Darling, Mercy Dog of World War I

by Alison Hart

  Herd them, chase them, rang in my head. But this time I couldn’t. I had to ignore my instincts and get help for Sergeant Hanson.

  On the other side of the goat pen was a forest of sea-wind stunted trees. Once through it, I would find the barracks and Private Kent. The yellow glow of a lantern spurred me onward.

  Private Kent’s face lit up when he saw me. I saw no sign of Beast, Tweed, or the other dogs.

  “Good girl,” he praised. “I knew you could do it. Even though the other dogs came in long before you,” he added, sounding gloomy. He reached for my collar, but I danced out of his way. His brows lowered. “Come ’ere, Darling. I ’ave your liver treat.”

  I didn’t want liver. I wanted Private Kent to follow me. I knew not to bark. “Silent” had been drilled into us from the beginning. So I twirled around and I dashed back toward the woods.

  “Darling.” His voice was firmer this time. “Come!”

  Just then Private Carlton walked up with Beast. “I do believe Beast was first,” the handler said with proud smile. “And Darling last. And now she’s playing a game of chase?”

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into ’er,” Private Kent said.

  Just then the lorry rumbled down the lane. The handlers jumped out. “Is Sergeant Hanson back?” the driver called out the open window.

  Private Kent strode up. “Wasn’t ’e supposed to return with you?”

  “We couldn’t find him. We thought he might have walked cross country for some reason.”

  Private Kent’s eyes widened under his cap as he looked down at me. “So that’s what you’re trying to tell me, eh, girl? Something’s ’appened to the sergeant?”

  This time I obeyed when he called me into the back of the lorry along with two other men. The canister and its message were forgotten. When we reached the beach, I jumped out before the truck stopped. I dashed off, following Sergeant Hanson’s and my scents.

  “Slow down,” Private Kent struggled to keep up with me. Darting left, I headed into the marsh.

  “Over here.” Sergeant Hanson’s cry was soft, but my keen ears easily heard it. When I reached him, I nuzzled him and he smiled weakly. His face was white, his breathing shallow. The sound of rustling and thrashing from the direction of the beach told me that Private Kent was not far behind. Still, I didn’t bark. I left Sergeant Hanson for a brief moment to alert Private Kent to where we were, and then went back to the sergeant.

  “Found ’im!” Kent hollered. Quickly he bent and felt Sergeant Hanson’s pulse. “Looks like you’re going into shock. Glad we got ’ere when we did.”

  “Leg’s all messed up.” Sergeant Hanson tried to smile as he struggled to sit up. “I didn’t follow my own orders to tread carefully.”

  “Save your strength,” Private Kent told him. “Private Jeeves ’as a medical kit. We’ll get a Tommy splint on that leg and get you out of ’ere. Might not be broken, right?”

  I lay down beside Sergeant Hanson, warming his chilled body. All thoughts of Cosham had flown from my head.

  “Darling ’ere brought us,” Private Kent said. “She’s no messenger dog, that’s a fact. She came in dead last. But might it be she ’as a different calling?” He slipped off his tunic and laid it across Sergeant Hanson’s chest. “I’ve heard they’re training mercy dogs. Dogs that ’elp find the wounded. What do you think of that? Sergeant?” He patted the man’s cheeks as if he were a dog. “Stay awake, now. Don’t want you losing consciousness.”

  I looked up as the others arrived. Private Jeeves slipped his pack from his back as he walked. Another soldier carried a stretcher under his arm.

  “Darling’ll wear a red cross on her jacket and ’elp soldiers at the Front,” Kent continued as Private Jeeves kneeled and opened the bag, “just like she ’elped you, right Sergeant? And I’d be proud to train ’er.”

  “As I would…” Sergeant Hanson’s voice trailed off and his eyes drifted shut. His fingers laced themselves in my ruff. He didn’t let go, and I didn’t leave his side until he was safely on the stretcher.

  CHAPTER 6

  A New Mission

  End of April 1917

  Boom! Dirt blew skyward right in front of me. I scooted around the blast, intent on my mission: Find the wounded.

  Boom! A second blast ripped the earth, and rocks rained on my head like hail. I sank into a ditch, waited, ran again. Ahead I saw a soldier’s helmet above the tall beach grass, and then a muddy boot and khaki-colored trouser leg.

  I nosed the leg, feeling for warmth. “Good girl, 204,” the soldier murmured when I got within his reach. He removed a canteen of water from the saddlebags strapped to my back and took a sip. When he was done, I raced back the way I had come.

  Coils of barbed wire blocked my way, but I leaped over them without hesitation. Suddenly the rat-a-tat-tat of a machine gun sounded in front of me. I crouched, making myself small, and crawled into a ditch. When all was quiet, I dashed toward a stone fence. I jumped the fence and then zigzagged across the last stretch. Leaping into a trench, I landed at Private Kent’s feet.

  “It’s 204,” someone said behind me. “The first dog to report back.”

  Immediately I lay down. That was the signal that I had found a wounded soldier. Private Kent clipped on my leash.

  Sergeant Hanson stood behind him. He was propped on crutches, his trouser leg torn to reveal a white cast from ankle to knee. “That’s Darling,” he said in a low voice. I could hear his pride.

  Private Kent lifted me up and set me on the parapet, the top edge of the trench. I waited while he climbed the ladder. Then I led the way as he and two stretcher bearers and an orderly followed. The trip I had made in minutes seemed to take them forever. Private Kent had to cut the barbed wire I had leaped over. Several times we flattened ourselves to the ground as the zing of gunfire filled the air. But I didn’t flag in my purpose: find the wounded soldier.

  Finally I saw him. Straining at the leash, I pulled Private Kent forward. The soldier pretending to be wounded grinned. “She passed this drill with flying colors, eh, Private Kent?”

  He nodded. “Neither bombs nor gunfire stopped ’er. It were a good thing we switched her training from a messenger dog to a mercy dog.” Even the stretcher bearers were grinning at me as they helped the “wounded” man to his feet. Pleased, I sat back on my haunches and begged as if at the butcher shop. But this time it wasn’t for bones. It was for praise. I knew that I had done something special during this practice.

  The orderly shrugged on his pack and patted my head.

  “Don’t fuss over ’er too much,” Private Kent warned. “Mercy dogs aren’t pets.” His voice was firm, but he was still smiling as he gave me a treat of liver. “Sergeant Hanson’ll be pleased. A bit sweet on this one, ’e is. Plans on taking ’er to France himself as soon as ’is leg is mended.” He puffed out his chest proudly. “The sergeant’s been assigned to the sectional kennels at the front lines in Belgium. I’m going with ’im.”

  “By then the war may be over,” the orderly said. “Now that the Americans have joined the fight.”

  The soldier who’d played the role of a wounded man snorted loudly as he lay down on the canvas stretcher. “About time. America declared war on the Germans in April. Where’ve their troops been all this time?”

  “The British had to lose thousands more soldiers before bloody Wilson would send his precious army to Europe,” the orderly said bitterly.

  “France and the other allies have lost too many men as well,” the soldier on the stretcher said. “Don’t you add to the numbers when you’re over there, Private Kent.”

  “I plan on keepin’ me ’ead away from those German bullets,” Private Kent replied. “But 204 ’ere won’t be so lucky. She’ll be searching for wounded in no man’s land.”

  All four swung their gazes to me, and their faces were no longer smiling. “So let’s ’ope the war’s over soon,” he added softly as he stroked my head, “or this lass will be one more casualty.”
r />   CHAPTER 7

  From England to Belgium

  Mid-May 1917

  The road was muddy beneath my paws, the sky overcast. Silence surrounded us as we walked through what was once a village like Cosham. The shops and houses were gone. All that stood were chimneys jutting into the sky like leafless trees and jagged brick walls and skeletal frames that held no roofs.

  There was a small herd of us—handlers and dogs. We had traveled by boat across the English Channel and landed in a place Private Kent had called “France.” From there we rode by railway and lorry into the countryside. Once across the border into the place called “Belgium,” we walked, except for Sergeant Hanson, who rode in a motorbike sidecar. The railcars and lorries were packed with ammunition and troops heading to the Front, and there was no room for dogs.

  At first I was happy to be walking. The air ruffled my fur and filled my nose with new scents. But soon the view grew stark despite the full flush of spring. Trees were broken in half, craters of mud pocked the farmland, and the smell of burned wood was strong.

  A few people poked through the ruins of the village, looking for something they could salvage. Their faces were dirty and forlorn and their stares unwelcoming. A cart piled high with people and belongings rumbled past, pulled by one skinny horse. I paused when I saw the faces of two children peering from the top. I wagged my tail in greeting, but they didn’t smile as they passed us by. Then the sharp crack of the whip over the cob’s back made me shy away.

  “Refugees headed to France,” Private Carlton said. He stood beside us with Beast, who had passed his messenger dog training with flying colors. Private Reeves held Tweed’s leash. Like me, she’d been trained as a mercy dog.

  Except for the rumble of engines and tromp of boots, the village was silent. Finally Private Kent spoke. “No wonder the Belgians aren’t friendly. They didn’t ask for this war. The Germans just invaded and took over. And now ’ere we are.”

  Private Reeves snorted. “We need to be here, invited or not. We have to push the Huns clear out of Belgium before there’s nothing left of the country.”

  Sergeant Hanson signaled us to stop and rest in the shade of a wall. A line of horse-drawn wagons and trucks, both loaded with supplies, snaked past us. Private Kent pulled off his haversack. He pulled out his tin cup and took his canteen from his cartridge belt. After pouring me some water, he fed me a sliver of dried liver. Then he had his own snack of bully beef and crackers.

  Sergeant Hanson ruffled my fur and slipped me a treat, too. His brace was off but he still favored his leg. “We’re nearing Messines,” he said to the group. “Once we’re at headquarters, there will be no rest. We’ve been assigned to the 10th Battalion Worcestershire Regiment.”

  Murmurs of approval went around. “Mates from close to me ’ome,” one handler said.

  “The soldiers have been building up trenches and laying tracks. More supplies are needed for a major attack under General Plumer,” Sergeant Hanson continued. “The Allies are planning on taking Messines Ridge from the Germans.”

  “And we want to be part of it,” another handler said.

  “Then let’s continue. The main camp is five miles farther. That’s where headquarters and the dog kennel are.”

  We marched on, and soon the silence was shattered. A group of planes soared overhead like migrating geese. I heard the rat-a-tat-tat of machine-gun fire in the distance, followed by louder blasts that I knew were bombs—like the ones used in our training.

  Our pace picked up and I could feel the tension in Private Kent’s grip on my leash.

  From behind us came a rattling and roaring as I’d never heard before. Private Kent stopped and turned. “Well, I’ll be a kippered ’erring. Never thought I’d lay eyes on a tank, and ’ere are a dozen coming right at us.”

  “Those are the new Mark IVs,” Private Reeves said. He whistled in amazement as Tweed cowered behind his legs. “Easy lass. They’re on our side.”

  Everyone stepped back and Sergeant Hanson’s driver pulled off the road. As the tanks passed, the handlers cheered. I growled, upset by the giant rolling things and their deafening noise. A man poked his head from the top and saluted. His face was totally covered by a helmet and visor.

  The handlers saluted back. “We should’ve had a tank at the War Dog School,” Private Carlton said. “To get the dogs used to the sight.”

  Unafraid, Beast lunged for a clanking track as it rolled past, churning up the earth.

  “The dogs will soon be seeing things that no one can train them for.” Sergeant Hanson frowned. “Let’s hope they stay true.”

  As we moved along, the road and roadsides became even more crowded. Men unloaded huge howitzer shells from railway cars onto wagon beds. Mules carried boxes of ammunition in packs on their backs. Shirtless soldiers lifted rocks and sandbags into truck beds. Two dogs hauled a cart loaded with buckets of water for the workers. The dogs had once been handsome mastiffs, but now their coats were dull and their ribs showed. They reminded me of Cosham strays—and Rags.

  All the while gunfire boomed in the distance and smoke billowed in the air.

  We slowed to let a ragged group of soldiers march wearily past us, heading in the direction we had come. Some had bandages around their eyes and were guided by their comrades. Behind them, soldiers pushed hand carts holding unconscious men, draped inside like sacks of grain.

  “Looks like those lads were hit by poison gas.” I felt Private Kent shudder. I knew the word “gas.” We had practiced wearing our masks at the War Dog School. Though they said it would protect me, I hated the way it felt around my muzzle.

  A familiar cooing noise made me glance sharply to the left. Four soldiers walked briskly alongside the road. On their backs were square baskets with lids. They were full of birds. Pigeons!

  I hadn’t seen a pigeon since we’d left France. Now here were baskets of them. What were the pesky birds doing here? Several fluttered their wings, and I heard more cooing. I began to dance in place. Maybe war would be fun after all.

  “Settle down, girl,” Private Kent said. “Those pigeons aren’t to chase. They carry messages, like Beast. We’re almost there, thank the Queen,” he added. “Me boots are rubbing me ’eels raw.”

  Soon we arrived “there”—a farmhouse surrounded by sheds, a barn, and rows and rows of tents, large and small.

  Sergeant Hanson climbed from the sidecar. “Head­quarters,” he said. “The kennels are on the far side of the barn.”

  Headquarters was almost like a village. We passed a bakery in a tent, where workers were loading loaves into the wagons. A team of horses pulled a second wagon, already loaded, toward the fighting. I hoped that somewhere there was a wagon full of beef bones.

  “The largest tent houses the Advanced Dressing Station for the wounded,” Sergeant Hanson explained. “First they are treated at Regimental Aid Posts at the Front. They then come here or go to Field Ambulances far behind the line. Severe cases are sent on to general hospitals.”

  As we passed by the tent, I smelled blood and antiseptic. I had been taught to recognize those scents, to find warmth and a pulse, and then to lead my handler to the wounded soldier. The orderlies and stretcher bearers would follow us, carrying the medicine and bandages.

  Under a lone tree beside the barn, horses were picketed to a line. Nosebags hung from their heads. Like the mastiffs, they were skinny and worn, and many lay in the straw as if exhausted.

  Finally we came to the kennels. Slatted crates stood in two rows. Dogs were tied to some; others were empty. Unlike the dogs at the War School, these did not bark or leap. They were curled in front on dusty blankets and barely looked our way.

  A soldier, his uniform marked like Sergeant Hanson’s came up to us. “I’m Sergeant Cary-Hough,” he said. “Good to see you. We are in need of a fresh dog squad.”

  “We have twenty dogs and twenty handlers,” Sergeant Hanson said. “All are ready to work.”

  Sergeant Cary-Hough nodded as if ple
ased. “The dogs have been invaluable here as messengers, scouts, and sentries. Initially the generals and the troops were skeptical, but the animals proved themselves time and time again. The Germans have kept up constant firing against us all month. There have been many casualties, and this dog squad has worked valiantly and is slated to be relieved.”

  “And the dogs that aren’t here?” Private Kent eyed the crates, many of which were empty. “They’re still at the Front?”

  Sergeant Cary-Hough shook his head. “Alas, only one in four messenger dogs makes it through. Horses, soldiers, dogs, pigeons—none are spared. We have a small veterinary corps housed behind the line, but they are overworked, as we all are.”

  Private Kent reached down and stroked my head as the sergeant continued to talk.

  “Each dog is assigned a crate. The numbers are nailed to the front. Rest tonight. Tomorrow, the 10th Regiment will be heading forward to the trenches near Wytschaete. You will go with them. On June 7, we will attack Messines Ridge in force. The Germans have had a stronghold on the ridge since 1914. If we are to be victorious, there is much to be done beforehand.”

  Sergeant Cary-Hough led the handlers and dogs toward the crates. Private Kent removed my leash and tied me to a crate with a rope. “The tag on top says 204,” he muttered. “That should say ‘Darling,’ right, girl?”

  I wagged my tail. He left after saying my favorite word—dinner—and I began to sniff my new home.

  Home. Faded images of Robert, Katherine, Mum, Father, and Baby filled my head. I thought of my cozy basket by the kitchen cooker and the nest I made on Katherine’s quilt when Mum wasn’t looking. I thought of playing in the streets of Cosham with Rags and begging for bones at the butchers.