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.”