Darling, Mercy Dog of World War I

by Alison Hart

  Now home was a straw bed, a patch of dirt, and a bowl in front of a wooden crate. And worse, I could smell the dog that had lived there before me. I was not fearless like Beast, nor cowardly like Tweed. But somehow I knew that the dog that had lived in this home before me was no longer alive—and it made me tremble.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Trenches

  May 20, 1917

  The stench hit me as I followed Private Kent down the trench. Sweat. Dirt. Feet. Rotten flesh. Rats. Fear. With my sense of smell, one hundred times stronger than a human’s, I could sniff out the lice hidden in the seams of uniforms and strands of hair.

  Soldiers filed along the trenches—earthen lanes that twisted to the right and left of us. The sun glinted on their green helmets, making me think of the beetles that scurried about in the fissures of the chalk mines at home.

  From headquarters, I had followed Private Kent, Private Carlton and Beast, and six other dogs and handlers. Sergeant Cary-Hough escorted us down the communication trench, then through support trenches filled with supplies and leading to the front line. In some places we walked on wood duckboards. Other places we slogged through mud. When we were close to the Front, the sergeant introduced us to the Battalion Medical Officer. Wounded soldiers would first be carried to him at the RAP, or Regimental Aid Post, a fancy name for a space with a plank floor and dirt walls and roof, outfitted with two bunks and a few medical supplies.

  Finally we reached the front line—the trench closest to the enemy. The other dogs and handlers turned south. “We’re headed north toward Wytschaete and the Germans,” Sergeant Cary-Hough said.

  Ladders led into and out of the trenches on the sides facing the fighting. The walls were reinforced with logs and sandbags. The soldiers on guard duty stood tall, the barrels of their rifles resting on the parapet. Occasionally, one would shoot a volley in the direction of the German line. Enemy gunfire constantly zinged overhead.

  The soldiers who weren’t on duty reached out to pat me, their fingers grimy with gunpowder and dirt. Some stood, eating from their mess kits. Others wrote letters, cleaned guns, or polished boots. Most napped, propped up against trench walls or boxes of ammunition.

  Finally, we reported to Second Lieutenant Luckman of the 10th Worcestershire Regiment.

  “Pleased to see fresh dogs,” he said. “Let’s hope we won’t need them. As soon as it’s dark, two parties of hand-picked soldiers are raiding a German bunker.”

  I could feel Private Kent’s anticipation. Beside me, Beast quivered, as if ready to leap from the trench and take a message back to headquarters. I wasn’t quite as excited about being so near the shooting. Thoughts of the war dogs who hadn’t returned stayed with me.

  “Dog 204 will wait with the medical corps in the dugout.” The second lieutenant pointed to wooden stairs leading into the dark. “And 203 will come with the raiding party.”

  “The Beast and I are ready for action,” PrivateCarlton said. Private Kent seemed just as happy to lead me down the few steps further into the dank earth.

  Cigarette smoke filled the small underground room. Inside stood two men wearing armbands marked with a red cross and an SB for stretcher bearer, and an orderly who also wore a red cross. They nodded. “I’m Robert,” one of the stretcher bearers said. “Welcome to the Front.”

  I took notice when I heard the name. I thought of my Robert and Katherine. Would I see them ever again?

  “Where waiting feels like eternity,” the orderly added.

  “And the biscuits are hard as rocks,” the second stretcher bearer said, trying to bite into one. “I’m Private Thacker. That’s Churchill.” He nodded at the orderly. “And Sir Robert there introduced himself like the gent he is.”

  “We’re glad to see a Red Cross dog,” Churchill said. “No man’s land is pitted with craters, bunkers, and abandoned funk ’oles. It’s easy to lose the wounded. The last dog ’elped us bring back every last one.”

  I was glad that Private Kent didn’t ask what had happened to the last dog. Instead he ruffled my ears reassuringly and said, “Darling—204—is the best.”

  Robert sighed. “Darling. That’s how I start my letters back home to my sweetheart.” Leaning forward, he stroked my head. “Will you be the good luck I need to get back to England and the girl I love?”

  “That’s all the lad talks about,” Thacker said. “Me, I’ve got a wife and a passel of kids. My army wages keep the lot from starving.”

  “When they pays us,” Churchill grunted.

  Thacker cuffed him. “Quit grumblin’. At least you’re not some poor infantry bloke racing across no man’s land in the pitch dark. Unless a shell or bomb hits this dugout, we’re safe.”

  “And thank the Queen the mud’s dried,” Robert said. “Last skirmish it took four of us to move one wounded man to safety. Sunk in to our knees, we did. Made perfect targets. The blasted Huns don’t care if you have a red cross on your arm or not.”

  I shivered. Private Kent made me lie down beside his leg. Pulling a piece of dried liver from his pocket, he fed it to me. I was glad for my handler. No matter what the situation, he always looked out for me.

  For what seemed like forever, we waited in the dim hole. Water dripped from the roof. A rat scurried in the corner. Finally, I put my head down and closed my eyes, trying to shut out the noise, the smell, the rats—and the worry.

  Private Kent woke me with an urgent tug on my leash. I jumped to my feet and followed him up the stairs. It was night, starlit and bright. Soldiers lined the trench as far to the right as I could see. Their faces were solemn. To the left was the very end of the trench. Beast and Private Carlton stood there, waiting for orders. Second Lieutenant Luckman strode behind the small group of soldiers on the right, giving words of encouragement. Then he lifted his rifle and climbed the ladder. “Over the top, lads,” he ordered briskly. “We’re headed to Nag’s Nose. Let’s get those Germans.”

  All along the trench, soldiers scrambled up the ladders, stepped over the parapet, and disappeared into the night. I strained at the end of the leash, wanting to climb with them, wanting to see what was happening. Private Carlton and an infantry soldier lifted Beast to the top of the parapet. The big hound bristled with excitement as the infantryman took his leash and hurried up the ladder after him. Private Carlton stayed in the trench. If a message needed to be sent from the small raiding party, Beast would carry it back to his handler.

  I stayed behind with Privates Kent and Carlton, the orderly, and the stretcher bearers. A small reserve troop from the 10th remained as well. They manned the trench, their rifles pointed in the direction the raiding party had gone, ready to act as reinforcements if needed.

  All was silent. Then shots rang out. A volley of machine-gun fire ripped through the night. I jumped at the deafening blast of a bomb. Then silence again.

  Had Beast and the others made it across no man’s land? Would there be wounded for me to find? There was no way to know what was happening, and all of us in the trench held our breaths, waiting.

  Just when I thought I could wait no longer, we heard a shout. Private Kent climbed the ladder and poked his head over the top of the parapet.

  “It’s our boys! All of ’em!” he called down after counting out loud. “Didn’t lose a man. Wait, there’s more coming back than left. Well, I’ll be a plum pudding! They’ve brought prisoners with ’em.”

  I whined softly, wanting to see. Private Kent lifted me to the top. I looked from one soldier to the next, finally spotting Beast strutting beside Private Carlton.

  “Fine job, Tommies!” a reserve soldier shouted. The men of the raiding party whooped in return. I danced on the parapet, greeting them. Smiles stretched their grimy faces under their helmets.

  Suddenly the rat-a-tat-tat of a machine gun made them flatten to the ground. They crawled the rest of the way, then hurried down the ladder, eager to tell the story of the raid.

  “Surprised eight Germans, hiding in a bunker.”

  �
��The 33rd Fusiliers.”

  “Bayoneted six. They died without a peep.”

  “Bet they wish they’d never met a Tommy.”

  “Two surrendered.” The last soldier nodded toward the two men in gray uniforms who stood with their heads hanging. “Lucky for them they did, or they’d be dead, too.”

  Second Lieutenant Luckman was the last to climb down the ladder into the safety of the trench. “Excellent job,” he told his men. “That’s the proper way to win the war. No mucking about.” Then he turned to the two German soldiers. “Take these prisoners back to headquarters.”

  Private Kent kneeled beside me. “Take a good look, lass,” he said. “There’s the enemy.”

  I stared at the prisoners, wanting to growl. But then I saw how worn and dazed they looked. And when I studied their faces, I saw that the two hated Germans were just boys, not much older than Robert.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Begone”

  June 2, 1917

  For a week, we’d been waiting at headquarters—drilling for the day when we would be in service. We were assigned to the 3rd Battalion Worcestershire, B Company. Twice we had been sent to the Front, but we hadn’t been called into action on either trip.

  Tweed, however, had seen plenty of action during her mission. Private Reeves gave glowing accounts of how she had bravely led the orderlies to the wounded. I could sense Tweed’s new confidence. Still, when she’d returned to the kennel, she’d slept as if exhausted. Even a filled dinner bowl wouldn’t rouse her.

  When we were called to the Front again, Sergeant Hanson accompanied us. He was in charge of our group of six dogs and handlers. As we made our way down a muddy trench, a small brown dog hurtled past me. He dove beneath a crate of ammunition and I heard the snap of his jaws. The noise startled me. Rags had killed rats with a snap just like that.

  The dog emerged, his prey hanging limp from his mouth. I let out a yelp of joy. It was Rags!

  Instantly, he dropped the dead rat and sprang on top of me. Wrestling and chewing, we greeted each other while Sergeant Hanson and Private Kent stared in wonder.

  “Why, she knows that mutt!” Private Kent said.

  “That’s our mascot,” one of the soldiers in B Company said.

  Several of his buddies gathered round. “Private Rags,” another man added.

  “Keeps this place clean of mice and rats.”

  One of them pointed to lines scratched in the dirt wall. “Sure enough, ’e’s up to a hundred.”

  “Best soldier in our company. Came from the Battersea Dogs Home.”

  “Now he’s got a home with us.”

  Rags left me and ran from soldier to soldier. Each man patted and praised him. I wiggled with delight. Now I could stop worrying about my friend. He finally had a family.

  “Time to say your farewells now, Darling,” Private Kent said. “Come.”

  Rags and I tussled one last time. Picking up the rat, he held it proudly in his mouth. That was the picture I kept in my mind as I trotted down the trench again. Rags had his job in the army, and so did I.

  Once we were at the jumping-off point, we met Lieutenant Hudson, commander of the new company. He gave everyone their orders. “Our target is the German communication line we call Nutmeg Avenue and a supply line named Nutmeg Support. Wire cutters have been sent ahead. When it’s dark, we’ll go over the parapet and lay down in the open. We’ll listen for the British artillery to let loose, and then we’ll dash forward and bomb the lines.”

  Again Private Kent and I waited in a dugout with the men from the medical corp. He checked his equipment, then refolded the bandages in my saddlebags. An orderly heated water from his canteen to make tea. A stretcher bearer wrote something on the back of sardine tin label. “Want to hear my poem?” he asked when he was finished.

  No one replied, but he read it aloud anyway.

  Thirty days the earth was blasted,

  and the British Tommies fell.

  Thirty nights we dared not rest.

  We waited for the shell

  that signaled our comrades’ deaths.

  “Don’t rhyme proper,” the orderly said.

  “‘Fell’ and ‘shell’ do,” the stretcher bearer protested.

  “Where’s mention of the bloody rations?” the other stretcher bearer complained. “If I eat one more tin of cold bully beef, I’ll mutiny.”

  “I thought your poem were right powerful,” Private Kent said solemnly.

  “Thank you, mate.” Folding the paper, the stretcher bearer slipped it in his pocket. “If I die, you can send it to the Wipers Times.”

  “The Wipers Times?” Private Kent asked.

  “You haven’t heard of our trench magazine?” The orderly pulled another folded paper from his pocket. “Named after the town of Ypres, which us stupid Brits call Wipers ’cause we can’t pronounce the Belgian name. The mag’s filled with good old English humor.” He opened the magazine. “Listen to today’s weather report. ‘From five to one—mist. From eleven to two—east wind. From eight to one—chlorine gas.’”

  Laughter rose in the small earthen room, and as the orderly continued to read aloud, I dozed, comforted by the cheerful voices.

  At dark, Sergeant Hanson roused us. We hurried up the steps from the dugout to the trench. Sensing the tension when we emerged, I stayed close by Private Kent’s side.

  Lieutenant Hudson was inspecting his men, who stood tall and ready despite their weary stares and dirt-streaked uniforms. I scanned their faces. Some were as young as the German soldiers who had been taken prisoner. Others looked as if they’d been fighting forever.

  “It’s time,” the lieutenant finally said. “Let’s mop them up.” With that, Company B streamed over the top.

  Private Kent and I, Private Reeves and Tweed, and a messenger dog and his handler stayed behind. Sergeant Hanson went with Company B and the remaining handlers and dogs.

  Almost immediately, a barrage of heavy British artillery split the air. “Right on schedule,” Private Kent said. “Company B should be nearing its target.” I pictured the soldiers running forward in the dark. The Germans firing blindly. Soldiers on both sides falling.

  The whine of an incoming shell made me cringe.

  “Gas!” The sentries’ warning cries rang up and down the trench. Private Kent didn’t need to hear the word twice. He yanked his mask over his head, then reached in his canvas bag for mine. Quickly, he buckled it on me. I hated that mask. I could barely see out and it pinched my muzzle. But when I saw a soldier clutch his throat because he had been too slow to obey the warning, I was glad Private Kent had reacted swiftly.

  Bombs continued to rend the air. Suddenly a horrendous boom crashed near us. Above and beyond the trench, earth rose in the air as high as Portsdown Hill.

  “The Huns are blowing up the howitzer battery!” someone hollered. Private Kent covered me with his body as dirt and metal rained over us. When he straightened, there was blood on his cheek. I nuzzled my head against him. “Just a nick, lass,” he assured me.

  Finally a breeze carried the gas fumes away, and the sentries’ all-clear cry ran up and down the trench. Slowly, men began to take off their masks. Private Kent unbuckled mine but kept it ready by his side. Only one soldier seemed sick; an orderly quickly led him away.

  Flares rose from the German front, lighting the dark. “They know something’s up,” Private Kent whispered. Minutes later, the shrieks of incoming shells and the thuds of bombs hitting the ground reached my ears. The earth shook. Again, I heard the rapid fire of a machine gun. I was used to these sounds, but this time they seemed closer. My heart beat faster and I huddled closer to Private Kent.

  As silently as they had left, B Company returned with twelve prisoners. I spotted Sergeant Hanson and Private Carlton, who supported a limping British soldier between them. Blood stained the leg of the man’s trouser. Beast trailed behind.

  I hopped up and greeted them with wagging tail. Sergeant Hanson leaned down and held me for a
second. His face was grave. “Soon it’ll be your turn to prove yourself, Darling,” he said.

  “We cleared the walking wounded,” Lieutenant Hudson told the medical corps. “But without torches to light the way, we had to leave behind those too injured to call out. It’s up to you and the dogs to find them.”

  All eyes turned to Tweed and me.

  For a brief moment, terror rippled down my spine. Then I spun toward the ladder—this was what I had been trained for.

  Without hesitation, Private Kent and Sergeant Hanson lifted me to the top of the parapet. “Begone,” Sergeant Hanson said, a tremor in his voice that only I could hear.

  Then Private Kent unsnapped my leash, and I raced into the black night.

  A flare ripped through the sky and for an instant I could see the ghostly stretch of land before me. It was riddled with holes and heaped with stones, earth, and shrapnel.

  I ran, slowing when I saw the glint of wire. We’d been taught to leap over, crawl under, or go around the sharp barbs that caught fur and tore skin.

  Spotting a dark shape draped over the wire, I belly-crawled to it. When I pressed my nose against a hand, there was no sign of life. Quickly, I found a break in the coils made by the wire cutters and moved on. I was in no man’s land.

  I lifted my head and sniffed the air. Among the smells of spent artillery and disturbed earth, I detected a different scent. There…to my right. My eyesight was keen, but the shadows made by the looming mounds and twisted trunks confused me. Airplane engines roared overhead. Gunfire strafed the ground in the direction of our front line. The Germans were fighting back.

  There was no time to lose. My senses told me there was a wounded soldier nearby, trapped in no man’s land, and I had to find him.

  CHAPTER 10

  No Man’s Land

  June 2, 1917

  Where was the wounded soldier? Had he fallen in a hole? Had he pulled himself to safety behind a pile of rocks?

  Hoping to pick up a trail, I kept my nose to the ground. The smells of burnt earth, gunpowder, and a hundred boot soles grew confusing. I lifted my head and zigzagged back and forth at a trot. Whenever there was a moment’s silence, I stopped to listen.