Soldier Dog

by Sam Angus

  ‘Good boy,’ said Stanley, bursting with pride for this ferocious and graceful animal, for this animal that was loyal beyond all imagining.

  ‘Keeper Ryder.’ Stanley jumped at the Colonel’s voice. The Colonel was smiling as he addressed Stanley but his words were hard to hear beneath the babel of barking dogs. ‘He did it your way because he wanted to be with you. You conquered his natural instinct and guided him home.’

  Seized by sudden and violent indignation, that Bones should have come so far, yet all to no purpose, Stanley stepped forward, only to be intercepted by the Colonel.

  ‘I never wanted to send you forward, Ryder, never thought you should go to France . . . couldn’t bring myself to . . . but I’ve no choice. You are needed, your dog is needed. Even with only one dog, you must go.’

  Stanley fell to his knees, his cheek to Bones’s giant muzzle.

  ‘Bones,’ he whispered. ‘Bones, do you hear?’

  The Colonel shook his head sadly, fondly, as he looked on. ‘You’ve done well, Ryder, very well. Bones has taken your courage, your sense of honour for his own. He’ll always be true, faithful and brave, even to the last beat of his heart, would – I’ve no doubt – give his own life for you.’ The Colonel pondered, scrutinizing Stanley. ‘Whatever lies ahead for you both, remember that to him, you are all his life.’

  With a gentle, paternal shake of his head, he turned and walked away.

  9 March 1918

  Folkestone

  At Folkestone the keepers took a narrow path down the cliffs. Below them on the water sat a white-painted hospital ship, a grey-painted steamer and beyond them, a destroyer and her escort. Stanley eyed the waiting steamer. That would be his ship, ready for her dash across the Channel. Once aboard, he thought, as he stood aside for a group of soldiers climbing upward, there’d be no turning back. With a shock, Stanley saw the lean, drawn faces and sloppy dress of the soldiers and he heard their jeers.

  ‘Shiny and new . . . but not for long.’

  ‘Just boys – the Hun’ll go through this lot like a hot knife through butter.’

  Stanley placed a reassuring hand on Bones’s head as another laughed, ‘Dogs this week, they’ll be sending the women next . . .’

  Stanley looked at his own overcoat, buttoned to the throat, at his immaculate boots and puttees, at the blue and white armlet on his elbow, the crossed flags on his cuff. The dribble of gaunt, skin-and-bone men pushed on past. Did all returning soldiers look like this? Stanley chewed his lips watching, beginning, for the first time, to wonder what lay ahead for him and Bones.

  They boarded the SS Victoria and Stanley squeezed himself into the last square inches left on deck. Bones leaned heavily into Stanley’s left side. Like an overlarge child, Bones always sat as close as possible to Stanley, preferably partially on top of him, Bones’s slobbery jaws settling comfortably on Stanley’s arm.

  Stanley watched the searchlights playing along the English coast as the SS Victoria took him from all that he’d ever known, across the sea for the first time in his life, to he knew not what. The torpedo boats that flanked either side of the Victoria were there to protect her from the invisible enemy, the German submarines that might be stalking the black water beneath her. Somewhere on that dark coast behind Stanley was Thornley, somewhere there would be Da in his red chair, Da with Rocket at his feet. Stanley felt not homesickness but loss. In spite of everything, if he could, he might, at that second, have flung himself into the treacherous water, swum for home and made one last attempt to recover the father he’d lost.

  He shivered and pulled the collar of his overcoat closer around his neck, gazing out on to the black water. Growing eddies of anxiety for what lay ahead rolled aside Stanley’s grief for what lay behind until he fell, finally, into an uneasy sleep.

  Just before dawn the SS Victoria dropped anchor at Le Havre. The men disembarked in dark and drizzle, amidst the shouts and curses of officers. Stanley and Bones took their place in the line of men that felt its way around immense stacks of military goods, mules and ammunition dumps that packed the wharf.

  Beyond the wharf, in an open space lit with lanterns, guides and NCOs shouted out the names of different regiments, ‘Loyal North Lancs on the right!’ ‘King’s Liverpool on the left!’ Stanley’s unit shuffled into line with the Royal Engineers. He and Trigger were under orders to report to Central Kennels HQ when they arrived at Etaples. Street hawkers circled while they waited, selling sweets and cigarettes.

  As dawn broke, a troop of wounded passed, heading for the wharf. They all looked the same in the anxious half-light, all grey-faced, and mud-splattered. In the depths of their staring eyes, Stanley caught something of the horrors they’d seen. He remembered the line in Tom’s card – ‘the world will never be the same again for those of us here.’ No, Stanley thought, defiant, it won’t: the world will never be the same for me, anyway, not only because of what lies ahead, but because of what lies behind. Because of what Da did, nothing will ever be the same again.

  However, as the wounded men tramped away, Stanley’s defiance ebbed as he realized that he’d never thought about war close up. He hadn’t come to France for honour or glory, for love of England, for hatred of Germany, but only to be with Tom.

  Stanley and Bones were crammed into a corner of a pitch-dark cattle truck labelled in large black letters ‘8 CHEVAUX ou 40 HOMMES’. The train clanked along at walking pace. When it made yet another of its endless, unexplained stops, the doors slammed open to admit more men. Stanley would eat something, now, while there was light to see by. He peeled open his ration of bully beef. The blood red of the bully beef shocked and disconcerted him. His hunger evaporated. The doors banged shut and Stanley sat in the dark again, reassured by the solid bulk of Bones, for the smell of him, for his warmth and for the comfortable, easy manner in which he took each new movement forward.

  Stanley’s thoughts turned to Tom and, more practically now, how to find him. Tom would be so surprised to see his little brother in France, in uniform, a keeper with a beautiful dog and a vital job to do.

  The train clanged and clanked onward, and as the scale of the war began to dawn on Stanley, he began to accept that perhaps he’d not be fighting alongside Tom, that they might be miles and miles from each other. Tom was in the East Lancashires, but with which corps? Stanley had never asked and now must find out without drawing attention to himself, mustn’t look like a young boy trying to find his big brother.

  ‘Pick ’em up. Left-right, left-right.’

  Regulation marching pace was two and a half miles an hour. Stanley’s misgivings about finding Tom grew as they proceeded onward over dazzling white sand towards what looked like a city of tents and hutments. He looked aghast at the vast and dreadful encampment, sickened by its thick stench of stale food. They passed tents, tents and more tents.

  When they reached GHQ Central Kennels, Bones was led away by an orderly to an enclosed area with rows of kennels. Feeling bereft, Stanley made his way, numb with exhaustion, to the bell-tent he and fifteen other men had been assigned.

  Just before he fell asleep that night he heard the sound of gunfire and Trigger Doyle whispered knowingly, ‘Guns. You always hear them when the wind blows from the east.’

  ‘How many men are here at Etaples?’

  ‘Ten thousand, I’ve heard, and growing every day. They’re packing us in. The Hun is up to something and Haig is getting ready.’

  Trigger’s pride and excitement were so at odds with Stanley’s misgivings.

  Ten thousand. How would he find Tom? There was something, Stanley remembered, called Cross Post, a mail service operated by the Army. Was the Cross Post censored? he wondered, suspecting that it might be. When Tom replied to Stanley, he’d almost certainly say his little brother was too young and must go home, so that when the letter was read by the Censor, the officials would be alerted and would send Stanley back.

  Every instinct for survival made him steer clear of the official channels. He could ask
Trigger, perhaps, what Trigger would do, but he distrusted Trigger’s judgement. If he were sent back home, he had nowhere to go, and he’d have to leave Bones, as Army property, behind.

  No, writing to Tom using the Cross Post was too dangerous. Tom would make sure to get Stanley sent home. Stanley would have to find out where Tom’s unit was and then, only when he was face to face with Tom, would he explain.

  Etaples was more brutal than Chatham, more brutal than anything Stanley had ever known. Everything had to be done at the double, everyone shouted all the time. After just one week he was tense and tired, enervated by the constant noise and dust.

  He was lined up in alphabetical order in front of the Sergeant-Major for Pay Parade. It was tiresome being an ‘R’ because it could take an hour till the Sergeant-Major got to you.

  Stanley’s thoughts had turned to finding Tom, when Rigby, the ‘R’ in line before himself, whispered, ‘They say we’ve been lucky it’s been quiet so far but that it’s going to change. The quiet only means Ludendorff’s up to no good, he’s busy resupplying his troops . . . put six new divisions on the Amiens front.’

  Everyone knew that the German General, Ludendorff, was hauling his big guns up closer to the city of Amiens. Ludendorff had to take Amiens before he could strike at Paris. None of this really mattered to Stanley so he smiled back at Rigby. Tom mattered and Bones mattered, so he was only half listening, half thinking of what he’d buy with his pay. He and Trigger might go this afternoon to the YMCA hut and buy chocolate and tins of apricots, then run with their dogs to the farmhouse where they sold loaves of bread a yard long, all hot and soft and crusty.

  Stanley stepped up to the table, saluted and held out his left hand. Etaples was full of silly regulations – and it had to be your left hand to receive your pay.

  He and Trigger threaded their way to the YMCA between tents and vehicles and the crowds of villagers who came up on Sundays. Small French boys tugged at them, pestering, hawking dictionaries, spearmint and grapes. They circumnavigated a lorry, behind which knelt a priest in front of a packing case. Rows of men knelt on the ground between boxes of ammunition, which served as pews. They’d be about to go up to the Front. All men were offered Communion before going up the line.

  Stanley caught sight of the priest’s boots. Sticking out of the bottom of his surplice, they had shiny spurs on them. A horseman. A idea struck Stanley: he could ask the priest.

  Trigger was laughing. ‘Taking Communion’ll be enough to make them jumpy if they’re not already.’

  A priest would be discreet; Stanley would be safe with him. A soldier at the back of the congregation, seeing the boys hovering and thinking they wanted to worship, rose and handed Stanley an Order of Service. Father Bill Loveday, it said, was taking the Mass.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Stanley. ‘Don’t wait for me,’ he told Trigger. He’d wait till Communion was over, then he’d approach Bill Loveday of the shiny spurs. It was because he was both a churchman and a horseman that Stanley felt comfortable about asking him how to find Tom.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Trigger.

  Stanley knelt and waited.

  The following afternoon Stanley waited in the Bull Ring, as the exercise arena was known. There were anything up to five thousand men exercising in this vast ring at any time, so it could be a long wait till his unit was called to march out. Bones was too hot, his flanks heaving, his tongue lolling, his solid bulk tiring more easily than other dogs.

  Idly Stanley watched an infantry unit on bayonet drill. A straw-filled dummy in a Hun helmet, hung from a post. An officer was yelling ‘Kill the bastard!’ as the men ran at it with fixed bayonet. It made Stanley feel uncomfortable watching, and it made him wonder about Tom. Did Tom smile as he steadied his hand and prepared to fire? How many men had Tom killed? What did it feel like to kill a man?

  He’d heard nothing from the priest since their conversation. Father Bill had said to Stanley that he’d be going straight from that Communion up to the Front, but that when he came out again he’d make enquiries.

  Bones pricked his ears and picked up his pace as they neared the friendly crossed flags that announced Central Kennels, and made their way to the bomb pits. Bones knew it was feeding time but he didn’t worry himself, as Stanley did, about the ready availability of so much fresh horsemeat. Each day at feeding time he’d think of the Thornley horses and worry for them, wonder how they’d fared and whether Lord Chorley still thought it was a fine thing for a horse to go to war. Each day, too, it made Stanley glad that Da would never see the bomb pits.

  Two days later, Stanley and Trigger queued in the breakfast line-up. There’d still been nothing from Father Bill of the shiny spurs. Stanley reached the front of the queue and took a tin of tea from the first hut, from the second a lump of bread, dipped in bacon fat. He was glad of the bacon fat; the bread was softer after a dunking.

  ‘Come on, Bones,’ said Stanley, his mouth still full of bread. He’d seen the excited huddle of Royal Engineers round the Post Office.

  ‘Just walk on past. There’ll be no mail for us.’ It wasn’t that Stanley worried about Bones growling any more, it was just less painful if Stanley didn’t hope that someone might ever write to him. Having Bones was better probably than having parcels or people to write to. Stanley and Trigger always walked straight past the Post Office. It was an unspoken understanding between them.

  ‘Ryder! Ryder!’

  Stanley’s heart raced. Trigger’s head shot round, amusement and curiosity in his eyes. That shout had come from near the Post Office, from Rigby. Rigby would know if Stanley had a letter because they were alphabetically close. Stanley turned and dragged the confused Bones back to the mail orderly, his fists growing clammy and hot. Bones was hanging back, reproach in his eyes, disliking any variation to his routine.

  Stanley must look calm, mustn’t look alarmed. It wouldn’t be from Da or Tom, just from Father Bill, probably, writing to say where Tom was.

  ‘It won’t bite. It’s only a parcel,’ the mail orderly said, holding out a brown paper package. Stanley composed himself. A parcel. Not Father Bill then.

  He walked, puzzling, towards the kennels. The parcel was quite heavy and medium-sized. Stamped ‘APO S11’. That would be the Etaples Post Office stamp. ‘ON ACTIVE SERVICE’ was stamped across the top of the parcel, giving Stanley a little hug of pride, despite his anxiety. ‘PASSED BY 2959 CENSOR’ was stamped above that. There was something familiar about the writing but Stanley couldn’t identify what. A parcel, he thought, though, was a good sign. If it were bad news, it would be a letter not a parcel.

  Stanley began to run to Bones’s kennel. He sank down behind it. The dog settled himself on Stanley’s feet. Stanley tore open the parcel. Bones showed a playful interest in the shredded paper wrapper and a look of disdain for its contents. Five buns wrapped in brown paper. Beneath them, something else, heavier. A jar of honey. This small tenderness after so many lonely, brutal months left Stanley helpless. Only Stanley’s Biology teacher had searched for him – she’d found out where he was and she’d sent honey. Stanley’s thoughts, though, weren’t with Lara Bird: they were with Da. Why, when his own Da had done nothing?

  Bones looked with disdain at the honey, with interest at the buns, with concern at his master, all three emotions so clear in those expressive eyes.

  Miss Bird knew where Stanley was, and she wasn’t cross or she wouldn’t have sent the parcel. Had she told Da? There must be a letter in there too. Stanley scrabbled through the newspaper. There it was, at the bottom. And something else: a pack of cards. Those would be from Joe. Stanley looked at Bones, holding the paper up. In that folded paper lay their fate.

  ‘What do you say, Bones? Shall we open it?’ Bones hoped Stanley was talking about the buns and dipped his head a little closer towards them.

  Stanley’s shoulders fell with relief.

  Tom on leave next week? Stanley whipped the paper over to check the date. Written on the 17th – it was 20th today.
Tom might be at Thornley now – wouldn’t be back in France for at least two weeks. By then Stanley himself would be at the Front. It was all wrong, all topsy-turvy – Tom in England, Stanley in France. It would be Lara Bird who’d tell Tom where Stanley was, not himself. What would she say? What would Tom do? In turmoil, Stanley read on:

  Stanley’s fingers found his pocket and curled around the Bryant & May matchbox. He flipped the matchbox over and over as he revolved all the possible outcomes of what Lara Bird would tell Tom. Yes, he thought; yes, Tom will understand I couldn’t stay at home after what Da did. Stanley revolved the matchbox faster. Yes, Tom would see, Tom would understand.

  Stanley’s fingers slowed to a standstill. Live at Nethercott? Agitation about Tom’s reaction was replaced by anger. If Da wanted Stanley back, why hadn’t he done something? Why had it been left to his teacher to look for him? Stanley flipped the matchbox again, faster and faster. Da had never come to Chatham or Shoeburyness or Etaples; there’d been nothing, not a sound from him. Da had never come to find his son, so what was he planning on doing when he left Rocket with Lara Bird?

  It would be easy to creep home, to slip back into school life, to live at Nethercott. Stanley could get out of the Army because of his age – that was his trump card; but it wouldn’t help Bones. Bones was Army property and it would be a criminal offence to take him away. No, there could be no going back, whatever Tom or Lara Bird said.

  ‘Oh, Bones! What do I do?’ Stanley looked up towards the buzzing of the British planes dodging over the German lines. Breaths of fleecy smoke puffed up around the planes, clouds of white, green and yellow in the azure sky.

  Bones settled his wet snout on Stanley’s lap. It would be a relief to go back to school, to live at Nethercott. But Bones? No. Bones belonged to him and he belonged to Bones. Whatever they’d got themselves into, they were in it together.