy had another long drink of water from a tin bowl.

  When the colonel hadn’t returned for Sammy by the end of the day, Oliver went to ask when the cavalry were expected to return.

  ‘They won’t be,’ he was told bluntly.

  ‘What about the dog?’ Oliver asked with concern. ‘He’s their mascot.’

  The officer looked at Sammy and then back at Oliver. ‘Looks like he’s your dog now – if you want him?’

  ‘Oh yes – I want him,’ Oliver said. ‘I definitely want him.’

  Chapter 18

  When Lizzie and Arthur arrived at Battersea one morning a few weeks before Christmas, Kenneth came over to them holding a newspaper.

  ‘Have you seen today’s paper?’ he asked, and when they shook their heads he showed them a page from the one he held.

  On it was an advertisement asking for people to contribute to a ‘Sailors’ and Soldiers’ Christmas Fund’.

  ‘It’s been set up by Princess Mary,’ Kenneth told them.

  Princess Mary was the seventeen-year-old daughter of King George and Queen Mary.

  ‘She wants to give everyone wearing the King’s uniform and serving overseas on Christmas Day 1914 a gift from the nation.’

  Princess Mary had written a letter explaining the purpose of the fund.

  I want you now to help me to send a Christmas present from the whole of the nation to every sailor afloat and every soldier at the front. I am sure that we should all be happier to fee
l that we had helped to send our little token of love and sympathy on Christmas morning, something that would be useful and of permanent value, and the making of which may be the means of providing employment in trades adversely affected by the war. Could there be anything more likely to hearten them in their struggle than a present received straight from home on Christmas Day?

  Please will you help me?

  ‘What will they be given?’ Arthur asked Kenneth. But Kenneth didn’t know.

  ‘If you’ve got any more spare time, we could do with help collecting money for it,’ Kenneth said. ‘It’s worth it, isn’t it, for our soldiers out at the front? There’s going to be a march through the centre of Battersea on Saturday, culminating in a fête at the park.’

  Both Lizzie and Arthur thought it definitely was worth it.

  ‘Now there’s a new arrival I’d like you to meet. Her name’s Rosie and I think she just might be the dog we need to help raise money for the Princess Mary Christmas Fund.’

  They went to the dog kennels and Kenneth brought out a small, curly-coated black dog.

  ‘Her coat looks a bit like a poodle’s,’ Arthur said; he’d learnt lots about different dog types since coming to help at the home.

  ‘But her face looks more like a spaniel’s,’ Lizzie said as Rosie looked up at her with huge, meltingly beautiful brown eyes.

  ‘Now who could resist a little thing like this?’ said Kenneth. ‘She’ll be great with a collecting tin, don’t you agree?’

  Rosie wagged her tail as Lizzie and Arthur nodded.

  ‘She’s not very keen on walking far, but not to worry. I thought you might like to push her in this,’ Kenneth said and he brought out an old pram that he’d put ready by the door. ‘And maybe pop a bonnet on her head.’ He’d managed to find one of those too and put it on Rosie.

  ‘Do you think she minds wearing that?’ Lizzie asked as they headed towards Battersea High Street. She was pushing Rosie in the pram and Arthur was holding the collecting tin on which Kenneth had written ‘Princess Mary Christmas Fund’.