by Alison Hart
“Robert?” Katherine whispered. I turned around quickly. She had followed us down the hall so silently that I hadn’t sensed she was there. “What’s wrong?”
“Darling is going to war.” Robert’s choked out.
Katherine’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”
“Father has told the recruitment officer to pick her up. She’ll be trained as a messenger dog or sentry. She’ll be shipped off to France, just like Father.”
Katherine’s eyes filled with tears. “I thought that was what you wanted.” She kneeled beside me and buried her face in my fur. “You said you wanted her to be a soldier and go to the Front.”
“That was pretend.” Robert leaned down to pet me. “If Darling leaves, I’m afraid she’ll never come back.”
“Then we’ll help her run away.” Katherine began to unknot the rope from my collar. “She’ll live in the chalk mine with Rags. He’ll know how to hide her from the recruitment officer. We’ll bring them bread and bones when we can.”
Robert took her hand off the rope. “No. I wouldn’t want Darling to end up in the Battersea Dogs Home. I suppose Father is right. This is best. Darling hates being penned in the yard and locked in the cellar. She’s smart and fast. The poster at the post office shows a war dog. That could be Darling.”
“Is that what you want, girl?” Katherine held my face between her fingers and I licked her chin. “Do you want to serve with Father’s regiment and save his life?”
Robert nodded. “Yes, she does. She’ll protect Father from the Germans, and both will come home heroes.”
“I thought I told you children to lock Darling in the cellar,” Mum said as she strode down the hall, Baby tucked under one arm like a package. I wagged my tail but she didn’t even glance at me as she went into the kitchen.
“We can’t now,” Robert said, following her. “Darling needs to get ready to go to war.”
“What nonsense are you nattering on about?” Mum plopped Baby in his high chair and handed him his bowl of gruel. He promptly threw his spoon to the floor. I got two or three licks off it before Katherine scooped it up. “Be good now,” she warned me in a low voice. “So Mum will forget about locking you in the cellar.”
“Two letters came from Father.” Robert thrust them at Mum. “One was addressed to me.”
Mother’s face paled and she slumped onto the nearest chair. “Is…is he all right?” she stammered.
“He’s fine,” Robert said as she took the letters.
Carefully she tore open the one addressed to her. She read it to herself, her face turning pink again. Then she read the one addressed to Robert. Katherine and Robert stood quietly, watching her. Baby flailed his arms and dumped over his gruel. When no one paid any mind, I licked up the drips running down the legs of the high chair.
Finally Mum’s shoulders relaxed and she smiled. “Yes, he is fine. He made the crossing over the Channel and is stationed in France. He mustn’t say where he is in case the Germans get ahold of his letter.” She held out her arms. “He also sends this hug.”
Katherine and Robert fell onto her lap. Barking, I wiggled between them.
“Did you read the part about Darling?” Robert asked.
Mum nodded. “It is sad, but it’s for the best. Everyone has to sacrifice in wartime—even dogs and children.” Mum patted my head, and I poked my muzzle into her lap, glad that she’d forgiven me. But then Katherine began to cry. I snuffled her cheek, wondering what was wrong.
“I’m sorry, dear, but the war has changed everything. So it is for the best,” Mum repeated quietly.
And this time I heard the sadness in her words.
CHAPTER 4
The Final Stop?
March 1917
Whoo-whoooo! A whistle sounded and I toppled sideways, hitting the wall of my wooden crate as the train slowed. Scree-ee-eech! This time I wasn’t on the platform saying goodbye. Instead I was inside a rattling, swaying railcar.
I righted myself, circled, and lay down, trying to get comfortable in the musty straw. Above, beside, and below me, more dogs in crates barked. I heard the deep woofs of large mastiffs, the shrill yaps of small terriers.
The brakes made a loud hiss, and the train drew to a stop. The barking became more frantic, as if the dogs were begging to be set free. The train had stopped many times before, and no one had freed us, so I tried not to get my hopes up.
Voices came from outside, and the whines and barks rose into a chorus. Is this home? they asked. Are we finally home?
I closed my eyes. I was hungry, tired, and cramped. A low whine escaped from deep in my own throat. Where we were going, I had no idea. But I had sensed from Katherine’s fierce hug and Robert’s teary farewell that this train was not taking me home.
“Shoeburyness!” The cry woke me from a restless sleep.
I knew what shoes were—they tasted delicious—and of course I understood the word “bury.” Was this our final stop? My stomach growled. I was so thirsty that my tongue was dry. No one had fed or watered us in what seemed like forever. I couldn’t tell how long we’d been locked inside the noisy railcar.
“All passengers for Shoeburyness!”
The train eased to a stop, and I heard clanking and scraping noises. Suddenly the heavy door slid open. Sunlight poured in, making me blink. A chorus of barks rang out around me. Let me out! Let me out! I’m hungry. I’m thirsty. I’m tired.
I stayed silent.
“Settle down, you mongrels.” The voice did not sound angry. “Your ’andlers’ll be ’ere in a spit to get you out.”
I tried to see through the air holes in my crate. A group of men stood in the doorway of the freight car. They were dressed in uniforms like Father. Each held a leather leash in his hand.
“A good lot,” one said heartily. “At least two dozen. The War Office message in the newspapers must have stirred folks into donating their dogs.”
A second man chuckled. “That and the increase in the dog tax. Only wealthy gents and ladies can afford their lurchers and lap dogs.”
“Let’s get these unloaded, men!” someone called out.
Paws drummed above me as the dogs realized they were being released. Others dug wildly at the wooden doors. I crouched against the back of the crate and hid my muzzle in the corner. These men weren’t Katherine and Robert. And this place smelled of fish, not of sheep. Oh, how I wished I was home.
I heard dog after dog leap from the railcar. Finally the din receded. “I think there’s one dog left.” A man peered into my cage.
“Must be hiding, Sergeant,” a second man said. “Or sick. Hasn’t made a peep.”
The latch ratcheted back and the door opened. “Aye, beauty, are you homesick? I’m Sergeant Hanson.”
The other man laughed. “You’ll be shaking ’ands with ’im next.”
“Perhaps I will, Private Kent.” Sergeant Hanson held his hand under my nose. “You’ve got to be hungry.”
A small bit of dried beef was in his palm. I hadn’t had a meat scrap since long ago. Still wary of him, I took it carefully.
“Dainty one, aren’t you?” He smiled. “Must be a lady among all these gents.” His fingers found my collar and hooked a leash to the ring. “Look, there’s a note attached. Come on, girl. I know you’ve got to relieve yourself.”
Slowly I crawled from the crate and jumped to the wooden platform. I was stiff, but I strained at the leash when I saw a grassy plot outside. I did my business, ducking behind a gaslight pole for privacy.
The Sergeant led me to a bucket of water. While I drank, he read the note aloud. 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 runs away sometimes. Yours truly, Robert and Katherine.
“Darling?” Private Kent snorted. “That name’ll send fear straight as an arrow into those black German hearts.” He held the leash of a large white and tan hound with floppy ears. Raising his head, the hound bayed, then leaped and tugged
at the leash. Most of the other dogs and handlers were off in the distance, walking down the lane.
“Hello then, Darling.” Sergeant Hanson folded up the letter and slid it into his pocket. “You remind me of my own dog when I was a boy.” He stroked my head. “We were sheep farmers outside of Surrey. Come, lass. Let’s see how well you know commands.” He started walking and said, “Heel!”
I knew the command well. I fell into step beside Sergeant Hanson’s side, eyes keen. The four of us set off down the lane. The hound circled Private Kent, tangling the leash in his legs. As we left the station, I checked the railway tracks that wound through a marshy field. That was the pathway to home.
After a good meal I would be off, trotting the rails back to Cosham. The train ride had seemed endless, but my legs could carry me for hours.
We followed the lane past a row of small shops. One smelled like the Cosham bakery and my stomach growled again. As we left the village, the ground under my paws became sandy and the smell of fish grew stronger. Birds swooped overhead. Larger than pigeons, they were white and gray with orange bills. They eyed me as if unafraid.
It was then I saw the water, which stretched as far as I could see. Its vastness reminded me of Portsdown Hill, except it was gray, and there were no sheep. I stopped, my nose high, drawing in the chilly, briny air.
“That’s the North Sea you smell,” the sergeant said to me. “Up ahead the River Thames flows into it. The training school isn’t far.”
“Maybe a map would ’elp ’er figger out where she is,” Private Kent called over his shoulder as the hound dragged him past us.
“It might be you who’ll need the map when your charge pulls you clear to London,” Sergeant Hanson replied with a laugh.
We continued on, the ground growing mucky and slick in places. A large building surrounded by walls stood on a hill in the distance. I heard barking and howling coming from the other side. I pricked my ears. Was this another railcar taking me even further? Or a place for naughty dogs who chased sheep?
We rounded the wall. The hound ahead of me suddenly stopped and growled ferociously, then lunged backward, yanking Private Kent off his feet. “Whoa, you beast!” he ordered as he struggled to regain his footing in the mud.
Sergeant Hanson chuckled. “Beast is a good name for that one. Perhaps he can be trained to pull artillery.”
Tongue lolling and frothy, Beast plunged right and left. I stepped back as Private Kent reined him in with the leash. I trembled, wondering what Beast had seen that caused such a wild reaction.
“Nothing to fear. Come.” Sergeant Hanson strode forward and past the wall. Before us stretched a field striped with row after row of wooden crates. Tied to each crate was a dog—some small and large, some fuzzy and floppy. There were more dogs than had once lived in the whole village of Cosham, and they were frantically barking as they jumped on and off the crate roofs.
The other handlers and dogs had arrived from the railway, adding to the frenzy. I heard barks of greeting, but I also heard howls of unhappiness and growls of anger and fear.
Cosham had gradually grown empty of dogs. Was this where they had gone? Tucking my tail, I pressed myself against the sergeant’s leg.
“It’s all right, Darling.” He gave me a reassuring pat on the head. “They’ll calm down. And you’ll be kenneled behind the barracks with the other ladies.”
The sergeant led me around a squat building where there were only five wooden boxes. Two were empty. Three held other females: a sleek tan racer, a squat spaniel, and a sad-eyed Airedale. None barked. Instead they all stared at Sergeant Hanson, their tails wagging hopefully.
“Private Kent will bring dinner soon, lasses,” he said as he steered me to the last crate. “This is Darling. She’ll be your new mate.”
I raised my lip and showed my teeth when the three looked at me. No, I will not be your mate. Rags is my only friend. And I will be away from this place as soon as I get loose.
I felt the sergeant’s fingers on my collar as he took off the leash and tied on a rope. He tested the knot, then straightened. Immediately, I lunged to the end of the line.
“Aye, Darling. Your Robert and Katherine wrote that you like to run away. Only there will be none of that here.” Sergeant Hanson looked down at me, his hands on his hips. I bit at the rope, but it was thick and tough.
“You belong to the British Army now,” he went on. “You are no longer a pet, nor is your name Darling. You are War Dog 204. This will be your home for the next six weeks, and when you leave here, it’ll be on a steamer to France—and to war.”
CHAPTER 5
War Dog 204
Beginning of April 1917
Night. Dark and starless. The lorry rumbled up the road and then slowed on a desolate strip of beach. Sergeant Hanson stood in the open-air back of the truck and I stood with him. The handlers sat on benches along the sides, their dogs in front of them.
“This will be the first real test for the dogs,” Sergeant Hanson said, swaying with the truck’s movement. “Messenger dogs have proved themselves to be four to five times faster than a man when delivering dispatches in war areas. Let’s see how this group does.”
I recognized the hound called Beast, and Tweed, the sad-eyed Airedale. The others were unknown to me. After three weeks of learning commands—sit, stay, heel, retrieve, down, begone—I no longer snarled at strange dogs. I no longer strained at my rope. But my thoughts were still on Katherine and Robert and my family back home, and I hoped that tonight I would get my chance to run away.
“Their keepers are back at the kennels, waiting for us to release the dogs,” the sergeant continued. “We’ll see which one makes it back in record time.”
“And who gets lost in the mudflats,” one of the handlers added.
“And ’oo ends up in Shoeburyness begging at the butcher’s,” another chimed in. Everyone laughed.
Sergeant Hanson didn’t even smile. “Messenger dogs must feel a keen delight in carrying out their duties. Tonight will determine which ones will continue training—and which will be destroyed.”
The laughter died down.
Tweed whimpered. She pined for her cozy bed by the fire as much as I pined for my children and freedom.
“No torches are allowed to light the way, so tread carefully through the marsh. We’ll spread out. Smythe, McCann, and Reeves—head west up the beach. Harlow, Jasper, and Donnelly—head east. When I blow the whistle, release your dog with the command ‘begone.’”
We jumped from the lorry, and the other men and dogs silently disappeared into the night. I trotted down the beach by Sergeant Hanson’s side. He was silent too. I had grown numb to the constant barking of dogs and orders, so this quiet night was a treat. It reminded me of many nights in Cosham. After the family was in bed, I would wiggle under the picket fence and join Rags. We would explore the village, tipping over rubbish bins and lunging at stray cats.
What had happened to my old pal? Had Constable George finally caught him? Or worse, had he been shot? My heart saddened at the thought. But soon I would be back in Cosham to find the answer. And when I returned, I would sneak bones to Rags every day. And I wouldn’t run away from my family ever again.
Sergeant Hanson turned off the beach and into the mudflats. My paws sunk deep, and spiny marsh grasses snagged my fur. We wound past fallen branches and gnarled stumps. I heard the shrill whoo-whoo of the train whistle in the distance. I turned my head toward the sound. How long would it take me to reach Cosham from here?
“Darling.” A firm tug on the leash got my attention. Sergeant Hanson kneeled in the mud in front of me. His eyes were solemn as he held my furry head in his hands. “This is the last test for you. You are smart and swift. You have learned every command faster than any dog at the school. You would be a fine messenger but alas, your heart is not in it. You are too lightweight for pulling artillery and too shy for sentry duty. The major has identified you as a dog he expects to fail tonight. And if you do”—his v
oice caught—“you will not return to Robert and Katherine.”
He removed my collar and slid a different one around my neck. This one had a metal canister attached to it. I knew what the special collar meant: “return to my keeper.”
“Private Kent is waiting for you and your message. He has liver treats and a bowl of cool water,” Sergeant Hanson told me. “Now it is up to you.” Unhooking the leash, he stepped back, gave the whistle one shrill blow, and ordered. “Begone.”
I took off, running toward the sound of the train whistle. This was the first time I had been turned loose so far from the kennels and the first time I had drilled at night. No one would see me if I ran away. If I raced swiftly, I should reach Cosham by sunup.
A loud crash from the beach made me whirl. Beast lunged through the tall grass, passing me without a glance as he headed for the kennels. I paused, watching him go. My thoughts went to Private Kent, who fed me morning and night, brushed my fur, and cleaned my crate—all with a gentle pat and kind words.
My thoughts turned back to Robert and Katherine. I remembered racing free through the village with Rags. The canister and “return” meant nothing to me. Once again I started for the railway.
Then my ears picked up a cry. I stopped in my tracks. It was Sergeant Hanson. I would recognize his voice anywhere. The cry came again, and this time I heard his distress.
Without a second thought, I plunged back the way I had come. I found him sitting up, half hidden in the grass. One leg was stretched in front of him at an odd angle. His face was pale. “Aye, Darling, it’s you. I’m glad you came back, but I was hoping one of the men would hear me. It looks like I’ve gone and twisted my leg falling over this wretched stump in the dark.”
I didn’t need him to say any more. I didn’t need to hear “begone” or “return.” The pain in his face told me everything.
I licked his hand where it clutched his knee and then raced for the kennels and Private Kent.
Between the beach and barracks were many obstacles. We had practiced leaping ditches and gates and crawling through barbed wire and tunnels. Once I made it through the marsh, I came upon some scruffy bushes and a pen. Goats! My nose twitched at their pungent smell. One stamped the ground and shook his horns when I peered through the slatted fence.