The Realm of Imagination

by Ruskin Bond

  On December 7, 1941, the Japanese bombed the American fleet at Pearl Harbor and, eight hours later, invaded Hong Kong. The surprise attacks threw the Royal Rifles into a desperate fight against an overwhelming Japanese invasion force.

  As a big, friendly pet, Gander might not have been expected to be of use in the frenzy of battle. But the lovable Newfoundland had a strong drive to protect. When confronted by the enemy, he transformed into a fearsome fighter. “He growled and ran at the enemy soldiers, biting at their heels,” recalls Rifleman Reginald Law. When a group of injured Canadian soldiers could not escape the approaching Japanese, Gander lunged out ferociously and drove off the enemy. Weeks after the battle, the Japanese closely questioned Canadian POWs about the ferocious “black beast.” They feared the Allies were training giant animals for warfare.

  Gander’s final heroic act occurred on December 19, just after midnight, during the Battle of Lye Mun. It was pitch-dark, and Fred Kelly had put Gander in a concrete shelter called a pillbox, where he would be cool and safe. Suddenly, the Japanese attacked. In the chaos, Gander escaped from his pillbox and, showing no fear of guns or bombs, ran straight toward the enemy. “Gander must have seen the hand grenades landing,” says Jeremy Swanson of the Canadian War Museum. “He must have seen the men furiously throwing them back. He must have sensed their terror.” On a hillside, seven Canadians were lying wounded when a Japanese grenade landed in their midst. Gander rushed in, grabbed the grenade, and ran away with it in his mouth until it exploded. The lives of the seven men had been saved, but as Reginald Law remembers, “When the firing eased up, I saw Gander lying dead in the road.” The next morning, the Canadians were marched away to captivity. Fred Kelly could see Gander’s body in the distance. “I didn’t go near, I was so distraught.” His courageous friend had made the ultimate sacrifice.

  Of the 1,975 Canadians who went to Hong Kong, nearly 500 were wounded, 290 were killed in the battle, and 264 died as Japanese POWs. During four years of harsh and brutal captivity, the Royal Rifles often shared the story of Gander, which helped inspire them to keep going during this terrible time. Long after the war, the Hong Kong veterans happened to mention Gander to commemorating officer Jeremy Swanson, who spent several years documenting the story. Through his efforts, the PDSA Dickin Medal, also known as the animals’ Victoria Cross for conspicuous bravery against the enemy, which had not been awarded since 1949, was brought back for the special case of Gander. In October 2000, Fred Kelly, with a Newfoundland dog at his side, gratefully accepted the medal honoring Gander’s courage and loyalty.

  For the Hong Kong veterans, their mascot represented them and all they had endured. When the Hong Kong Memorial Wall was unveiled in 2009 in Ottawa, Ontario, they insisted that Gander’s name be included, where he could forever be remembered, alongside the soldiers he had served.

  Note Introduced in 1943 by Maria Dickin, who founded the People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals, a British veterinary charity, the PDSA Dickin Medal honors public service animals who have shown exceptional courage and devotion to duty in saving human life during war. To date, 32 pigeons, 3 horses, 27 dogs, and one cat have received the award. Gander’s certificate reads in part: “For saving the lives of Canadian infantrymen during the Battle of Lye Mun on Hong Kong Island in December 1941 … Twice Gander’s attacks halted the enemy’s advance and protected groups of wounded soldiers. In a final act of bravery, the war dog was killed in action gathering a grenade. Without Gander’s intervention many more lives would have been lost in the assault.”

  A Driftwood’s Tale

  by Shirley Ann Hoskins

  Illustrations by Gavin Rowe

  I remember the day the men cut me down.

  I was the tallest and straightest and healthiest spruce on the hill. On one side, I gazed with wonder at the ocean that smashed against the boulders far below.

  I enjoyed the cries of gulls and terns as they wheeled and soared with the wind.

  I welcomed morning fogs that drifted in from the sea. I swayed with the thrilling, violent gales that tore across angry water and up the hillsides.

  In the other direction, I looked over green forests full of deer and bear and elk. A sharp-eyed eagle sat at my top and scanned the hillsides; smaller, singing birds raised families in my lower branches; chipmunks played; rabbits chewed on ferns and grasses at my feet. It was a lovely and peaceful scene, but my soul was tuned to the drama of the waves and the powerful wind from across the seas.

  The men came from a ship on the ocean. They clambered up the hill with their tools and walked around me, measuring my worth.

  The man in charge said, “We are lucky. This giant spruce is the best replacement we will ever find for the broken mast.”

  “Aye, lucky for sure, Captain Harbison,” they said. Then they attacked me with their long saws.

  How sharply I groaned as I began to topple; how hard I crashed. I lay helpless, severed from my roots. When the men hacked off my branches, it seemed to be all over. But then they lowered me down the hill to a tiny beach. They scraped off my bark and floated me out to a ship they called the Dolphin. It wasn’t long before I stood upright again, fastened as firmly to the Dolphin as if I had grown there. They nailed pieces of lumber onto me — yardarms, they called them — and fitted them with sails.

  There were two other masts, before and behind me, but I, the tallest, could see over everything. The water sighed and swished around the hull, then boomed against the cliff. When the sails were full, we headed out to sea. I could feel every creak and groan of the ship beneath me as it rocked with the waves. I soon got used to the salty taste of the spray that bounced back on me from the prow. I came to know the feel and the voices of the men who scampered around in my rigging.

  What unforgettable days! I gloried in my travels across the oceans of the world. We flew before the wind; we skimmed the dancing waters; we raced the tides and the clouds as I could not have done before. Exploring every horizon, we found new lands and astonishing people. Laughing children splashed and waved at us from warm, blue lagoons. We were welcomed by throbbing drums on wind-swept, mountainous islands. At times, chanting warriors with spears chased us from hidden coves. In far northern oceans, we dodged huge ice floes and barely escaped being frozen into the Arctic cap. We never knew what unexpected adventure awaited us.

  The men of the ship came and went over the years, and instead of exploring, we turned to a terrible business. Changes were made in the hold, and we carried a cargo of people — kidnapped souls — from one country to others. What a dismal time! The captives’ anguish overwhelmed the ship like a flood of fouled water. There seemed no joy in running the waves; the very sun dimmed. The deck hands began to distrust the ocean and one another. They skittered nervously between their chores and their bunks.

  “Listen to the masts, listen to the ship,” the men whispered. “They groan and lament as if we are doomed.” And it seemed so. The currents disappeared for a time, as if they wanted to punish us, to leave us forever in these silent, stifling doldrums. One frightened sailor, praying and crying in the dark, crammed a religious medal deep into a slit he had cut in my side.

  But with a new owner, we became a merchant ship. Now we carried goods between the New World and Asia and Europe — sometimes cotton, sometimes pepper and cinnamon, sometimes gold. I stood proud once again. As the mainmast, I still had a view of the world fore and aft. The old “salts” often sang sea chanteys as they worked; some played the hornpipe in their spare time. People cheered when we hove into the harbors, bringing them their fortunes.

  Tragedy hit us on a relaxed, sunny day. We spied a quicker ship flying the skull and crossbones on its black flag. “Look sharp, they have cannons!” cried our men.

  Approaching rapidly, the ship fired upon us. One of the cannonballs hit me low and broke my hold on the ship. The men scrambled frantically to keep the sails up so we could escape. But it was no use. Savage pirates boarded us and attacked wildly, slashing and looting and throwing
people off. They took the treasure that we were carrying — and then they set my ship on fire!

  I fell into the water, and a lucky sailor managed to grab me. He found rope trailing from a yardarm and tied himself onto me. We could do nothing but let the currents take us where they would. In this way we floated for two days until we came to a small island. When we grounded on the beach, we lay still until the sailor got the strength to free himself. After exploring for a bit, he came back and gave me a pat.

  “Well, ol’ mast, it looks like you and me are all that’s left of the good ship Dolphin. My own grandfather once captained that ship. I’m glad he ain’t around to see this unhappy day.”

  Sailor Harbison and I were on that island for months. He found fresh water and enough food to keep himself alive, mostly fish and coconuts and breadfruit. He had no tools but a knife, yet he managed to find wood for a signal fire. He sometimes slept in a cave on the hill. Often he climbed high and scanned the empty horizon for ships. Some days he leaned against me while he wove sandals from pandanus leaves or made fishing spears from bamboo.

  “I’m carving my name into you, old friend,” he said, “and the name of our ship, in case no one ever finds me. And I’m carving it really deep so it will last.”

  Eventually some native fishermen came by and rescued him. I was left on the beach alone, but not for long.

  The pirates came back in heavily loaded ships, but they didn’t rescue me. Instead, they cut most of me up: for firewood, for stools, or for other uses. From the ships, they unloaded cargo, which they hid in the cave. At times they lugged the cargo back out to other ships or buried it. Lookouts constantly watched for unfriendly ships.

  But one day a military ship found the pirates, and there was a frenzied battle, with men and their weapons and their shouting all over the island.

  When it was over, one of the soldiers said, “It has taken us a long time to catch these pirates. I hope that’s the end of piracy and smuggling in this area.”

  Then they left me to the quiet again — what remained of me.

  I was now about three feet long and had been flung behind some rocks. I was stuck fast. Once more I could only listen to the surf and watch the creatures around me — sand crabs and turtles, birds and insects. The sun and moon and stars drifted above me. Seawater danced in to tease and tickle me, then crept away again. And every time the tide changed, it buried me a little deeper in the sand.

  It was a typhoon that rescued me. The raging wind and enormous crashing waves tore the sand and rocks away and lifted me out. I was free again, free to drift the world’s oceans, and that’s what I did for many a sailor’s lifetime.

  I wasn’t at all lonely. I met whales migrating to richer feeding grounds. Dolphins swam beside me; flying fish jumped over me; seaweed grabbed hold and trailed along; sardines hid in my shadow. At times, seabirds rested on me. I often saw ships, but after a while, they were not the tall-masted sailing ships I once knew. These had smelly smokestacks and cut a noisy, straight path in the water, regardless of wind or tide. They took no notice of a piece of flotsam bobbing in the swells.

  And then, when I had nearly forgotten people, I was caught in a fishing net. On the deck of the boat we were dumped: tuna, mackerel, sea turtles, strands of green kelp, and me. A bearded, suntanned man picked me up.

  “Aha!” he said. “I’m glad I came along instead of going beach combing.” He looked me over and said to his friends, “This will work out great. It’s a real old one. This rusty place must have been a huge hook. And look here! Does this carved spot say Harbison? And this one — is that Dolphin?”

  He took me to his workshop on shore and soon cut and polished me. Once more I thought it was the end. But when he was satisfied, he set me outdoors with chunks of old cypress and cedar. He patted me. “You probably came from this Oregon coast in the first place,” he said.

  People wandered by and said, “Look at the great driftwood! This one looks just like a dolphin. Isn’t it perfect?”

  The beachcomber said, “That one’s not for sale. I’m saving it for my friend Harbison. He’s from an old sailing family and he’s built a sailboat he calls the Dolphin. I carved this figurehead for the prow.”

  And that’s where I am now. We go out often onto the blue ocean and run before the wind. I am in the front, where I can chase the waves and smell the spray and smile up at the terns and gulls. I am home again.

  The Traveler

  by Connie Martin

  Illustrated by Daniel Krall

  Jamie wandered aimlessly, kicking a broken chunk of sidewalk, following the chip of cement as it skittered and bounced through leaves and off curbs. In a trance, she walked down unknown blocks and around unfamiliar corners, her mind so far away that she didn’t sense the falling night until the chill air pinched her nose and a gust of wind lifted her out of her meandering thoughts.

  She found herself in a spooky, rundown neighborhood. Above her a yellow streetlight stained the gathering dusk. She could barely make out the words on the bent sign. Vine Street. She had never heard of it.

  Shadows buried the intersecting streets in darkness. Which way was back? Defeated, she plopped down on her backpack. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  The glowing numbers on her watch flashed, as if laughing at her. It was dinnertime at home. Five-thirty sharp, so her stepdad wouldn’t miss his favorite news show. Today was Friday, which meant greasy meat loaf with out-of-the-box mashed potatoes and green Jell-O with canned pears.

  She actually wished she were there, or, rather, her stomach did. It felt like wadded-up paper. All she’d had for lunch was pop and a bag of potato chips.

  Something swiped across her ankle. She jerked back and looked down to see a pure white Persian cat sitting at her feet. It sat so still it could have been a statue.

  “Go home,” she said. It didn’t move. “Go home!” she repeated, leaning toward it. It blinked, slowly, and tilted its head. “Shoo!” She stood up to step around it, but the cat pounced in front of her. It sat down again and purred as loudly as her brother’s aquarium motor. She imagined feeding the cat his fish collection. That made her smile.

  “Maybe you’re lost and hungry, too?” she asked. “I’ll make you a deal. You show me the way home, and I’ll give you something good to eat.” It blinked its huge eyes at her. “Sushi, fresh,” she added. It continued to stare up at her, as if listening to every word. “No? Well, do you have anything for me to eat? Catnip? Tuna?” As if on cue, the cat bounded across the street and looked back at her, waiting.

  “O.K., O.K., I’m coming.”

  Jamie picked up her backpack and followed as the cat slipped through a broken fence surrounding a ramshackle house. Even in the near darkness, Jamie could see the paint curling off the sides. Shutters hung loose or had fallen off altogether. The gutter lay like a monstrous snake in the knee-high weeds, and in the dim streetlight the windowpanes glittered with spider web cracks. Trees clawed the roof, while shrubs and vines clambered over the porch railing.

  “This place would be great for Halloween,” Jamie said to the cat. “Even the cemetery isn’t this creepy.”

  The cat darted into the house through a square hole in the front door. Jamie heard a meowing cry. Her invitation to follow? Was this worth a rusty can of food? Her paper-wad stomach gave a sharp twist. Yeah!

  As she crunched through the weeds, she tried not to think of what might be slithering around her feet. It wasn’t until she reached the porch that she realized she’d been holding her breath. She let it out and put a foot on the first step. The board creaked and sagged under her weight. A back door banged in the wind. The cat meowed. What’s taking you so long?

  “You sound like my mother,” she whispered back.

  An icy finger dropped down her spine as something slipped past the side window. Only the cat, she thought. She forced herself to imagine a can of food waiting inside — probably cat food! She wiped a sweaty palm on her jeans and grabbed the metal doorknob. Something cr
eaked inside. Her hand froze.

  Run, just run! she thought. But if she did, she’d hate herself for being a chicken. Slowly, she turned the knob. It whined and snapped. Her nerves jumped. She pushed the door open, feeling more hungry and cold now than scared. Her eyes squinted into the darkness. Gradually the room’s interior began to take shape. She saw a sofa and a coffee table on an area rug and what looked like a china cabinet against the wall. So where was the cat?

  “Kitty, kitty, kitty?” she said softly, taking another step inside.

  Claws raked across the porch, and she whirled around. Her shoulders sagged in relief as she realized it was just branches scraping against the house.

  Rain tapped lightly on the windowpanes, and thunder rattled the glass. Lightning flashed, glinting off a thronelike chair opposite the sofa. Jamie crossed to it and ran her finger along the back. It felt cold, like metal. Was it real gold?

  She walked carefully over to the china cabinet and peered in. In the flickering light she made out a porcelain china doll on the top shelf. Below it stood an Oriental fan decorated with flakes of gemstones. Beside it was a carved jade vase and a jeweled dagger.

  “This is a museum!” she breathed.

  “Na, this is me home.”

  She spun around as a shadowy form stepped forward.

  “Who are ye, might I be askin’?” said a raspy voice.

  She stared, petrified. Then she realized the figure was wearing a shabby bathrobe and slippers. He was just an ordinary old man leaning on a cane.

  “Your mother did name ye, now didn’t she?” He spoke with an Irish lilt.