February 1917
Scree-ee-ee-eech! The squeal of the locomotive hurt my ears. I crouched on the platform by Katherine’s side, wishing I was off with the sheep. Mum wore her best coat. Baby’s wool bonnet was decorated with British flags.
Behind them stood Father, dressed in khaki. I knew this was his uniform because Robert often tried it on and marched around his attic bedroom when no one but me was looking. Father’s back was straight. He frowned when he saw me.
Smoke and steam filled the air. Squee-ee-ee-al! Slowly the locomotive braked to a stop, the noise drowning out Katherine’s and Mum’s sobs.
Soldiers milled around us, waiting to depart. I barely recognized the livery boy in his new army uniform, even though he used to chase Rags and me from the stable every morning. The tailor’s son, the green grocer, and the pastry cook at the inn who sometimes threw us scraps were also dressed as soldiers. None of them paid me mind now.
As a group of soldiers boarded the railway car, cheers rang out. Robert and his friends waved flags and some young ladies held up a banner. The men in uniform gave their last goodbyes. Their smiles were brave, but I could sense their fear.
Father hugged Katherine. “Don’t cry, my pet. With these fresh recruits, the war will be over by Christmas. I’ll be home with presents.”
“A doll from Paris?” Katherine asked between snuffles. “With a lace skirt?”
Robert dropped on one knee next to me. “Darling, look.” He pointed to four soldiers standing like a row of trees alongside the nearest railcar. “See their rifles? They’re guarding us from the Germans.”
“Robert.” Father’s tone was grave.
Robert jumped to his feet. “Yes, sir.”
“You must be the man of the house.” Father stuck out his hand and the two shook. “Mother will need your help.”
“Yes, sir!” Robert saluted him. “And soon I will join you at the Front.”
Father chuckled. “The war will not wait for you to turn eighteen.”
“Geoffrey the chimney sweep enlisted at sixteen,” Robert declared.
“Without his parent’s permission,” Mum said sternly. “And you are but twelve.”
“All aboard!” The conductor’s shout rang down the platform.
Father held Mum one last time. Baby squalled; he hated the noise as much as I did. “Christmas, then,” Father told her. “They are saying the war will be over before year’s end. That’s only eight months.”
Mum nodded, her eyes red. Then she stepped back, Baby clutched tightly in her arms. Father patted my head as if forgiving me for running off. “Watch over them, Darling,” he said before climbing the steps to the railcar.
“Goodbye, Father!” Katherine waved a lace handkerchief. As the locomotive began to move, Robert snatched my rope from his sister’s hand. Together, we wove through the cheering onlookers, toward the end of the platform. Several soldiers swung aboard at the last minute. The giant steel wheels groaned as the train picked up speed.
“Next stop, Portsmouth!” the guard shouted from the top of the railcar’s steps.
“Do you see him, Darling?” Robert asked. I scanned the open windows for Father’s face, barking when I spied him.
“Goodbye, Father!” Robert hollered. “Goodbye!” Stopping at the end of the platform by the stacked freight, he waved at the departing train.
Brown shapes scurried among the wooden crates. My nose twitched. Rats!
I took off, tearing the rope from Robert’s grasp. Dashing between the boxes, I went after the rats. But those pests were quick and clever. If Rags was here, they would have no chance. He caught and killed them with a snap of his jaws. I dashed toward them, but they outwitted me, disappearing in the dark crevices.
I needed Rags’s help and I knew where to find him. Head low, I sneaked away from the clatter of the train on the rails. I made my way to the outskirts of Cosham. By day, Rags often hid in the chalk pits on Portsdown Hill, away from the dogcatcher’s net. It was an easy run for me.
When my nose picked up the scent of the sheep, my pace picked up too. Soon I spied them grazing on the slope. I sunk to my belly and crept along the brown grass, eyes keen. One sheep lifted his head. Then another. They began to trot up the hill and I followed them, circling around the herd.
Go this way! I told them with a nip at their hocks. No, go that way! Confused, they bleated and began to trot faster.
Suddenly I heard the crack of a gun. Farmer James!
“Be off, you bloody mongrel!” Another crack.
I slipped into the middle of the herd, winding among the sheep so Farmer James couldn’t get a clear shot at me. Rope trailing, I plunged through the cowslip, keeping low. Ahead of me were rows of white tents along the swell of Portsdown Hill. Soldiers sat on camp stools and cleaned rifles. Rags and I used to beg at the camp, and the soldiers—training far from home—had been friendly. But things had changed and their faces had grown sterner. Today these soldiers might be as unfriendly as Farmer James.
I ducked into a thicket of hawthorn and wild privet and peered out from under the branches. There was little cover between here and the chalk pits, but once there I would be safe. Still staying low, I darted toward the hills. Suddenly, I was jerked flat. The rope! The loose end was snagged between two hawthorn branches.
I scrambled to my feet. Voices. Someone was coming. I tugged furiously, hoping to dislodge the rope, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Looks like he’s got himself stuck.”
The voices were coming closer. I yanked harder. The knot was beginning to tear free when strong fingers wrapped around my collar.
“Aye, lad. Quit your pulling.” The rope lifted and I was jerked from the brush. Wagging my tail, I looked up, hoping neither of the faces were Farmer James or Constable Cornwall. Two soldiers stared down at me, their caps tipped back.
“He’s a handsome one,” said the man holding my rope. “Has a collar and looks well fed. He must not be a stray.”
“Though someone was shooting at him. I bet he’s run off.” The other soldier looked me over carefully. “Hello, this isn’t a he…this is a she. Isn’t this the collie we named Lassie who comes begging with her mate? The one who comes round with two children from the village?”
“What should we do with her? If the farmer or police catch her, they’re bound to shoot her.”
“Or the dogcatcher will pack her off to Battersea Dogs Home.”
“I heard the army takes the dogs that end up there. Turns them into war dogs.”
I licked the soldier’s hand and whined. He laughed. “She’s telling us she doesn’t want to go to war. I know exactly how you feel, lass.”
“Let’s turn her loose then. She’ll find her way.” The second soldier crouched. “You head home, girl. Dogs all across England are being shot or sent to homes now that the dog tax is so high. Your family must love you a lot to pay it. So go on now.”
He untied the rope. I circled twice, barked a thank-you, and ran off. This time I sped straight toward Cosham village. I hadn’t understood all the talk about Battersea Dogs Home and war dogs. But I knew that I was lucky. It might have been Farmer James who had caught me—and he would not have spared my life.