by Alison Hart
A bath sounded good even to me.
Private Jimmy was filling a washtub with water with a hand pump. “I added hot water like you asked, Sergeant. Though it seems to me I haven’t had a hot bath myself for weeks.”
The sergeant laughed. “Nor I, Private. But I think we may get plenty wet right now.”
I followed Sergeant Hanson to the tub. The muscles in my shoulder were stiff, but something more was wrong with my right leg. It only moved a short distance with each step. I used to gallop up and down Portsdown Hill, but now I could barely walk.
Private Jimmy watched me with solemn eyes as I came closer. “It’s a shame such a beauty has to be so thin and scarred.”
“She’s still a beauty,” said the sergeant. Carefully, he lifted and set me into the water. At first it stung my still-healing wounds. But after a few moments it felt comforting.
The two men bent over the tub. I stood motionless as Private Jimmy ran warm water from a kettle over my back and Sergeant Hanson scrubbed me with a bar of soap.
Soon the water was brown. The final rinse was a cold shower from a hose. I shook, almost falling over when my wounded side gave way. Sergeant Hanson carried me to a sunny spot by a horse paddock. I rolled in the grass, waving my three good legs in the air.
After the sun had dried me, Sergeant Hanson led me into the barn. He and Jimmy worked on my tangles with horse brushes until I yelped for them to stop. Then they stepped back and inspected me with serious expressions on their faces.
Neither man said a word. I wagged my tail, again wondering what was wrong. Suddenly a terrible thought struck me. The crippled horse had been given extra care, he’d been carefully brushed—and then he hadn’t returned.
I sank down on the floor. I was lame. I wasn’t going to get better. I knew my fate.
Sergeant Hanson put on his tunic. Slowly, he buttoned it. Then he slicked back his hair and set his cap carefully on his head. Private Jimmy brought my old collar, which he’d cleaned with saddle soap, and buckled it around my neck. The “204” stood out once again, no longer covered in dirt and blood. He gave Sergeant Hanson the leash.
“Godspeed,” Private Jimmy whispered.
My heart began to thump as the sergeant led me from the barn. Balking in the doorway, I looked around for the two men who had taken the horse away. They stood by the side of the road under the shade of a tree.
But instead of handing my leash to them, Sergeant Hanson picked me up and carried me to his motorcycle. He set me in the sidecar. I whined anxiously and tried to scramble out.
“Sit,” Sergeant Hanson ordered in a firm voice.
I obeyed, though I couldn’t stop trembling. Private Jimmy waved goodbye as the motorcycle roared from the depot. We bumped down the road, weaving around marching troops and stalled tanks. Safe at the depot, I’d almost forgotten there was a war going on. Why should I care? Even though I wore my collar, I was no longer a war dog.
I had been deemed unfit for service. Only fit to be destroyed.
CHAPTER 16
The Final Journey
June 14, 1917
The rough motorcycle ride jostled me and the ache in my leg grew worse. Sergeant Hanson wore goggles so I couldn’t see his expression. But his jaw was rigid.
He turned off the road and stopped in front of a long, whitewashed building. There were several army vehicles parked outside, guarded by soldiers. A man stood by the front doors; he didn’t wear a uniform. Sergeant Hanson parked and the man walked toward us, hand outstretched. A leather case hung from a strap around his shoulder.
“Good to see you again, Paul,” the man said, shaking the sergeant’s hand. “When was the last time? London 1914, after we beat you at rugby?”
“Good to see you too, Billy. And I believe it was our team that beat yours,” he said. “So you know what we need to do?”
“Absolutely. And it will be my pleasure.”
Sergeant Hanson began to lift me from the sidecar, but the man named Billy stopped him. “Let me get a shot first.”
When I heard the word “shot,” I flattened against the seat. But Billy didn’t have a gun. Instead, he pulled a black box out of his leather case. Holding it to his eye, he fiddled with it for a long time.
Then I heard several clicks.
“Save your film,” Sergeant Hanson said. “There will be plenty of great shots.” This time when he picked me up, I could feel the excitement coursing through him. He set me on the ground and walked me into the building; I smelled blood and antiseptic. Confusion and fear mingled with my pain.
I balked again.
“It’s all right, Darling,” Sergeant Hanson assured me. “It will all be explained in good time. Heel.”
Reluctantly, I limped beside him into a large, open room. Each wall was lined with beds packed close together, filled with wounded soldiers. A cluster of men in uniform surrounded one bed, hiding the man in it from view. Sergeant Hanson led me toward them, Billy right behind us.
A woman in a long dress hurried up. “Sir, dogs are not—”
Ignoring her, the sergeant walked faster. “Private Kent,” he called out. “Private Kent!”
Private Kent! I knew that name. The group of soldiers turned in unison. It was then that I saw him. My handler!
Forgetting the pain in my leg, I bounded forward. Private Kent’s face lit up when he saw me. “Darling! It’s my girl!”
I tried to leap up, but my right front leg buckled under me. Sergeant Hanson caught me before I fell and set me onto Private Kent’s bed. I licked away the tears of joy rolling down his cheeks. More cameras clicked and flashes of lights exploded around us.
Billy pushed his way through the crowd. “General! General!” he called out to a stately, white-haired man who stood in the middle of the other soldiers. “May I get a photo of you with the war heroes?”
The general glanced at the man, looking confused.
Billy pulled out a pad of paper. “Private Kent isn’t the only hero who deserves to be decorated today, correct?” he said as he wrote something. “Darling, War Dog 204, was the one who found the buried soldiers.”
“Aye, aye. It was me girl ’ere who saved me,” Private Kent added. He started to say something else, but he fell into a fit of coughs, rasping and deep. I nuzzled his neck, willing him to stop. I had heard that cough too many times in the trenches.
Holding a handkerchief to his mouth, the general stepped away from us.
“She dug and dug…until ’er paws bled,” Private Kent finally gasped when the coughing subsided. “She did it with a bullet in ’er side. We wouldn’t ’ave been found if it wasn’t for ’er and Private Jameson.”
Private Jameson. I knew that name, too. A soldier on crutches hobbled over. I sat up and peered at him. Despite his clean face and smell, I knew it was the wounded soldier who had helped me dig out the others. Leaning down, he patted me. I licked his hand, overjoyed to find out what had happened to one of the soldiers I had only known for a short time.
“She saved me, too,” Private Jameson said. “She took a German bullet for me.”
Click. Click. Pop. Pop. Billy took photos of all of us.
Sergeant Hanson stepped beside him. “It’s true,” he said. “I was there. Private Jameson and Darling worked together to dig out the men from the medical corps. And Private Kent risked his life shielding them from the explosion.”
“A photo of the heroes with you, General? For The Daily Mirror.” Billy waved his hand in the air. “I can see the headlines—General Decorates Three War Heroes. England needs uplifting news.”
The general harrumphed but consented to stand next to the headboard. Private Kent sat up straighter in his bed. I raised my head proudly. When Billy lowered his camera, one of the soldiers handed the general two small boxes. He opened one and pulled out a shiny medal. “The British Royal Army thanks you for your service,” he said quickly, as if trying to get it over with. He placed the medal and ribbon on Private Kent’s chest. Then he did the same with P
rivate Jameson.
Private Kent took the medal off his chest and tucked one end of the ribbon in my collar. “Please, sir, take a photo of the real hero to show all of England. Darling, War Dog 204.”
Click. Click. Pop. Pop.
The general saluted, spun around, and left the room, his entourage in tow. A nurse came over to escort Private Jameson back to his cot. “The doctor tells me I’m on the mend,” he said before he left. “Which means I’m heading back to the Front.”
Sergeant Hanson raised one eyebrow.
“Which is fine with me,” Jameson added. “I miss my mates in the regiment.” He gave me one last pat. “Take care, 204.”
Billy and Sergeant Hanson watched him leave. “You can get the photos and story to The Daily Mirror this week?” the sergeant asked Billy.
“I’ll take them to the correspondent’s office myself,” Billy said. “The Wipers Times has requested them as well. By tomorrow every soldier in the trenches will be weeping over this story.”
“The general won’t dare allow a hero to be destroyed.” Sergeant Hanson burst out laughing as if he finally didn’t have a care in the world.
“Will one of you explain what is going on?” Private Kent asked. Again he had a fit of coughing. I snuggled against his side, afraid to leave him.
Sergeant Hanson and Billy shook hands and the reporter rushed from the hospital. Then the sergeant pulled a stool over to Private Kent’s bedside. “I found out that Darling was on the list of animals deemed unfit. She was to be destroyed today,” he explained. “I had to figure out a way to save her.”
Private Kent’s eyes reddened and his fingers tightened in my fur. “I didn’t know.”
The sergeant reached for the medal still dangling from my collar. “Billy is an old chum who’s a reporter for The Daily Times. He’s making sure the world knows that both of you are war heroes. The army censors the news, but this story will get through. The British love their dogs and they’ve sacrificed them for the fight. The general knows that a photo of him decorating three war heroes is just what people need.”
“A devious plan, Sergeant.” Private Kent gave him a shaky grin. Then he clutched me tighter. “And now?” he asked. “What’s going to ’appen now that neither of us is fit for duty?”
“Now we find a way to send Darling back to England.” Sergeant Hanson ruffled my ears. “Your orders are to ship out in a week, Private Kent. Back to England to recover. I’m doing everything I can to make sure that Darling goes with you. I just need to convince my lieutenant that the British people need a returning war dog hero to celebrate.”
Private Kent’s grin widened. “Did you ’ear that, Darling? We’re going ’ome.” Leaning back against the headboard, he sighed happily.
I sighed too, and placed my paws on his chest.
“Do you remember the note on her collar when she arrived on the train at Shoeburyness?” Sergeant Hanson asked.
“It seems a lifetime ago.”
Reaching in his pocket, Sergeant Hanson pulled out a stained and tattered piece of paper.
I nosed it, smelling a faint whiff of Cosham.
“Dear soldier. This is Darling. She is smart and brave. Please take care of her and send her home to us. We love her even though she sometimes runs away. Yours truly, Robert and Katherine,” he read. “Well, the children were right. Darling proved she was smart and brave. I didn’t know then if I could keep that promise, but now I can.”
Leaning forward, he cupped my face in his hands. “Darling, you and Private Kent are going home.”
Home. I knew that word. Home had been a kennel, a ship, a train, a trench, and a crate.
But this home the sergeant was talking about was special. It meant that I would return to my beloved Robert, Katherine, and the village of Cosham. I wouldn’t be able to run the hills of Portsdown ever again. But I would walk the village streets and greet the butcher and postmaster. I would watch over my family and keep them safe until Father returned. I would visit Private Kent and help him get back his strength.
And best of all, I would stay far away from this war. I had been the best war dog I could. But now it was time to go home.
Lifting my head, I barked and barked with joy.
The History Behind Darling
Dogs in the Military
Dogs have been used for war throughout history. During World War I, when Darling takes place, Great Britain and several other European countries used dogs on the battlefront. Soldiers discovered that dogs were loyal, smart, and quick and had keen eyesight and an excellent sense of smell.
The most common use for dogs during WWI was for carrying messages. A piece of paper was placed in a small metal container on the dog’s collar. A dog could carry a message four to five times faster than a human across enemy territory. The fastest time recorded was three miles in three minutes! Dogs were also scouts, ammunition carriers, and guards. Ambulance and medical assistance dogs like Darling were used later in the war.
Training of these special dogs took about six weeks and required praise and treats like dried liver. First they were taught to heel, to sit, and to stay silent. All breeds were used, including mutts. Trainers looked for grayish or black dogs that would blend into the background on the battlefield.
Mercy Dogs
Red Cross or Mercy Dogs like Darling searched for wounded men on the battlefield. They usually worked at night, using their sense of smell and superior vision. They ran through barbed wire, poisonous gases, smoke, fences, and explosions. “Good Red Cross dogs will quickly clear a battlefield of all the wounded soldiers,” stated Senator George G. Vest (Scout, Red Cross and Army Dogs, page 17).
Mercy Dogs carried medical supplies and water to wounded men. If the soldier was unconscious, the dog would return to him, leading his handler and stretcher bearers. These dogs were trained to ignore dead soldiers.
Mercy Dogs were only used in World War I. When armies stopped trench warfare, the need for Mercy Dogs ended. However, dogs continue to be trained today in the military, often to search for explosives and drugs.
Dog Heroes
Dogs proved their loyalty and bravery time after time in World War I. Captain, a French Red Cross Dog, found thirty wounded men in one day. Prusco, another French Red Cross Dog, found over a hundred men after one battle. Sometimes Prusco dragged soldiers into ditches, hoping that would keep them safe while he ran back to his handlers.
The United States did not use military dogs in World War I, but soldiers sometimes kept dogs as mascots. One of the most famous was Stubby, who became a hero after capturing a German spy. He was in seventeen battles and wounded many times. Stubby returned to America after the war. He was celebrated as a war hero and met three presidents.
Many brave dogs died in World War I. A 1917 issue of Animals magazine estimated that seven thousand war dogs were killed. There is a monument to dogs who served in the World War, 1914–1918 at the Hartsdale Canine Cemetery in New York. There is also a painting of Mercy Dogs by Alexander Pope in the American Red Cross Museum in Washington, D.C.
Cool Dog Facts
The Airedale was one of the first breeds to be trained for the military.
A dog’s sense of smell is fifty to one hundred times better than a human’s.
Gas masks for dogs were first developed during World War I.
In 2011, there were over 2,300 military working dogs in the United States.
A law was passed in 2000 allowing retired US military dogs to be adopted.
A Soldier’s Life
A military dog’s life during World War I was tough, but so was a soldier’s. At the Battle of Messines Ridge, most soldiers spent their days in trenches. They guarded the front line, which was the area closest to the German forces. In between was “no man’s land,” the ground that separated enemy from enemy.
Trenches were ditches dug in the ground, six feet deep by two feet wide. They were lined with sandbags, sticks, and metal. Support trenches connected to the front trenches in a tw
isty maze. Signs pointed the way, but soldiers joked about getting lost.
Troops shared the trenches with mice, fleas, frogs, and lice. “There are five families of rats in the roof of my dugout,” British Captain Bill Murray wrote to his family, “which is two feet above my head in bed, and the little rats practice somersaults continuously through the night, for they have discovered that my face is a soft landing when they fall” (The First World War: A New Illustrated History, page 159).
When it rained, the ditches filled with mud. Soldiers on duty might have to stand knee-deep in water for hours. They often developed an infection called “trench foot.” Another infection called “trench mouth” was caused by stress, smoking, and poor hygiene. “I have not washed for a week,” wrote a soldier, “or had my boots off for a fortnight” (Life in the Trenches, page 69).
Food was carried from rear kitchens to the troops in the front line. Often it arrived cold and spoiled. Biscuits were so hard, reported a soldier, “that you had to put them on a firm surface and smash them with a stone” (Life in the Trenches, page 74). Soldiers were issued mess kits with fork, spoon, knife, and “iron rations” of tea and bully beef (canned corn beef) that they could heat over their Tommy cookers.
During the day, soldiers in the trenches played cards, wrote letters, and cleaned their weapons. At night, the Front became alive. Supplies were moved. Patrols crept from the trenches and scouted the area. Then raiding parties scurried across no man’s land, crawling through barbed wire and darting into shell craters. Dodging machine-gun fire and bombs, they tried to capture and kill the enemy.
After one week to ten days of duty on the front lines, a soldier would be sent “to the rear.” There they took a hot bath, washed clothes, and ate a good meal. “There is a bakery,” reported a visitor, “where a Master Baker, in charge of a thousand men, bakes 350,000 2-lb. loaves every day” (Life in the Trenches, page 64).
