Almost fifty hours after the attack in an area Bozdech had searched several times, two French mechanics were walking down the main runway assessing damage. On a mound of dirt they noted a thin, bleeding dog. As they grew closer they recognized the barely breathing German shepherd lying on its side as the Czech airman’s mascot. As the animal was rushed to the hospital, word was sent to find Bozdech. When man and dog were reunited at the infirmary Ant fought to rise but couldn’t. Nevertheless his tail managed a weak wag signaling that now things were going to be all right. A relieved and tearful Bozdech stayed by Ant’s side that night but the next morning went to where the dog had been found.
As he followed the blood trail, the man discovered that Ant had been so close to a bomb blast that he’d been covered by tons of concrete. Bozdech then discovered a small hole beside a large slab of concrete. He noted the desperate signs of claw marks on the cement and in the dirt. As he scooped up pieces of skin and fur it became obvious that Ant had been buried for two days in complete darkness. During that time the dog refused to give up, using all his energy to push aside huge rocks, lumber, and even concrete to reach the surface. As the man considered the ramifications of that monumental act, he realized his dog had accomplished what should not have been possible. In silent awe, Bozdech returned to the infirmary and hugged an animal that had proved again his passion for life. That will was made even more obvious when, within a few weeks, Ant was back on his feet, serving as the advanced warning system for bombers and waiting by the runway during missions for pilots to return.
The French were fighting a battle they could not win and in time the Germans pressed the existing government to seek peace. With the Nazis on the march, Bozdech and the Czechs were ordered to evacuate to England. This meant a dangerous trek across France before the flyers finally arrived in Gibraltar.
Though the French Air Force was now essentially out of business, the Czechs were given another option. The British needed aviators and wanted the experienced airmen in England. Bozdech and his friends were given priority passage on a ferry leaving Gibraltar. Yet there was a problem. Dogs were not allowed. With no way to smuggle his beloved Ant on board, Bozdech hatched a plan. He would stand on the deck of the ship and, when it set out to sea, he would simply call to his dog waiting on the shore. When the call was made the loyal shepherd easily swam the half mile of open water. Once onboard, Ant was hidden in the hold. This deception worked perfectly until the Nazis attacked. While the boat was sinking, Bozdech had to transfer to another vessel. The dog was spotted as the airmen snuck him aboard, but thankfully this ship’s crew was accommodating and looked the other way. In Liverpool was another even tougher obstacle. While England would allow Ant to enter, the dog would have to be quarantined for six months to assure he was not carrying any illness. On top of that, Bozdech would have to pay for boarding the dog during that time. With no money, the Czech refugee faced a dilemma with no solution. If he couldn’t come up with the money for care and boarding, Ant would be put down.
Refusing to give up on a dog that had saved their lives on several occasions, the Czech flyers put their heads together and hatched an escape plan. They would hide Ant with luggage that was about to be lifted via crane. They would then wait for the netted load to be lowered onto the dock and pretend to look for their trunks. When the customs officials turned their backs, they would grab Ant, encircle him, and hurry off. Against all odds the deception worked and Bozdech was able to once again be reunited with the now fully grown canine.
While the RAF did allow the Czech’s canine mascot to stay on the base, the canine’s insect-like name proved troublesome. The Brits continually confused it with aunt. Thus, Bozdech opted to rechristen the dog Antis. It would be while using that name that the German shepherd grew into a symbol of loyalty and courage that would inspire first an air unit and then a nation.
The Czech refugee was proud of his new uniform and enjoyed being in Liverpool but was eager to get back in the air to fight an enemy that had taken both his country and the lives of many of his friends. Yet for the first few months in England Bozdech remained grounded and assigned to desk duties. Working in the day allowed the refugee flyer to get to know the city in the evening. He and Antis spent hours exploring the port and meeting its people. In the midst of a horrific war it was a carefree time filled with good food and company. One night, when the grounded flyer was escorting his dog and a date around Liverpool, Antis grew strangely still. When the hair on the dog’s back rose up and he turned toward Europe, Bozdech knew what was about to happen. Even though there were no air raid sirens, he hustled his date to safety just before the German bombers arrived. With only Antis’s warning, destruction rained from the skies destroying the buildings all around where Bozdech hid.
After the bombing ended, Bozdech made sure his date had a safe ride home and then went to work in the rescue process. He followed behind as Antis sniffed out trapped victims and, perhaps remembering when he had been buried after a bombing, began to dig through the rubble to free them. Over the course of the next few hours the man and the German shepherd found and rescued six victims including a small child. A dog that was supposed to be in quarantine had saved six lives in his adopted country. Exhausted, his paws bleeding from frantically digging through concrete, dirt, and rock, Antis had to be carried to a local vet where his injured feet were treated. By any name, this dog was special.
When Bozdech was finally cleared for air duty he transferred to the 311 Squadron in Suffolk. As had been the case in France, Antis would march out to the runway, watch the plane carrying his master take off, and then, while neither eating nor drinking, would wait for Bozdech to come back home. When the man and his crew climbed out of their Wellington bomber, Antis would then march out to greet them and offer his paw to each man as if congratulating them on a job well done.
Though 1940 had given way to 1941, the Americans had yet to enter the war and bomber runs over Germany were so dangerous that few who went on these missions lived to make more than a dozen raids. As Bozdech’s mission count climbed and his skills as a gunner were revealed, he was transferred to East Wretham in Norfolk. There he was assigned to a Wellington Bomber code-named C for Cecilia. In June, on one of the first missions, as Antis stood on the runway and watched his master fly toward Germany, the dog seemed strangely despondent. In the early morning hours Antis, who had always remained mute during his waits, began to howl and cry. No one could calm him down. Hours later, as dawn broke and the planes came back to base, Antis’s demeanor did not improve. The Cecilia was not on the horizon.
Initial reports coming in from the other flyers indicated that C for Cecilia had gone down on the run. The time the plane had been hit matched the moment Antis had begun to howl. So how had the dog known and how could they get the large German shepherd to give up his runway watch?
While generally accurate, as it was true C for Cecilia had been hit and badly damaged, the eyewitness accounts were wrong in one very important matter. The plane had not crashed but was slowly limping toward home. As the pilot struggled to keep the bomber airborne, Bozdech was leaning over his guns, blood dripping from a deep head wound. Growing weaker by the moment, thoughts of his dog kept him focused.
Somehow, through more will than mechanics, C for Cecilia limped across the English Channel and made it back to England. After withstanding a crash landing, Bozdech was rushed to a hospital where surgeons dug into his skull and saved his life. Twelve hours later, as news filtered back to the base that the crew was all right and the plane would be trucked back for repairs, a collective sigh of relief could be heard. But while the airmen and crews of the 311 celebrated, there was no way to explain to Antis that his master would in time be coming home. Heartbroken, the animal refused to eat or leave his place beside the runway. As a cold rain fell, a soaking-wet Antis stood and looked toward the sky.
Because it would be days before Bozdech would be released from the hospital, the 311 Squadron naturally was deeply worried about its
mascot. Though the war was still raging and nightly raids were still being made, the flying band of brothers convinced the base chaplain to drive to the hospital where Bozdech was being treated. A few hours later, the uniformed clergyman returned with the injured flyer. It took Antis a few moments to understand that the heavily bandaged man limping toward him was indeed his master, but when recognition hit, the dog went crazy. After a wild dance of joy, Antis finally accepted a meal from Bozdech’s hands. It was the first time he’d eaten for days. Though it was easy to see the dog was now satisfied that things were all right, no one could have guessed the German shepherd had already devised a plan to make sure he and Bozdech would never again be separated.
By the end of June, Bozdech was well enough to fly. This time he and the crew of his Wellington would be joined by more than a thousand other RAF planes on a midnight raid over northwest Germany. As he marched from the hangar, the gunner looked for his dog. Antis was nowhere to be found. Worried, Bozdech asked the ground crew to search for the German shepherd. Word spread and the base was turned upside down but Antis was AWOL. As C for Cecilia lifted off, Bozdech was a mental wreck. He was convinced his beloved pet had somehow been killed.
An hour later, as the Wellington flew over Europe, Bozdech took his position and checked his guns. As he undertook what had become a routine mental checklist, someone nudged his arm. He looked down at his feet and spotted his German shepherd. Somehow, at a heavily secured airbase, Antis had climbed into the plane and hidden in the gun turret where her master worked. Initially shocked to the point of experiencing a brain freeze, Bozdech suddenly realized they were flying at sixteen thousand feet and the heavily panting Antis needed oxygen. Unstrapping his own mask, the gunner pushed it over the dog’s nose. They would share the oxygen for the rest of the mission.
That night C for Cecilia successfully deposited its bombs onto an oil refinery literally blowing the facility apart. As the Wellington Bomber turned to head home the plane was met with antiaircraft flack from the ground and Nazi fighters in the air. Everything that was fired at the bomber miraculously missed. When C for Cecilia returned to East Wretham in perfect condition, Bozdech readied himself for a dressing down. He reasoned no one was going to believe he had nothing to do with Antis accompanying him on the mission. As the gunner waited to be lectured, his British commander studied the Cecilia and then eyed the dog before turning his back and walking off. When a confused Bozdech caught up and tried to explain what had happened, the officer mumbled something about not seeing a dog but the next time C for Cecilia took off that dog he didn’t see better be equipped with its own oxygen mask.
Over the next year Antis became both a hero and a British national treasure. The dog was featured in newspaper stories and in newsreels. With each new mission to Germany, he inspired a beleaguered English nation to continue to fight. But though he was glorified in the media, Antis was anything but an active participant in the raids. He simply climbed on board, had his oxygen mask placed on him, settled in under Bozdech’s feet, and went to sleep. Even as bullets ripped through the Wellington’s skin, he never moved. When the night lit up with fire and the concussion from exploding bombs rocked the airplane, Antis continued to snooze. Bozdech and the crew would often point to the dog’s calm assuredness as a factor in their success. It was hard to panic when Antis was so confident in the men’s ability to accomplish their mission and bring the ship home.
At the conclusion of a particularly hard battle with German fighters, on a night when C for Cecilia’s fuselage absorbed thousands of rounds, the true cost of war was revealed. Though he’d never as much as whimpered during the long raid, Antis had been struck several times by shrapnel. A bit of minor surgery was all that was needed and the dog was back in the plane for the next mission. Three flights later the dog was hit again, and this time the injuries were much more serious. The head wound left one of his ears bent, thus giving the dog the look of an unsuccessful pugilist. Though they always sent men with this type of injury back into the air, those in charge of the 311 Squadron decided to ground the dog. He was simply too valuable a symbol to the squad and the British people to be lost.
Bozdech now had a real problem. Antis panicked whenever C for Cecilia took off without him. Thus, the flyer was going to have to provide the canine with a new mission. After discovering a four-year-old girl named Jennifer, whose father had been killed during the early days of the war, Bozdech introduced his dog to the child. The sad little girl and the injured dog immediately bonded. From that point forward Bozdech took Antis to Jennifer before he left on a mission. It was an arrangement that helped a grieving child and took away a dog’s worries.
When the US finally entered the war, Bozdech and his crew were given a US-made Liberator bomber. With four huge engines and incredible firepower, they were assigned to seek out Nazi U-boats and sink them. Due to his new mission, the Czech refugee spent the remainder of World War II cruising over the North Sea and the Atlantic Ocean looking for what flyers called fish.
As was his nature, Antis, even when he was with Jennifer, found ways to amuse himself. The German shepherd snuck out to chase sheep, pulled wet garments from clotheslines, and even riled up a local constable. Yet each time he got into trouble, his amazing military record and his unique skill of sensing air raids came back to save him.
It wasn’t until the war ended that Antis finally got the chance to fly again. This time he climbed into a Liberator bomber with Bozdech on a flight to Czechoslovakia. Not surprisingly, the Czechs who flew for the RAF and their mascot were greeted as heroes.
Experiencing peace for the first time in years, Bozdech settled back into civilian life. The young man fell in love, married, and became a father. For almost three years he lived a charmed life with Antis always by his side. Then, when the USSR took over his homeland in 1948, the invaders began to arrest and imprison all Czechs who had been a part of the British Armed Forces during World War II. Just like a decade before, Bozdech was forced to gather a few comrades, pack what he could carry on his back, and, this time with Antis leading the way, leave his home and family under the cover of darkness. On foot the small band made its way toward West Germany. At least a half dozen times they would have been discovered and arrested if the dog had not alerted them to nearby Russian forces. Simply by trusting Antis’s special radar they managed to escape, but sadly that meant that Bozdech and his dog were once again refugees.
The Czech and his German shepherd immigrated to England. Sadly, due to the nature of the Cold War and his desire to protect them from possible imprisonment, Bozdech never again saw his family. A year after they settled into their new home, Antis was awarded the nation’s highest canine honor: the Dickin Medal. With proper British ceremony, a military officer cited Antis for exceptional bravery, loyalty, and sacrifice. As a newspaper reporter who covered the event noted, Antis was a dog that could fly.
In 1953, more than thirteen years after he was rescued from a crumbling house between German and French lines, Antis died. Though he would live another thirty-three years, Robert Bozdech would never again own a dog, proving that loyalty works both ways, and each time he looked to the sky he would think of the dog that loved to fly.
EIGHT
BOND
The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other’s life.
—Richard Bach
In the history of literature no sailor is likely as famous as Sinbad. This fictional Middle Eastern oceanic adventurer has been thrilling audiences for six centuries. In absorbing and fanciful tales he took on monsters of the deep and superhuman villains from the land. He was a source of inspiration for those who had no hope and one of the greatest reservoirs of joy for readers who longed for excitement. He became such a legend that movies presented his exploits and even a cartoon character sang a song about Sinbad the Sailor. Yet when these tales were created and first published, it is highly unlikely that anyone foresaw a dog that for a while would become as famous
as his Arabian namesake.
In the cold winter of 1937, the US Coast Guard Cutter Campbell was docked in New York City. Chief Boatswain’s Mate “Blackie” Rother was visiting a close friend when he happened upon a small brown, black, and white dog of dubious lineage. After discovering the mutt had no home, he cleaned the canine up and headed to his girlfriend’s apartment. What the well-meaning but ignorant Rother didn’t know would quickly come back to bite him as well as change the course of Coast Guard history. It seemed the apartment house the woman called home did not allow pets. So rather than greet the barking, wiggling bundle of fur with enthusiasm, the girlfriend frowned and ordered the gift returned to the crowded, hostile city streets. Most men of that time would have likely dropped the mutt in the nearest alley, and, after perhaps giving the creature a friendly pat on the head, waltzed off into the night. But Rother was not most men. In just two hours he had grown to genuinely love the critter. He was not going to leave the Big Apple without securing a home for the canine waif. Yet with his leave running out he had little time to make his pitch and those friends he did track down refused to adopt the twenty pounds of happiness.
The Campbell was leaving in hours for duty at sea and, having no place to put the unwanted gift, Rother hid the dog in his duffle bag, snuck past those on watch, and quickly made his way to the ship’s main berth deck. There he pulled the critter out and showed the homeless mutt to the other sailors. The dog possessed a personality three times the size of his body. In the span of ten minutes, with his bright eyes, wagging tail, intelligence, and seemingly thoughtful expression, he’d charmed all of those present. Ah, but a ship was not a democracy. Just because the sailors sleeping in the main berth deck wanted to keep the dog, there was still the question of whether the captain would allow him to stay onboard. Rather than risk an order to take the dog back to shore, the men convinced Rother to keep the mongrel hidden until the Campbell was well out to sea. With that plan in place the crew smuggled some food from the mess, and as the dog ate the men discussed names. A dozen were tossed out, but it was Sinbad that stuck.
In the Line of Fire Page 10