by Alison Hart
Bombed last night—bombed the night before.
Gonna get bombed tonight if we
Never get bombed anymore.
When we’re bombed, we’re
Scared as we can be.
Oh blast the bombin’ planes from Germany.
Gassed last night—gassed the night before…
Corporal Currell interrupted the singing and sent out a small scouting patrol. Silently, the six soldiers disappeared over the parapet. They hadn’t been gone long before gunfire rang out in two volleys. I bolted to my feet.
“The lads must’ve been attacked,” Private Kent whispered. “The Germans are close.”
We watched and waited until finally five of the soldiers rushed back into the trench. “There was a small platoon of Huns holed up in a bunker. Private Jameson was hit,” one told the corporal. “We couldn’t find him in the dark. If he stays out there, the Germans will kill him or he’ll be blasted to bits at zero hour.”
Corporal Currell checked his watch. “We have half an hour to bring him back. Send a dog.”
He looked at Tweed, but I leaped up in front of him, ears pricked.
Private Kent stood. “Darling will find ’im.” He unhooked my leash. Holding me under his arm, he climbed the ladder and set me on the parapet. “Be quick, girl. Begone.”
Nose to the ground, I tore off. Back and forth I trotted, all my senses at attention as I searched for the fallen soldier. The sky was still dark, but my eyes gradually adjusted. The constant barrage of gunfire from the British lines was deafening. I would have to rely on sight and smell.
How far could our soldiers have gone? The shots had seemed so close.
The barbed wire had been cut in anticipation of the coming assault, so I quickly passed through. The earth beyond seemed even more shattered. There was no sign of life. No green grass, no birds, and no wounded soldier.
I was taking too long.
Then my nose found a trail of blood. Swiftly I followed it to a shell hole. The soldier was alert. When he saw me, his eyes opened wide. He was holding both palms against the bloody spot on his thigh where he had been shot.
“Good dog!” he praised. I sat beside him as he rustled in my saddlebags for bandages and antiseptic. “If I can just wrap this leg to stop the bleeding, I can follow you back…”
I turned to go fetch the orderlies as I had been trained to do, but the soldier grabbed my collar. I could tell he didn’t want me to leave. I didn’t blame him. No one wanted to be alone in no man’s land.
Looking at my tag, the soldier whispered, “Hello, 204. I’m Private Mike Jameson—”
His introduction was cut short by an unexpected silence. The rat-a-tat-tat of guns and booms of artillery had been constant the past few days. This sudden, deathly quiet was eerie.
Then I heard a faint sound: the trilling of nightingales as they sang before dawn.
My body quivered from nose to tail. Private Jameson held his breath. He hugged me to his chest as if for reassurance. “Heaven help us,” he whispered.
CHAPTER 13
Zero Hour
June 7, 1917
Seconds later, the whole world erupted. Boom! A huge explosion split the air. This was a new sound, one much larger than the howitzers we were used to. Boom! The second blast shook the ground beneath us, and the noise was so loud I cowered closer to Private Jameson. He bent over me as dirt and rocks hurtled into the sky and then fell to earth.
Boom! A third explosion ripped the sky and plumes of flame and smoke burst into the air.
Stunned by the thundering blasts, I shook all over.
“It’s the mines exploding on the ridge under the Germans,” he whispered. “I heard rumors that our engineers have been digging tunnels for months.”
An intense barrage of bullets followed the eruptions, as if ten thousand rifles were firing at once. Zero hour.
I scrambled from underneath the soldier. Dust and smoke swirled around our heads. He coughed and then stood shakily to peer from the hole. Though the sun had been rising, it seemed as dark as night. “Dog 204, I am as lost as a baby,” he said in a low voice. “You’re going to have to save me one more time.”
Private Jameson crouched low and grabbed my collar. I led us toward the British trench. He winced with each step and I could tell he was in pain. But he did not stop to rest. We scurried across the scorched earth like frightened mice. Through the smoke, I could see ghostly images of soldiers rushing past us toward the German line. They stooped, fired, stood, and then disappeared into the gray haze.
No one paid any attention to a limping man and a dog.
Distress flares rose from the German line as the Allied artillery kept up a fierce hail of bullets. Then I heard shells rocket toward the British lines as if the Germans were finally fighting back. Several whistled close by, and the soldier and I flattened against the ground. Booms and bursts of dirt beyond us told me the enemy shells were hitting their targets.
Jumping up again, we continued across the barren land. Crack-crack! The sharp retort of rifles came from behind us. Crack!
Suddenly, I felt an intense burning above my shoulder near my collar. My right front leg grew numb, and I stumbled. Private Jameson held me up. “Courage, 204.”
Hobbling along together, we reached the barbed wire that protected the Allied trenches. All was silent beyond the wire barrier, as if every British and Australian soldier had raced forward to attack the enemy.
Ignoring the pain in my shoulder, I hurried through the gap in the wire. Private Jameson followed close behind. On the other side, I searched for signs of the trench. Had I gone in the wrong direction? I turned and my paws sunk deep into soft ground of a new crater. Startled, I jumped backward. I sniffed the air, smelling gunpowder, smoke, fresh dirt…and the wounded.
Yet there was no one in sight.
The gunfire had moved into the distance, and the nightingales began to sing again. A ray of sun peeked through the haze. The private had stopped beside me. “The trench should be right here,” he whispered, as confused as I was.
Then I sensed what the last barrage of German shells had hit. Private Kent, Private Reeves, Tweed, Beast—had they all been buried? Furiously, I started digging.
Private Jameson gasped. Falling on all fours, he, too, began to scrabble at the dirt like a dog. When he unearthed a flat piece of metal, he used it like a shovel.
The dirt was laced with sharp rocks and shrapnel. My paws began to bleed. My shoulder ached as if it had been crushed by a wagon wheel. But I kept digging.
“I found something!” Private Jameson called. An elbow poked up from the earth.
We dug together. Too slow. Too slow. I had to run for help.
I raced in the direction the other dogs and handlers had gone just hours ago. I had to find someone, but thick smoked filled the air, and I couldn’t see any sign of life.
“Darling!” Sergeant Hanson emerged from the haze. Behind him, a group of soldiers and orderlies hurried toward me as well. They carried shovels and entrenching tools as if they already knew about the cave-in.
I led them back to Private Jameson. He’d uncovered a soldier lying face down in the dirt, his arms sprawled as if he’d fallen from the sky.
It was Private Kent. I barked, not caring about orders, not caring about my pain. I heard a muffled return bark deep within the earth. Tweed!
“There are more!” Private Jameson called. With everyone digging, we quickly freed Private Kent. Sergeant Hanson turned him over. I licked the dirt from his cheeks, which were warm. Sergeant Hanson felt his pulse. “He’s alive. Let’s get him transported.”
“Hello!” Sergeant Hanson called into a hole in the earth. Crouching, I peered into the dark. Private Reeves and two stretcher bearers looked up at us from a pocket of air protected by a section of the parapet that had not collapsed. Tweed was in her handler’s arms. All four were coated in dirt, except for their eyes.
I wagged my tail. Private Reeves grinned. “Lord, you are a wel
come sight!”
“We’ll have you out in a shake, mates,” Sergeant Hanson said. He backed up to give the other soldiers room. They dug carefully, not wanting to cause another cave-in. Private Jameson’s face was ashen. The bandage on his leg was stained red. “Your war dog saved my life,” he told Sergeant Hanson.
“She’s our best.” The sergeant frowned at the private. “You need medical attention. The orderly will escort you back to the RAP.”
I went back to digging. The burning in my shoulder spread until my body was wracked with tremors, but I couldn’t quit. Finally the hole was wide enough to pull the soldiers and Tweed out.
Tweed greeted me with a lick and nosed my shoulder. I knew she smelled my wound. I jerked away, desperate to uncover the others.
“It was Private Kent who saved us,” Private Reeves said as he was hoisted out. “He heard the shells coming. He positioned himself on top of us so we wouldn’t be buried.”
I limped over to check on Private Kent, but the stretcher bearers were trotting off with him toward a horse-drawn ambulance. As I started after them, Sergeant Hanson called me back. “No, Darling. There’s nothing you can do now. They’ll take care of him.”
I hesitated.
“You are needed here to find the wounded,” he continued, sounding tired. “Messines Ridge has been taken—but the battle is not yet over.”
I looked at the ambulance, longing to go with Private Kent. The sergeant snapped a leash on my collar. “Stay. That’s an order, Darling.”
As much as I wanted to follow my handler, I could not disobey. I let out a whine, deep and sad.
Then I collapsed at Sergeant Hanson’s feet.
CHAPTER 14
A Strange Place
June 10, 1917
I woke in a strange place. I was in a wooden crate, but not the one I was used to. It was dark inside except for a reddish pink light coming through the slatted bars on the crate door. The air smelled like antiseptic and bandages.
I smelled like antiseptic and bandages. When I turned my head, I discovered white strips wound tightly around my neck and under my belly. My front paws were also wrapped in bandages. My fur was matted and caked, but there was no way I could clean myself. Moving hurt too much.
Where was I? Peering through the slats, I saw that I was in a barn. Stalls, each containing a horse, lined the long wall across from me. A thin-looking horse wore a patch over his eye. A brown and white cart horse had a bandage around his neck—like me. Another draft horse hopped when he moved in the straw. They whinnied hungrily, and my stomach growled as well.
This wasn’t the barn by the kennels. It was too silent outside. I heard no barking dogs, shouting soldiers, or thundering guns. The barn doors were shut, but rays of sunlight slanted through the cracks between boards. I decided the sun was rising. If it had been setting, the horses would have been fed.
So it was morning, I was in a barn, and I hurt.
This must be where they took the wounded animals. The ones that had disappeared from the battlefield.
The barn door opened with a creak. The horses neighed excitedly and I lifted my head. A small man walked in, his shirt and trousers covered with a white bib apron. He was whistling a saucy tune. From my adventures with farmers and shopkeepers in Cosham, I had quickly learned that a whistling man was usually a pleasant one.
“Stop your bellyaching,” the man said in a teasing manner to the horses. Picking up a pitchfork, he tossed each of them hay from a stack in the corner.
After he was finished, he walked over and peeked through the slats into my crate. His eye widened. “I see you’ve come to.” Opening the door, he reached in. I shied from his touch. “Easy, now. I’m the one who’s changed your bandages and tended your wounds, so don’t fret. Private Jimmy at your service, 204.”
He slipped a looped leash over my head and gently tugged me from the crate. I stepped out gingerly and stood for a moment, my legs as weak as if I’d just run miles.
“You’ve been several days without food or water.” He set a pan of water under my nose. I turned my head away. Next he tried a tin of corned beef. I slunk back into the crate, lay down, and hid my head in the corner. Even though my stomach was empty, I didn’t want to eat. And even though the man was being friendly, he was a stranger and I didn’t want to please him.
Private Jimmy sighed. “I can’t blame you. That’s my own ration and I can barely stomach it. And you must have figured out I’m no dog person. Me, I was a jockey. That’s why the army sent me to the veterinary corps.” He chuckled. “Of course, I was used to being on top of a horse, not under one.”
Private Jimmy gestured toward the stalls. “We’re equipped for horses, not dogs. Though even there we fall short. Poor beasts. We humans know why we’re in this bloody war, but those poor devils don’t, do they? Yet so many of them get ripped apart by shot and worked to death.”
I didn’t respond.
Frowning, he shook his head at me. “The major had hounds. He’ll know what to do with you when he comes.” He walked away, leaving the crate door open.
I stared at the wooden wall, completely confused. Where was Private Kent? Where were Tweed, Beast, and Sergeant Hanson? Had they disappeared like Private Jameson?
Pining for these men and dogs made me wonder about Robert and Katherine. Would I ever see any of the people who had once been important in my life again? Or would I disappear, too?
“This dog hasn’t eaten since she arrived,” someone said. It was the veterinarian they called Major. I knew him from his gruff voice, the white coat over his uniform, and his fondness for foxhounds. “Nor left the crate. It’s as if she’s too exhausted to eat.”
“Her name’s Darling.” I lifted my head at the sound of my name. “And not only is she exhausted, she’s probably in mourning.” I knew that voice! The door was open and I peered out. Sergeant Hanson was staring in at me, grinning. “Hello, lass.”
If I hadn’t had bandages on my paws and neck, I would’ve leaped into his arms. Instead, I stood and wiggled in happiness from head to toe, causing every muscle to ache.
Kneeling, Sergeant Hanson wrapped his arms around me and hugged me gently. “I’ve missed you. The dog squad misses you.”
I licked his cheek, telling him how much I missed them, too.
“Tweed and Beast and the other dogs, they’re fine, as are their handlers,” he said as he sat back on his heels. “The battle is mostly over, but they’re still working.”
I draped myself over his knees.
“Let me take a look at you, girl.” He unwrapped the bandage around my neck and checked the wound. “You were shot just below the collar. We didn’t see the bleeding under all your thick fur. Major Clemson gave you a trim and took out the bullet.” Setting me on the barn floor, he stood up and asked sternly, “Now what’s this about not eating? You can’t get strong if you don’t eat.”
I tipped back my ears and hung my head. He pulled a tin from his haversack. “I brought you your favorite—beef stew.” He spooned it into a bowl. “No excuses now.”
It smelled as good as the bones we used to beg from the butcher. Hungrily, I wolfed it down and licked the bowl.
“What’s her condition?” Sergeant Hanson asked the vet.
“The bullet that was lodged in her shoulder damaged muscle and bone,” Major Clemson said. “We’re trying to keep the wound from getting infected. Even if it heals, she won’t be fit as a war dog again.”
A sudden change came over the sergeant. His face paled and I knew that something was wrong. His hand dropped to my head. “Major,” he finally said. “Can we keep that information between the two of us a while longer?”
Major Clemson nodded. “Of course. I’ve seen too many animals who served bravely labeled ‘unfit.’ The general says they can spare neither supplies nor time for animals that can no longer serve. I won’t help the army add your dog to the list of those that will be destroyed. You have my word as an officer.”
Unfit. Destroy
ed. I didn’t know either of those words. But the sharp way the major said them made me hide behind Sergeant Hanson’s legs.
That evening, I discovered what the words meant. Private Jimmy came in to feed us as usual. But this time, he didn’t give hay to the draft horse in the last stall. Instead he haltered him and groomed him with care, muttering to him while he worked. The horse was lame—like me. I had noticed that he hobbled around his stall and often would only pick at his hay. Despite the attention lavished upon him, he didn’t seem to be getting better.
Finally, Private Jimmy opened the stall door and led the horse to the doorway. Two men met him. Reluctantly, he handed the lead rope over to them. When they took the horse away, Private Jimmy hurried back into the barn. Then he began to sing at the top of his lungs.
Still, I heard the crack of a gun. The horse never returned.
CHAPTER 15
Unfit for Duty
June 14, 1917
Sergeant Hanson traveled from the Front several times to visit me. The convalescent horse depot was far enough away that the sound of gunfire didn’t reach us, but the road past it was often crowded with troops and traffic. No matter how noisy it was, though, I could always make out the roar of the motorcycle engine that announced the sergeant’s arrival.
Each time he came he brought more stew. I tried to eat it to show my appreciation. Sometimes I had to force myself. Then he would clean my wound and put on fresh bandages before he returned to the dog squad.
On his fourth visit, he took off his uniform tunic the moment he arrived. After he had removed my bandages, he slipped a looped leash around my neck. “Time for a bath, Darling,” he announced. “Major Clemson says your paws are healed. Your neck wound could use some soap and water.” He wrinkled his nose. “Besides, you smell like bully meat left to rot.”
He led me away from my crate for the first time since my arrival. I hobbled after him, my leg and shoulder still sore. For a moment I stood in the open barn doorway to enjoy the warm sun on the crusty gash on my neck and the cool breeze on my skin where my hair had been shorn.
