by Alison Hart
Blasts made the sky glow. Then a searchlight shone upward on a German observation balloon. The light reflected onto the ground and I spotted a figure sitting against a tree that had been cut in half by shells.
I ran over. The soldier was slumped sideways, barely breathing. I recognized one of the young men from Company B. When I nosed his palm, it was cold, but there was a faint flutter at his wrist. He was alive.
I pawed his arm, hoping to rouse him. My saddlebags held water and bandages. But this soldier needed more help than I could give.
I nuzzled his hand one last time, hoping he would understand that I had found him—and that I would return.
Leaving him, I raced in a straight line for the barbed wire and dove through the same opening I’d used before. I didn’t need to follow my tracks. I knew the fastest way to the trench.
Then a shell whistled overhead. Boom! The impact split the earth. Dirt and shrapnel blew me into the air. I landed hard on my side. Stunned, I lay panting. Raining earth covered me like a coat.
“Darling. Come ’ere, girl.” Private Kent was crawling on his belly toward me. I lifted my head at the sound of his voice. “Are you all right?” He brushed the dirt off me and I struggled upright. “We’re thirty yards away.”
Standing, I shook off the rest of the dirt. My ribs ached but I had a job to do—a soldier to save. Quickly, I lay back down.
“You found ’im, didn’t you? Stretcher bearers, double-time!” he called hoarsely. The bearers scrambled over the parapet.
Private Kent clipped the leash to my collar. We set off again, leading the way through the dark. The wire cutter reached the barbed coils right after we did. Snipping and yanking, he cleared a new path. Then he beckoned us onward.
I rushed ahead, tugging at the leash. Often we had to stop and wait for the men from the medical corps. Smoke from the bombs hung like fog, and the soldiers could not light their way with torches lest they draw the Germans’ attention. The orderly stumbled into a shell hole and had to be pulled out. Private Kent tripped over a root and fell to his knees. I whined encouragement. Hurry, hurry.
Gunfire ripped past us. We all hit the ground and froze.
“We must be near the German front,” the orderly whispered, fear making his voice quiver.
Private Kent nodded. Using his arms to pull himself forward, he wormed behind a pile of rubble. The stretcher bearers crawled after him, dragging the rolled-up stretcher. Last came the wire cutter and the orderly, panting like a dog. The five exhausted men leaned against the rubble and waited for the firing to stop.
No man’s land was treacherous.
After a moment’s silence, I leaped up again. Beyond the pile, I spotted the jagged tree. I wanted to bark There! Over there! But my training had taught me that enemy rifles would aim at any sound.
Instead, when Private Kent stood again, I crouched down and then darted madly toward the tree, pulling my handler behind me. He gestured for the others to follow.
Hunched over, the five ran to the soldier. As soon as they reached him, they kneeled, trying not to be seen. The orderly checked the wounded soldier’s pulse and gently touched his forehead. The young man groaned in pain. I was glad to see he was alive.
“Head wound,” the orderly whispered. Quickly he poured antiseptic on a wool pad and held it to the man’s temple. Private Kent helped him tie a strip of bandage to hold the pad in place. The stretcher bearers carefully lifted the soldier onto the canvas sling. Staying low, they scurried off.
It was then that I heard a faint voice. “Hello? Over here!”
Private Kent had started after the orderly so I knew he hadn’t heard the sound. I darted in front of him and lay down at his feet. He frowned at me and jerked at the leash. “Darling, ’eel!” he ordered with another jerk. “We need to get back before we get killed!”
I refused to get up. I refused to obey. I knew there was another wounded man.
I gazed beseechingly up at my handler. His eyebrows rose as if he finally understood, and he unclipped the leash. I sped in the direction of the voice. I strained to hear it again, but now all was silent except for the drone of airplane engines overhead.
Confused, I stopped and glanced around the stark, shadowy landscape. Before me was a crater made by an explosion. Around me was leveled ground. There was no sign of a person. Had it been the enemy trying to confuse me? Was I leading Private Kent into a trap?
“Hello? Down here!”
That was no German voice. Dropping to my belly, I peered over the edge of the crater. A soldier stared up at me. His leg was bent, just like Sergeant Hanson’s had been.
I bounded down the gravelly side. When I reached the bottom, the soldier stroked my head. Tears filled his eyes. “You’re a better sight than General Plumer himself,” he whispered.
Private Kent half-slid, half-fell to the bottom. “Blimey, ’ow’d you get into this mess?”
“Germans shot me.” The soldier nodded toward his arm. The sleeve was torn and soaked with blood. “Knocked me clean into this hole. The fall broke my leg, but tumbling down here saved me from getting riddled with bullets.”
Private Kent opened my saddlebag and pulled out bandages. He cut off the man’s bloody sleeve with his knife and cleaned and wrapped the wound.
“I’m Private Bingham, 3rd Battalion. Born and raised in Worcester.”
“Private Kent.”
The soldier gestured toward me. “And my guardian angel?”
“Darling, number 204, War Dog.” I could hear the pride in my handler’s voice. Frowning, he studied Private Bingham’s leg. “I don’t ’ave a splint. We’ll ’ave to stabilize it with me bayonet.”
I waited patiently as Private Kent worked on Private Bingham’s leg. Occasionally the soldier bit back a cry of pain.
Closing up my saddlebag, Private Kent sat back. “Well, Private Bingham, you seem to be of ’earty stock. I believe you’ll live.” He looked at the soldier’s leg, glanced toward the top of the crater, then cleared his throat. “If we can figure a way to get you out of ’ere,” he added, “before the Germans send out a patrol and take the three of us prisoner.”
“I’d rather die,” Private Bingham said.
“That we agree on, chum.” Private Kent helped the soldier to his feet. He clipped on my leash.
Private Bingham leaned heavily on my handler’s side and hopped on one foot. With Private Kent pushing and me pulling, they made it halfway up the slope. But then they both slid back to the bottom. Private Bingham winced, trying not to cry out. Sweat beaded his forehead.
I nudged Private Kent’s elbow with my nose. The sky was growing light, and time was running out. He peered at me for a moment, then took off his cap and gave it to me. Gently I took it between my teeth. Then he unsnapped the leash again and I clambered up the side. When I reached the top, I heard voices. Without thinking, I dropped in a hollow. A small troop was walking toward me. Their uniform trousers were gray, and when I heard a few murmured words, they didn’t sound like the English soldiers.
Germans. And if they continued walking they would find the crater and Privates Kent and Bingham. I had to steer them away.
When they were almost on top of me, I streaked from the hollow, Private Kent’s cap dangling from my mouth.
Urgent German commands filled the air. Crack! crack! My ear stung as if struck by a sharp rock. Twisting and turning, I raced toward camp, using ditches and rubble as cover. I was fast, but the enemy soldiers’ aim was accurate and bullets singed my fur.
More shots zinged over my head—only these were coming from the direction of the British trench. “Let ’em feel steel!” cried a small troop of soldiers running into the clearing. I recognized some of the men from Company B. The Germans crouched, fired, and then retreated as quickly as they had arrived.
Sergeant Hanson was the first to find me. Taking the cap, he beckoned a small party to follow us.
When we reached the crater, the sun was rising. We were standing in no man’s land
, sitting ducks for the Germans. Everyone knew it, though no words were spoken.
Sergeant Hanson and three other soldiers slid into the crater while the rest stood guard. Private Bingham’s eyes were shut and he was propped against Private Kent’s shoulder. Sergeant Hanson and Private Kent made a sling with their arms under the wounded man’s shoulders. Two other soldiers took his legs. It took them several tries to climb from the crater. But once out, they were able to trot to the Allied trench while the other soldiers guarded their rear.
A cheer rose up when we came into view. Two stretcher bearers climbed up the ladder and hurried over. Private Bingham was laid on a sheet of canvas and passed down into the trench.
Lifting me in his arms, Sergeant Hanson handed me to Private Kent, who had jumped into the trench. He collapsed against the dirt wall and I flopped on his lap. Tweed came up and we eagerly snuffled a greeting. Dust clung to her wiry fur, and I knew that she’d been busy that night, too.
I crawled from my handler’s lap. My ribs ached where I had fallen and my mouth was dry. Someone brought me a tin of water and Private Kent a cup of tea.
“Two sugars in me tea and a crumpet, if you please,” he said hoarsely. “And me dog would like beef Wellington.” Rousing laughter rose up all around.
Sergeant Hanson inspected my ear. “You’re now a wounded soldier,” he told me. “I’m sure it’s painful, but we’ll patch you up.”
“A Victoria Cross for Private Kent!” one of the soldiers called.
He shook his head. “It weren’t me. It were me war dog, Darling. She’s the one deserves a medal ’anging from ’er collar.”
“Three cheers for Darling!” someone sang out.
Now that we were all safe, exhaustion crept through me. I closed my eyes and slept.
CHAPTER 11
“The Fight Is ‘ere”
Early June 1917
The nick on my ear healed quickly. Zero hour—the moment when the British would attack the Germans on Messines Ridge—was nearing. The exact time was kept secret, but soldiers and support staff were ordered to begin preparations. Battlefield rehearsal areas were marked, and the platoons practiced and drilled. Soldiers hauled out giant howitzers and set them up under camouflage nets. Ammunition was stocked, and bread was baked and stored. All the activity reminded me of the bees on the cowslip blooms on Portsdown Hill.
The Hill was still in my memory. As were the sheep, Rags, Robert, Katherine, and my cozy bed by the fireplace. But they were growing hazier each day. My time on the Front was spent in anxious waiting, then furious searching. There was little time to dream.
The British repeatedly shelled the German lines. Between shellings, they sent raiding parties to clear the enemy’s trenches. Each night, I led Private Kent or Sergeant Hanson to the fallen. In three days, I found more than fifteen wounded soldiers. When they were tucked safely behind British lines, my job was done. Then I would eat heartily—and sleep.
One night we accompanied the 3rd Australian Division. The men were strong and their laughter was confident. The dog squad marched with the medical corps as we followed the Australians to the unit’s jumping-off point. We then helped stock a Regimental Aid Post in an old bunker slightly at the rear. I was fetching a stick one of the orderlies threw when I heard the plop of a gas shell.
I let out a bark of alarm and Private Kent, who knew I would not break training, saw the canister. He began to holler and at the same time he yanked out our masks. I ran toward him, my eyes burning. This time I was glad to have the mask pulled over my muzzle.
“Tear gas!” one of the medical men yelled. More shells plummeted from the sky like giant hailstones.
Many masks were pulled on too late, and soldiers began to gasp. The command was given to advance from the area, and the Australians’ march turned into a gallop. Private Kent and I had orders to return to headquarters after the RAP was set up. Hurriedly we left. When the tear gas was far behind us, Private Kent took off my mask. I rubbed my muzzle and head in the dirt until they felt clean.
We got in late that night. Private Kent bathed my eyes, but they still stung and I slept fitfully.
When I awoke the next morning, I saw half-dressed handlers streaming from their tents. The men clustered around Sergeant Hanson. I stood at the entrance to my crate, at the ready. Soon we would be seeing action.
The handlers huddled for a long time. Finally, after Beast began to howl for his breakfast, the group headed toward the field kitchen. Private Kent brought me my food bowl. He wore no shirt, his suspenders black lines on his thin white chest.
“Darling, the fight we’ve been waiting for is ’ere,” he said as he set down the bowl. I tucked into it, gulping the meat and bread.
“And a massive battle it’ll be. Just think of it—if the battle were a bucket of water, then you and me, why we’d be just two drops,” he explained. “The sergeant says there are over two thousand big guns and ’owitzers set up over sixteen kilometers. Enough to blow the Germans to Paris.”
I licked up the last of my breakfast.
Squatting, Private Kent stroked my head. “The Royal Flying Corps will keep the Germans busy from the air with their Sopwith fighters, and the tanks will roll over them on land. You remember those Mark IVs, lass?”
I wagged my tail, wishing there had been more meat and less bread.
“There are seventy-seven of those clanking creatures. Only I’m betting the Germans have the same arsenal. I pity the poor soldiers who have to face ’owitzers, planes, and tanks with only a rifle…” His voice trailed off and he shook his head sadly. “We finally know that zero hour is 0300 tomorrow morn. I fear we’ll be spending all the next day gathering what’s left of those brave Tommies who think they can win against such weapons.”
I had never heard Private Kent speak so long—and so solemnly. I laid my head on his knee and he ran his fingers through my fur. “You’re the best partner a bloke could ask for,” he said, speaking low as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “I just wanted to tell you in case…” His voice broke. Quickly he stood, coughed behind his fist, and asked, “Ready for a brushing, girl? Sergeant Hanson wants the dog squad in tiptop shape.”
I tossed my head playfully, trying to erase the sad look in his eyes.
“All right then,” he said with a weak grin, “I’ll get the brush.”
When he left, I glanced at the crate next to me, where Beast was making a racket. His handler brought him breakfast and the hound leaped so high that he almost flipped over. The other dogs began leaping about, too. Tweed was the only one who didn’t join in the excitement.
I left Beast to his meat and bread and went over to Tweed. We sniffed each other, and I could feel her nervousness. The searching had been hard on the Airedale. Her toenails were chipped and her eyes were dull. When she wasn’t working, she paced in front of her crate, wearing a path in the earth. Even liver treats from Private Reeves didn’t soothe her.
I whined low in my throat, trying to tell her that soon it would be over.
Or so I thought.
CHAPTER 12
Find the Wounded
June 6, 1917
Once again the dog squad was assigned to the medical corps of the 3rd Battalion Worcestershire. The soldiers of the regiment greeted Tweed and me and the other dogs with hearty hellos, kisses, and pats while our handlers looked the other way. Orders were strict: we were not to be pets of the infantry. But this was a special time. Zero hour was only a few hours away. I could feel the tension in the soldiers’ hugs. Not one of them knew if he would survive the massive assault.
The regiment assembled in trenches close to Nutmeg Avenue, where the soldiers had skirmished before. I thought of Private Bingham and the many other wounded soldiers I had found. Were they safe in hospitals? On a ship bound for home?
“Medical corps waits at the far ends of the front line,” said Corporal Currell, the officer in charge. “Because these trenches are newly dug and there was no time for dugouts, you’ll have to
fashion your own shelter. You’ll be safe there until needed.”
Tweed and I were assigned the south end. With our handlers, we trudged down lines crowded with soldiers writing last words and fixing stew over little round stoves.
“The generals issued new Tommy cookers,” one of the orderlies said with a roll of his eyes. “Hoping a bit of tea would make us forget they were sending us to the front line to die.”
The stew smelled delicious and I licked my lips. Often Sergeant Hanson would bring me a tin, knowing it was my favorite. Finally we reached our post at the far end of the line. It was sparsely guarded by soldiers. A few nodded at us as our handlers found places to sit on ammunition cases under a ledge of rock.
“We’re less than a mile from Messine,” a young stretcher bearer said as he rolled bandages. He didn’t sound like Private Kent. “Or what’s left of it,” he added bitterly. “The entire village has been bombed and burned to the ground.”
“You’re a Belgium lad?” Private Kent asked.
The young man nodded. “Messines was my home. We farmed here.” He gestured beyond the trench. “It’s hard to imagine these fields were once lush with sugar beets and barley. All our livestock? Gone. All the families? Bombed out. All the homes? Rubble.” He shook his head sadly, then fell silent.
I lay down next to Tweed. Her head rested on her paws, but shivers racked her body. I slid closer, hoping to warm and reassure her.
Private Reeves checked his watch. “It’s 0200 hours. One hour to go.”
The tromp of boots signaled that more troops had arrived. Cookers and pencils were put away. Rifles and bayonets were readied. Private Kent checked that our gas masks were handy, then stroked my head.
The soldiers began to sing softly. Their voices rang up and down the trench, distracting us from what lay ahead.
