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 pleased. “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.

Now home was a straw bed, a patch of dirt, and a bowl in front of a wooden crate. And worse, I could smell the dog that had lived there before me. I was not fearless like Beast, nor cowardly like Tweed. But somehow I knew that the dog that had lived in this home before me was no longer alive—and it made me tremble.