CHAPTER 8
The Trenches

May 20, 1917

The stench hit me as I followed Private Kent down the trench. Sweat. Dirt. Feet. Rotten flesh. Rats. Fear. With my sense of smell, one hundred times stronger than a human’s, I could sniff out the lice hidden in the seams of uniforms and strands of hair.

Soldiers filed along the trenches—earthen lanes that twisted to the right and left of us. The sun glinted on their green helmets, making me think of the beetles that scurried about in the fissures of the chalk mines at home.

From headquarters, I had followed Private Kent, Private Carlton and Beast, and six other dogs and handlers. Sergeant Cary-Hough escorted us down the communication trench, then through support trenches filled with supplies and leading to the front line. In some places we walked on wood duckboards. Other places we slogged through mud. When we were close to the Front, the sergeant introduced us to the Battalion Medical Officer. Wounded soldiers would first be carried to him at the RAP, or Regimental Aid Post, a fancy name for a space with a plank floor and dirt walls and roof, outfitted with two bunks and a few medical supplies.

Finally we reached the front line—the trench closest to the enemy. The other dogs and handlers turned south. “We’re headed north toward Wytschaete and the Germans,” Sergeant Cary-Hough said.

Ladders led into and out of the trenches on the sides facing the fighting. The walls were reinforced with logs and sandbags. The soldiers on guard duty stood tall, the barrels of their rifles resting on the parapet. Occasionally, one would shoot a volley in the direction of the German line. Enemy gunfire constantly zinged overhead.

The soldiers who weren’t on duty reached out to pat me, their fingers grimy with gunpowder and dirt. Some stood, eating from their mess kits. Others wrote letters, cleaned guns, or polished boots. Most napped, propped up against trench walls or boxes of ammunition.

Finally, we reported to Second Lieutenant Luckman of the 10th Worcestershire Regiment.

“Pleased to see fresh dogs,” he said. “Let’s hope we won’t need them. As soon as it’s dark, two parties of hand-picked soldiers are raiding a German bunker.”

I could feel Private Kent’s anticipation. Beside me, Beast quivered, as if ready to leap from the trench and take a message back to headquarters. I wasn’t quite as excited about being so near the shooting. Thoughts of the war dogs who hadn’t returned stayed with me.

“Dog 204 will wait with the medical corps in the dugout.” The second lieutenant pointed to wooden stairs leading into the dark. “And 203 will come with the raiding party.”

“The Beast and I are ready for action,” PrivateCarlton said. Private Kent seemed just as happy to lead me down the few steps further into the dank earth.

Cigarette smoke filled the small underground room. Inside stood two men wearing armbands marked with a red cross and an SB for stretcher bearer, and an orderly who also wore a red cross. They nodded. “I’m Robert,” one of the stretcher bearers said. “Welcome to the Front.”

I took notice when I heard the name. I thought of my Robert and Katherine. Would I see them ever again?

“Where waiting feels like eternity,” the orderly added.

“And the biscuits are hard as rocks,” the second stretcher bearer said, trying to bite into one. “I’m Private Thacker. That’s Churchill.” He nodded at the orderly. “And Sir Robert there introduced himself like the gent he is.”

“We’re glad to see a Red Cross dog,” Churchill said. “No man’s land is pitted with craters, bunkers, and abandoned funk ’oles. It’s easy to lose the wounded. The last dog ’elped us bring back every last one.”

I was glad that Private Kent didn’t ask what had happened to the last dog. Instead he ruffled my ears reassuringly and said, “Darling—204—is the best.”

Robert sighed. “Darling. That’s how I start my letters back home to my sweetheart.” Leaning forward, he stroked my head. “Will you be the good luck I need to get back to England and the girl I love?”

“That’s all the lad talks about,” Thacker said. “Me, I’ve got a wife and a passel of kids. My army wages keep the lot from starving.”

“When they pays us,” Churchill grunted.

Thacker cuffed him. “Quit grumblin’. At least you’re not some poor infantry bloke racing across no man’s land in the pitch dark. Unless a shell or bomb hits this dugout, we’re safe.”

“And thank the Queen the mud’s dried,” Robert said. “Last skirmish it took four of us to move one wounded man to safety. Sunk in to our knees, we did. Made perfect targets. The blasted Huns don’t care if you have a red cross on your arm or not.”

I shivered. Private Kent made me lie down beside his leg. Pulling a piece of dried liver from his pocket, he fed it to me. I was glad for my handler. No matter what the situation, he always looked out for me.

For what seemed like forever, we waited in the dim hole. Water dripped from the roof. A rat scurried in the corner. Finally, I put my head down and closed my eyes, trying to shut out the noise, the smell, the rats—and the worry.

Private Kent woke me with an urgent tug on my leash. I jumped to my feet and followed him up the stairs. It was night, starlit and bright. Soldiers lined the trench as far to the right as I could see. Their faces were solemn. To the left was the very end of the trench. Beast and Private Carlton stood there, waiting for orders. Second Lieutenant Luckman strode behind the small group of soldiers on the right, giving words of encouragement. Then he lifted his rifle and climbed the ladder. “Over the top, lads,” he ordered briskly. “We’re headed to Nag’s Nose. Let’s get those Germans.”

All along the trench, soldiers scrambled up the ladders, stepped over the parapet, and disappeared into the night. I strained at the end of the leash, wanting to climb with them, wanting to see what was happening. Private Carlton and an infantry soldier lifted Beast to the top of the parapet. The big hound bristled with excitement as the infantryman took his leash and hurried up the ladder after him. Private Carlton stayed in the trench. If a message needed to be sent from the small raiding party, Beast would carry it back to his handler.

I stayed behind with Privates Kent and Carlton, the orderly, and the stretcher bearers. A small reserve troop from the 10th remained as well. They manned the trench, their rifles pointed in the direction the raiding party had gone, ready to act as reinforcements if needed.

All was silent. Then shots rang out. A volley of machine-gun fire ripped through the night. I jumped at the deafening blast of a bomb. Then silence again.

Had Beast and the others made it across no man’s land? Would there be wounded for me to find? There was no way to know what was happening, and all of us in the trench held our breaths, waiting.

Just when I thought I could wait no longer, we heard a shout. Private Kent climbed the ladder and poked his head over the top of the parapet.

“It’s our boys! All of ’em!” he called down after counting out loud. “Didn’t lose a man. Wait, there’s more coming back than left. Well, I’ll be a plum pudding! They’ve brought prisoners with ’em.”

I whined softly, wanting to see. Private Kent lifted me to the top. I looked from one soldier to the next, finally spotting Beast strutting beside Private Carlton.

“Fine job, Tommies!” a reserve soldier shouted. The men of the raiding party whooped in return. I danced on the parapet, greeting them. Smiles stretched their grimy faces under their helmets.

Suddenly the rat-a-tat-tat of a machine gun made them flatten to the ground. They crawled the rest of the way, then hurried down the ladder, eager to tell the story of the raid.

“Surprised eight Germans, hiding in a bunker.”

“The 33rd Fusiliers.”

“Bayoneted six. They died without a peep.”

“Bet they wish they’d never met a Tommy.”

“Two surrendered.” The last soldier nodded toward the two men in gray uniforms who stood with their heads hanging. “Lucky for them they did, or they’d be dead, too.”

Second Lieutenant Luckman was the last to climb down the ladder into the safety of the trench. “Excellent job,” he told his men. “That’s the proper way to win the war. No mucking about.” Then he turned to the two German soldiers. “Take these prisoners back to headquarters.”

Private Kent kneeled beside me. “Take a good look, lass,” he said. “There’s the enemy.”

I stared at the prisoners, wanting to growl. But then I saw how worn and dazed they looked. And when I studied their faces, I saw that the two hated Germans were just boys, not much older than Robert.