In the Line of Fire

by Collins, Ace;

  That first battle, though not large in scope or staggering in losses, dramatically changed the 11th. The men had now witnessed death and had a part in taking lives. Watching a friend die and seeing others maimed had not just tested their character, it had altered their sense of reality. Though many were in their teens, they were now fully aware that death could come at any moment and that tomorrow was no longer guaranteed. Suddenly the glamor of war had been replaced with a grim sense of horror. On that July night, as they tried to find sleep, fear hung over their tents like a storm they couldn’t escape.

  Sallie made the rounds as usual. She went from tent to tent and silently offered her head for patting. She allowed troubled men to pick her up and hold her tightly in their arms. The terrier also solemnly studied the bed of the man who would not be coming back. Like the soldiers, on that night she slept fitfully. The next morning she was up before the signal for roll call and waited patiently for those soldiers who were healthy to join her. For the rest of her days in service Sallie would continue this routine of being the last to go to sleep at night and the first up each morning.

  A bit more than a month later the 11th was sent back to the front lines. At the Battle of Cedar Mountain in Virginia, in the heat of August, the soldiers from Pennsylvania joined the Army of the Potomac to once more take on the Rebs. As man after man dropped, as cannonballs dug up huge mounds of dirt, and as rifles filled the air with lead, the terrier remained with the color guard. Then after the fighting ended, she made her way to the horrible and blood-soaked battlefield to inspect the bodies of the more than three hundred Union soldiers whose lives ended on that summer day. Well into the night she helped the death detail locate bodies hidden under brush and dirt. When those sober duties were completed, the dog made her way to the hospital staging area where she visited some of the fifteen hundred who had been wounded.

  As the true horror of war sunk in, men wrote to their families about what they had witnessed. In many cases the most touching lines in those letters described the dog that seemed to understand and mourn for each man who had died at Cedar Mountain. The anxious and solemn soldiers also shared that when the dead had been buried and the wounded tended to, Sallie walked over to a hill, faced the direction of the Confederate lines, and mournfully cried. With that simple act she mirrored the thoughts and emotions of an entire nation that had come to realize that war was much more hell than glory.

  The dog’s unique reaction to war and adherence to duty continued at Thoroughfare Gap, Bull Run, Antietam, Fredericksburg, and Chancellorsville. Sallie courageously stood her ground during these battles and then served as a grief counselor when the hostilities ended. While the terrier’s courage never wavered, her personality changed. The days of play had been replaced by a deep sense of loyalty and resolve. She seemed determined to greet each of the 11th’s men every morning and stay as close as possible to them at night. She somehow understood they needed this bond.

  With time, Sallie taught herself how to recognize the sounds of the enemy approaching and alert the men around her. She also began to somehow sense where cannonballs would be landing and with her frantic barks urged soldiers to roll away from that spot. These unique abilities seemingly gave Sallie a sense of invincibility. Thousands of bullets had struck within inches of her during the battles and she had not even been grazed. Thus, just before the start of hostilities, many in the 11th began to rub the terrier’s head in an effort to “steal” some of her ability to dodge lethal fire.

  Sallie soon became well known by those serving in the other units making up the Army of the Potomac and during lulls in the war men would walk miles just to meet the dog and share a treat. Once, a tall civilian in a dark suit visited the 11th. Upon seeing the dog, President Abraham Lincoln’s sad eyes lit up. With hundreds of weary soldiers looking on, the nation’s leader tipped his stovepipe hat in a solemn salute to the thirty-pound canine. Sallie seemed to understand the honor being bestowed as she rose up and held what appeared to be a salute.

  By July 1863, the course of the war and the future of the Union was still very much in doubt and after two years of slogging through mud and snow, surviving heat and cold and dealing with unimaginable death and destruction, both sides were preparing for what would become the most monumental battle of the war. Back on home ground in Pennsylvania, the 11th readied for action at a spot just outside of Gettysburg. Their forces, lead by General George G. Meade, would take on the South’s greatest military tactician, Robert E. Lee. One in four men who fought in this three-day battle would be seriously wounded or die. Those fortunate to survive Gettysburg would carry both mental and physical scars for the remainder of their lives.

  Things did not start out well for the boys in blue. Soon after engaging the enemy, the 11th was overwhelmed and had to quickly retreat, leaving behind scores of dead. In an act that fully displayed Sallie’s character and loyalty, she did not follow the flag corps to safety; instead she stayed with those who had fallen. As the enemy rushed past, the terrier went from one soldier to another. If she couldn’t rouse them she moved on, but if she observed movement or heard a cry, she placed her head on the soldier’s side and remained with that man until he died. For three long days, during which she neither ate nor drank, Sallie did not leave her post. She was still there with the Union dead when the Confederate forces retreated and the piece of ground once more became a part of the Union territory.

  When the gunfire was finally miles away, a medical team arrived at the location where so many of the 11th had fought to the death. On what is now considered hallowed ground they found the dog. A burial detail later swore the dog was actually overcome with grief. As Sallie moved quietly from one body to another, it was like seeing a wife or mother attempt to deal with the loss of a loved one. Overwhelmed by what they observed, many of the hardened soldiers stood mute and cried.

  Upon discovering Sallie was considered a member of the 11th, the officer in charge of the 12th Pennsylvania Regiment assigned a man to return the dog to the proper unit. On July 4, when that soldier tracked down the 11th, he discovered weary, beaten men whose faces reflected the sadness that had enveloped the entire nation. But when the exhausted soldiers spotted their mascot, they rose off the ground as one and rushed to meet the terrier. For three long days they thought she’d been killed. During that time they’d seen countless friends die as well. But on the day when a nation paused to celebrate its independence at least one prayer had been granted; Sallie was still with them. It was a moment that brought hope to men who had become completely hopeless.

  For ten more months the 11th and Sallie soldiered on. On May 10, 1864, the regiment was back in Virginia engaged in a long and bloody battle at Spotsylvania. With Ulysses S. Grant now in charge of the Union Army, the North had the South on its heels. For those wearing gray, men and resources were running low and so was morale. Still against overwhelming odds, Robert E. Lee attempted to rally his men to fight on. Outnumbered two-to-one, the Confederate soldiers battled hard at Spotsylvania, but it was for naught as the Army of the Potomac continued to drive the Rebels south.

  As always, Sallie was with the flag corps. With her eyes turned toward the battle, soldiers in both blue and gray marveled at the canine’s raw courage. Nothing—not noise, smoke, nor lead—rattled her. She was seemingly invincible. Then, in a moment that caused a shock wave across the Union lines, a bullet did what the men of the 11th believed was impossible; it pierced the dog’s neck. As blood stained her coat, the stubborn terrier continued to hold her position. Only during a lull in the fighting did she allow a medic to treat the wound. By then she was almost too weak to stand.

  For the next few days the soldiers who served with the dog watched and waited to see if their mascot and morale officer would be able to beat the odds and survive. During those long days they fed her the best from their rations and took turns sitting by her bed. They also prayed over the dog and encouraged her with gentle pats and kind words. And somehow, by the time Grant drove Lee out of Spo
tsylvania on May 20, Sallie was up and ready to march with her fellow soldiers in pursuit of the Rebs.

  Sallie and the 11th next met the enemy in North Anna and then in Cold Harbor. Week by week and month by month they pushed forward against the tattered remains of the Southern Army. Then in the dark, gray days of winter, the war-weary men from Pennsylvania faced a badly outnumbered group of Southerners at Hatcher’s Run, Virginia. On February 6, Sallie moved forward as the first line of Union troops advanced on Confederate positions. The fighting was fierce and close with men involved in hand-to-hand combat. It was a soldier’s worst nightmare come to life. Over the sounds of battle one could hear the screams of the dying and within an hour the ground was littered with the dead and wounded from both sides. As a second wave of Union soldiers rushed in to reinforce the 11th, a soldier stumbled across Sallie. Her eyes were open but unseeing. The terrier had died instantly and alone. She had one wound to her head.

  In the midst of what was described as a solid wall of lead, word was passed that the 11th’s mascot had been killed. Even in the heat of the battle, as they fought in a life-and-death struggle to survive, grown men cried. A few became so possessed by grief they even tossed down their weapons and retrieved shovels from their packs. Oblivious to the bullets hitting on all sides, those determined soldiers rose to their knees and began to dig a hole in the middle of the battlefield. Miraculously, in the minutes it took to create that small grave no one was hit. After the work was completed, one soldier crawled to the spot where Sallie had fallen, gently picked up her lifeless body, and brought it back to the freshly dug hole. With the battle raging, this volunteer burial team said a prayer, lowered Sallie into the ground, and covered her body with dirt. Then a bugler, one of those she had stood beside for years, rose and courageously played “Taps.” After placing a cross and a small flag on the grave, the men went back to the fight, but as many would later tell their families, their tears clouded their eyes for hours and when they looked toward the flag corps they openly wept.

  In less than two months from the moment Sallie was killed in the line of duty the war ended and the Union had been saved. Of the 1,890 men who signed up to serve in the 11th Pennsylvania, only 340 marched home. Few of them would ever speak of the horrors they witnessed on the battlefields, but almost all of them would continue to share Sallie’s story.

  In 1890, on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the end of the Civil War, many of the surviving members of the 11th dedicated a monument at Gettysburg. This granite marker looked a bit different than all the others lining that sacred piece of American landscape. On the top was a statue of a Union soldier representing all who fought for the regiment but at the base was the bronze likeness of a bull terrier whose courage, love, and loyalty inspired the men every step of the way. Though never officially a member of the military, Sallie Ann Jarrett surely earned the title of America’s first canine war hero and thus built the foundation and set the benchmark for all those dogs that would follow.

  TWO

  NO LIMITS

  The limits of the possible can only be defined by going beyond them into the impossible.

  —Arthur C. Clarke

  Often history is shaped and defined by seemingly mundane or insignificant events. The unlikely heroes that emerge during these make-or-break moments can provide inspiration for decades. Many even become the stuff of legends. Over a century ago the exploits of a dog named after the devil likely saved not just thousands of lives, but perhaps the fate of an entire nation. It was in the midst of the worst battle of World War I that Satan flew as if on wings of angels straight into the hearts of men and women all over France. Interestingly, it was human failing that set the table for this incredible story.

  In 1914, a series of circumstances came together to soak European soil in blood. The foundation for the Great War, as it was called then, began with a massive arms race between the world’s greatest powers, with the weapons being developed and manufactured in the early twentieth century being far more lethal than any the world had yet known. Across Europe the last vestiges of monarchies trying to hold on to power were coveting tanks, airplanes, powerful artillery guns, and poison gasses. The leaders from democracies joined this frenzied sprint for power by rationalizing that these new technologies offered the best chance to maintain peace. If the arms race had been the only issue facing the Western world, coolheaded diplomats might have been able to avoid war. But there was something else at work that made conflict all but inevitable.

  At the heart of the mistrust gripping Europe was nationalism. Ethnic loyalties heightened suspicions between neighbors, fueled angry and volatile newspaper editorials, and resulted in oppressive legislation. Nationalism also drove countries to form alliances guaranteeing if one nation went to war then all the treaty signers would go to war as well. Thus, it only took one seemingly minor action to trigger a war such as the world had never seen. Strangely, that trigger would literally be pulled far from where the major battles were fought. In fact, almost all those who would give their lives in this worldwide conflict had never heard the name Ferdinand until June 28, 1914.

  For more than a decade there had been a series of riots and assassinations in the Balkans. On a warm Thursday afternoon, Archduke Franz Ferdinand visited Sarajevo, Bosnia, where Serbian revolutionaries, driven by ethnic pride, made an attempt on the archduke’s life. It failed and most of those responsible were arrested, but the few who escaped did not give up. After the archduke visited those who had been wounded in the initial attack, a remaining conspirator, Gavrilo Princip, struck again and this time the assassination was successful. And because of the many confusing and convoluted alliances the death of a seemingly insignificant and almost unknown leader shook a continent’s foundations.

  In the unsettling weeks that followed, diplomats shuttled between European capitals trying to head off a full-scale war. However, by late summer their efforts—thanks to suspicions, jealousy, and nationalism—were doomed. By August a conflict broke out that would eventually take the lives of ten million men. In this new technologically fueled war all rules were tossed off the table, and in a strange time when horses and tanks were used side by side, the past and present collided and men died in ways that would have been unimaginable just a decade before.

  Though almost every nation in Europe would quickly become involved, a large portion of the war played out on a stage between Germany and France where men in foxholes lived and died in the mud. It would be an almost yearlong battle around the French city of Verdun that would eventually determine the outcome of what we now know as World War I and the hero that turned the tide of history was not a general but a black dog.

  The demonic nature and cruelty shown during the battle for Verdun caused the press to refer to the conflict as the Devil’s War. The men who fought in those trenches christened the battle “the Furnace.” It was their polite way of calling the battlefields around the small French town “hell on earth.”

  By the time Verdun became the staging point for the key battle in the “War to End All Wars,” it was more than a thousand years old. Throughout history this small town had hosted battles and seen its share of death, but never anything like what was recorded in 1916. The kaiser and his army felt that if they could inflict enough suffering at Verdun then the French would capitulate. Thanks to this philosophy the sun was always obscured by smoke, poison gases floated through the air like a London fog, and death became so common that it had no sting.

  Before World War I began, dogs were used by the military only as mascots. Yet during this war both sides trained thousands of canines for a wide variety of duties. The French even set up schools to educate their army of dogs. The animals in these training centers were products of almost every large and medium-sized breed and were instructed based on their intelligence and athleticism. Depending upon their assigned duties the four-footed soldiers spent four to eight weeks in school. A majority of the graduates became guard or enclosure dogs. They were essentially sentries that
warned of approaching intruders.

  The French also sent a small number of dogs through detective school. These canines were used for tracking down spies and deserters as well as locating injured men on the battlefield.

  Because of a shortage of horses and mules as well as trucks, the largest canines were assigned to pull carts containing needed equipment, food, and medical supplies.

  An elite group of dog school graduates was given the most dangerous duty: liaison or carrier dogs. They were expected to transport messages when all other forms of communication were down. In their assignments they would have to race through poison gas, gunfire, and minefields. As the Germans could readily see the metal message tubes on the dogs’ collars, they were also prime targets. Thus, hundreds were killed before completing their first mission.

  Two years into the war, an animal trainer named Duval was assigned to the war school at Satory, France. His task was to prepare an Irish setter named Rip and a friendly collie-greyhound mix ironically christened Satan. This unique duo was destined to serve as carrier dogs.

  During World War I, basic training for dogs was even more demanding than it was for men. Over the course of eight weeks Duval put the animals through their paces. He began with general obedience work and then progressed to creating a strong personal bond with the animals. As he would be going to battle with the animals they had to be able to respond to his voice and follow his commands no matter what was going on around them. So maintaining a singular focus was essential.

  After undying loyalty was established, the classroom shifted to real battle situations where live ammunition and the sounds of bombs filled the air. Once the dogs passed this portion of the course work, Duval devised a training method meant to enhance Rip and Satan’s ability to dodge enemy snipers. Rather than have them run straight to him, Duval taught them to race in a zigzag pattern. When a bullet struck near the dog, the trainer ordered them to change direction. Once the two canines had mastered this method of avoiding fire, Duval placed them into a field with foxholes, artillery craters, smoke, and even poison gas. There they learned to climb and jump through and over trenches, note and run from gas, and even hide from gunfire until things cooled down. Trying to foresee every possible battle situation and re-create it, the trainer put the pair through their paces both day and night. Nothing stopped their education. They even worked in rainstorms and snow.