The Victory Dogs

by Megan Rix

  ‘I put her collar on Howl,’ Daniel told her. ‘I thought it’d keep him safe – being properly registered and all.’

  ‘But what about Misty?’ Amy asked him.

  Daniel shook his head and looked down at his muddy borrowed shoes. ‘She was a good mother to her pups. Without her love and care in their first few months they’d have had no chance of being here now. They meant everything to her.’

  He remembered his first meeting with her at the pig bins and how brave she was, always trying to protect her pups. He swallowed hard.

  ‘I wish I could have done more for her. But I didn’t realize how sick she was until I found her body.’

  ‘Poor Misty,’ Amy said as tears slipped down her face. ‘All alone.’

  ‘She had a friend,’ said Daniel. ‘A brave friend who looked out for her and the pups.’ And he told Amy about the one-eared cat that he’d buried next to Misty.

  Amy’s eyes glittered with tears. ‘She’d have been really proud of what heroes her pups have become,’ she said as she stroked Howl.

  ‘Proper little soldiers,’ agreed Daniel.

  Henry came over to Michael for strokes too, not wanting to be forgotten. Amy cuddled Howl to her and he stretched up his neck for his chin to be stroked, just like Misty used to do.

  She smiled at Daniel, but he was looking at Howl rather than her and didn’t notice. She was glad he’d been able to tell her the story of Misty and her pups. Then she frowned, wondering how Daniel could know all of this, and realized he must have been living in the Underground too. She looked at him again; he was still very pale and had started shaking.

  Just then the WVS ladies came over with tea and buns. One of them put a blanket round Daniel’s shoulders and gave him a cup of sweet tea. He hadn’t long recovered from his accident and the day’s events had taken it out of him.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He watched as Howl played with his brother and was fussed over by everyone. The Dolans would give the pup a good home and regular meals. Howl would have a better life with them than living with a homeless man.

  He’d come back today because he couldn’t bear to think of Howl all alone in the Underground. But really he had so little to offer him it would be better, kinder, to let him go with someone else.

  It didn’t matter that it would break his heart to lose him. All that mattered was what was best for Howl. Daniel thought it would be best to quietly slip away before they asked him any more questions.

  But as soon as Daniel started to walk away Howl looked over at him and howled. Amy hurried over to stop him from leaving.

  Lieutenant Colonel Richardson had been listening and frowned as he watched her. He’d seen men like Daniel before. Men who’d been traumatized by the war, who’d seen such horror they didn’t feel able to go home again. Men who felt guilt that they’d been saved while other good men had died. Men who didn’t feel they deserved to be happy or have a normal life any more.

  And the dog had too much potential to let him go now. And there was hope, even for men like Daniel. He could see what a special bond man and dog had.

  ‘That dog’s needed for the war effort,’ he said. ‘And he’ll need you to be his handler, soldier, if we’re to get the best from him.’

  ‘Me?’ said Daniel. ‘But I … How did you know I was a soldier?’

  ‘Once he’s fully trained, he’ll be able to help even more people: both civilians like he did today and also soldiers on the battlefield,’ Lieutenant Colonel Richardson continued, as if Daniel hadn’t spoken.

  Daniel hadn’t been able to save his fellow soldiers at Dunkirk or the men who’d drowned when their boat was hit just outside Dover, but maybe together he and Howl could help to save someone else.

  He buried his face in Howl’s fur and whispered, ‘I won’t let you down, Soldier.’

  ‘So is the War Dog Training School going to go ahead then?’ Amy asked Lieutenant Colonel Richardson.

  ‘Most definitely!’ he said. ‘I’d say it’s imperative for this country’s victory.’

  Amy and Michael grinned at each other. Ellie was going to be over the moon when she heard.

  ‘It’d be a good idea, in the mean time, to take your dog along to Ellie’s training classes,’ Mr Ward said to Daniel.

  ‘Henry loves going there and I bet your dog will too,’ Michael told Daniel.

  ‘You and your dog are welcome to stay with us until you go off to the War Dog Training School,’ Mr Dolan said.

  ‘Misty should be in her own home,’ Amy’s grandfather agreed.

  And this time Amy didn’t contradict him. Tonight she’d write and let Jack know that, in one way, Misty had been found.

  ‘It’d be nice to have one of Misty’s puppies staying at our house,’ she said.

  ‘We’d be honoured to have you both,’ Mr Dolan told Daniel.

  ‘Thank you.’ Daniel smiled. He was ready to take his first step into his new life.

  Howl gave Daniel’s ear a lick and then ran back to his brother. He play-bowed to him and Henry accepted the invitation with a dip of his own in return.

  Daniel watched with Amy and Michael as Henry and Howl played among the rubble and devastation of the Blitz, just as they’d once played together underground. Together again at last.

  Afterword

  When I sat down to write The Victory Dogs, my aim was to create a story that was as believable and realistic as possible. But it is fiction rather than non-fiction, and not true. A bomb didn’t really strike Wood Green Underground station in World War II, although the station next to it on the Piccadilly Line, Bounds Green, was badly damaged and there’s a memorial plaque to the nineteen people who lost their lives there.

  A man named Lieutenant Colonel Richardson did really set up the War Dog School in World War I and was instrumental in it eventually being reformed in World War II. The visiting dogs at Ellie’s demonstration, apart from Buster, who was in The Great Escape, were all Dickin Medal winners. Beauty, Irma, Psyche and Rip really did save countless lives.

  The Dickin Medal is awarded to animals for ‘acts of conspicuous gallantry and devotion to duty in wartime’. The medal was instituted in 1943 and named after the PDSA founder, Mrs Maria Dickin CBE.

  During World War II, a total of fifty-four Dickin Medals were awarded, of which thirty-two went to pigeons, eighteen to dogs, three to horses and one to a cat.

  Animals never choose to go to war but they often show us how to be true heroes.

  Acknowledgements

  Huge thanks are due to the many people that graciously gave of their time and shared their knowledge with me during the researching of this book. Special thanks go to Bill Davies for his help with my many train tunnel questions and to his long-time train-travelling companion Labrador Rescue dog and total star, Harvey, for always making me smile. Thanks as well to Christopher and Shirley Butcher for their stories of North London in the Blitz and to their cat, Sooty, who sat on my lap and watched me type (awkwardly) on my laptop. And special thanks to my mum and dad, Jim and Sylvia, who are always so supportive, had once played as children in Lordship Recreation Ground and, most helpfully of all, had had a very intelligent, talking bird.

  Congratulations go to Nicole Mulholland who won The Great Escape’s Young Times/Puffin My Pet My Hero competition. Her prize was to name a character in my next book – which is this one. She chose her dog Sky’s name. Sky helped the family’s cat, BJ, by acting as a guide dog when BJ went blind.

  Visits to the Imperial War Museum in London and Duxford were enlightening and entertaining, and my trip to the London Transport Museum resulted in me changing my station clerk from a man to a wom
an. Thanks also to the staff at the London Transport Museum for their generous help with my research.

  On the writing side I would like to thank my agent Clare Pearson, of Eddison Pearson, and my editors at Puffin, Shannon Cullen and Anthea Townsend, whose endless encouragement helped this book to reach its full potential; also thanks to Samantha Mackintosh and Jane Tait for their meticulous copy-editing – all of whom I hope I’m lucky enough to work with on future books.

  Part of this book was written in a spare consulting room at Davies Veterinary Specialist Hospital where my dog Traffy was being treated. I believe her consultant and surgeon, Aidan McAlinden, saved her life and I will always be grateful. Thankfully, Traffy is once again able to enjoy playing with our other dog, and her best friend, Bella. She’s now eating all her food with relish and back to taking up far more than her fair share of the bed.

  Finally, and as always, thanks to my wonderful husband, who spent hours helping with my research for this book and whose love and enthusiasm make writing a joy.

  Turn the page for an extract from

  by Megan Rix

  AVAILABLE NOW

  Chapter 1

  On a steamy hot Saturday morning in the summer of 1939, a Jack Russell with a patch of tan fur over his left eye and a black spot over his right was digging as though his life depended upon it.

  His little white forepaws attacked the soft soil, sending chrysanthemums, stocks and freesias to their deaths. He’d soon dug so deep that the hole was bigger than he was, and all that could be seen were sprays of flying soil and his fiercely wagging tail.

  ‘Look at Buster go,’ twelve-year-old Robert Edwards said, leaning on his spade. ‘He could win a medal for his digging.’

  Robert’s best friend, Michael, laughed. ‘Bark when you reach Australia!’ he told Buster’s rear end. He tipped the soil from his shovel on to the fast-growing mound beside them.

  Buster’s tail wagged as he emerged from the hole triumphant, his muddy treasure gripped firmly in his mouth.

  ‘Oh no, better get that off him!’ Robert said, when he realized what Buster had.

  ‘What is it?’ Michael asked.

  ‘One of Dad’s old slippers – he’s been looking for them everywhere.’

  ‘But how did it get down there?’

  Buster cocked his head to one side, his right ear up and his left ear down.

  ‘Someone must have buried it there. Buster – give!’

  But Buster had no intention of giving up his treasure. As Robert moved closer to him Buster danced backwards.

  ‘Buster – Buster – give it to me!’

  Robert and Michael raced around the garden after Buster, trying to get the muddy, chewed slipper from him. Buster thought this was a wonderful new game of chase, and almost lost the slipper by barking with excitement as he dodged this way and that.

  The game got even better when Robert’s nine-year-old sister Lucy, and Rose the collie, came out of the house and started to chase him too.

  ‘Buster, come back …’

  Rose tried to circle him and cut him off. Until recently she’d been a sheepdog and she was much quicker than Buster, but he managed to evade her by jumping over the ginger-and-white cat, Tiger, who wasn’t pleased to be used as a fence and hissed at Buster to tell him so.

  Buster was having such a good time. First digging up the flower bed, now playing chase. It was the perfect day – until Lucy dived on top of him and he was trapped.

  ‘Got you!’

  Robert took Dad’s old slipper from Buster. ‘Sorry, but you can’t play with that.’

  Buster jumped up at the slipper, trying to get it back. It was his – he’d buried it and he’d dug it up. Robert held the slipper above his head so Buster couldn’t get it, although for such a small dog, he could jump pretty high.

  Buster went back to his hole and started digging to see if he could find something else interesting. Freshly dug soil was soon flying into the air once again.

  ‘No slacking, you two!’ Robert’s father, Mr Edwards, told the boys as he came out of the back door. Robert quickly hid the slipper behind him; he didn’t want Buster to get into trouble. Michael took it from him, unseen.

  Lucy ran back into the kitchen, with Rose close behind her.

  ‘You two should be following Buster’s example,’ Mr Edwards said to the boys.

  At the sound of his name Buster stopped digging for a moment and emerged from his hole. His face was covered in earth and it was clear that he was in his element. Usually he’d have been in huge trouble for digging in the garden, but not today. When Mr Edwards wasn’t looking, Michael dropped the slipper into the small ornamental fishpond near to where Tiger was lying. Tiger rubbed his head against Michael’s hand, the bell on his collar tinkling softly, and Michael obligingly stroked him behind his ginger ears before getting back to work.

  Tiger had been out on an early-morning prowl of the neighbourhood when the government truck had arrived and the men from it had rung the doorbell of every house along the North London terraced street. Each homeowner had been given six curved sheets of metal, two steel plates and some bolts for fixing it all together.

  ‘There you go.’

  ‘Shouldn’t take you more than a few hours.’

  ‘Got hundreds more of these to deliver.’

  Four of the workmen helped those who couldn’t manage to put up their own Anderson Shelters, but everyone else was expected to dig a large hole in their back garden, deep enough so that only two feet of the six-foot-high bomb shelter could be seen above the ground.

  Buster, Robert and Michael had set to work as soon as they’d been given theirs, with Mr Edwards supervising.

  ‘Is the hole big enough yet, Dad?’ Robert asked his father. They’d been digging for ages.

  Mr Edwards peered at the government instruction leaflet and shook his head. ‘It needs to be four foot deep in the soil. And we’ll need to dig steps down to the door.’

  Tiger surveyed the goings-on through half-closed eyes from his favourite sunspot on the patio. He was content to watch as Buster wore himself out and got covered in mud. It was much too hot a day to do anything as energetic as digging.

  In the kitchen, Rose was getting in the way as usual.

  ‘Let me past, Rose,’ said Lucy and Robert’s mother, Mrs Edwards, turning away from the window.

  Rose took a step or two backwards, but she was still in the way. The Edwardses’ kitchen was small, but they’d managed to cram a wooden dresser as well as two wooden shelves and a cupboard into it. It didn’t have a refrigerator.

  ‘What were you all doing out there?’ Mrs Edwards asked Lucy.

  Lucy thought it best not to mention that Buster had dug up Dad’s old slipper. It was from Dad’s favourite pair and Mum had turned the house upside-down searching for it.

  ‘Just playing,’ she said.

  Lucy began squeezing six lemon halves into a brown earthenware jug while her mother made sugar syrup by adding a cup of water and a cup of sugar to a saucepan and bringing it to the boil on the coal gas stove. Wearing a full-length apron over her button-down dress, Mrs Edwards stirred continuously so as not to scorch the syrup or the pan.

  The letterbox rattled and Lucy went to see what it was. Another government leaflet lay on the mat. They seemed to be getting them almost every day now. This one had ‘Sand to the Rescue’ written in big letters and gave instructions on how to place sandbags so that they shielded the windows, and how to dispose of incendiary bombs using a sand-bucket and scoop.

  Lucy put the leaflet on the dresser with the others and went to check on her cakes. She didn’t want them to burn, especially not with Micha
el visiting.

  Two hours later Mr Edwards declared, ‘That should be enough.’

  Robert and Michael stopped digging and admired their work. Buster, however, wasn’t ready to stop yet. He wanted them to dig a second, even bigger hole, and he knew exactly where that hole should be. His little paws got busy digging in the new place.

  ‘No, Buster, no more!’ Robert said firmly.

  Buster stopped and sat down. He watched as Robert, Michael and Mr Edwards assembled the Anderson Shelter from the six corrugated iron sheets and end plates, which they bolted together at the top.

  ‘Right, that’s it, easy does it,’ Mr Edwards told the boys. The Anderson Shelter was up and in place.

  For the first time Tiger became interested. The shelter looked like a new choice sunspot – especially when the sun glinted on its corrugated iron top. He uncurled himself and sauntered over to it.

  ‘Hello, Tiger. Come to have a look?’ Michael asked him. Tiger ignored the question, jumped on to the top of the shelter and curled up on the roof.

  Robert and Michael laughed. ‘He must be the laziest cat in the world,’ Robert said. ‘All he does is eat and sleep and then sleep again.’

  Tiger’s sunbathing was cut short.

  ‘You can’t sleep there, Tiger,’ Mr Edwards said. ‘And we can’t have the roof glinting in the sunshine like that. Go on – scat, cat.’

  Tiger ran a few feet away and then stopped and watched as Mr Edwards and the boys now shovelled the freshly dug soil pile they’d made back on top of the roof of the bomb shelter, with Buster trying to help by digging at the pile – which wasn’t really any help at all.

  Mr Edwards wiped his brow as he stopped to look at the instruction leaflet again. ‘It says it needs to be covered with at least fifteen inches of soil above the roof,’ he told Robert and Michael.