CHAPTER 11
“The Fight Is ‘ere”

Early June 1917

The nick on my ear healed quickly. Zero hour—the moment when the British would attack the Germans on Messines Ridge—was nearing. The exact time was kept secret, but soldiers and support staff were ordered to begin preparations. Battlefield rehearsal areas were marked, and the platoons practiced and drilled. Soldiers hauled out giant howitzers and set them up under camouflage nets. Ammunition was stocked, and bread was baked and stored. All the activity reminded me of the bees on the cowslip blooms on Portsdown Hill.

The Hill was still in my memory. As were the sheep, Rags, Robert, Katherine, and my cozy bed by the fireplace. But they were growing hazier each day. My time on the Front was spent in anxious waiting, then furious searching. There was little time to dream.

The British repeatedly shelled the German lines. Between shellings, they sent raiding parties to clear the enemy’s trenches. Each night, I led Private Kent or Sergeant Hanson to the fallen. In three days, I found more than fifteen wounded soldiers. When they were tucked safely behind British lines, my job was done. Then I would eat heartily—and sleep.

One night we accompanied the 3rd Australian Division. The men were strong and their laughter was confident. The dog squad marched with the medical corps as we followed the Australians to the unit’s jumping-off point. We then helped stock a Regimental Aid Post in an old bunker slightly at the rear. I was fetching a stick one of the orderlies threw when I heard the plop of a gas shell.

I let out a bark of alarm and Private Kent, who knew I would not break training, saw the canister. He began to holler and at the same time he yanked out our masks. I ran toward him, my eyes burning. This time I was glad to have the mask pulled over my muzzle.

“Tear gas!” one of the medical men yelled. More shells plummeted from the sky like giant hailstones.

Many masks were pulled on too late, and soldiers began to gasp. The command was given to advance from the area, and the Australians’ march turned into a gallop. Private Kent and I had orders to return to headquarters after the RAP was set up. Hurriedly we left. When the tear gas was far behind us, Private Kent took off my mask. I rubbed my muzzle and head in the dirt until they felt clean.

We got in late that night. Private Kent bathed my eyes, but they still stung and I slept fitfully.

When I awoke the next morning, I saw half-dressed handlers streaming from their tents. The men clustered around Sergeant Hanson. I stood at the entrance to my crate, at the ready. Soon we would be seeing action.

The handlers huddled for a long time. Finally, after Beast began to howl for his breakfast, the group headed toward the field kitchen. Private Kent brought me my food bowl. He wore no shirt, his suspenders black lines on his thin white chest.

“Darling, the fight we’ve been waiting for is ’ere,” he said as he set down the bowl. I tucked into it, gulping the meat and bread.

“And a massive battle it’ll be. Just think of it—if the battle were a bucket of water, then you and me, why we’d be just two drops,” he explained. “The sergeant says there are over two thousand big guns and ’owitzers set up over sixteen kilometers. Enough to blow the Germans to Paris.”

I licked up the last of my breakfast.

Squatting, Private Kent stroked my head. “The Royal Flying Corps will keep the Germans busy from the air with their Sopwith fighters, and the tanks will roll over them on land. You remember those Mark IVs, lass?”

I wagged my tail, wishing there had been more meat and less bread.

“There are seventy-seven of those clanking creatures. Only I’m betting the Germans have the same arsenal. I pity the poor soldiers who have to face ’owitzers, planes, and tanks with only a rifle…” His voice trailed off and he shook his head sadly. “We finally know that zero hour is 0300 tomorrow morn. I fear we’ll be spending all the next day gathering what’s left of those brave Tommies who think they can win against such weapons.”

I had never heard Private Kent speak so long—and so solemnly. I laid my head on his knee and he ran his fingers through my fur. “You’re the best partner a bloke could ask for,” he said, speaking low as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “I just wanted to tell you in case…” His voice broke. Quickly he stood, coughed behind his fist, and asked, “Ready for a brushing, girl? Sergeant Hanson wants the dog squad in tiptop shape.”

I tossed my head playfully, trying to erase the sad look in his eyes.

“All right then,” he said with a weak grin, “I’ll get the brush.”

When he left, I glanced at the crate next to me, where Beast was making a racket. His handler brought him breakfast and the hound leaped so high that he almost flipped over. The other dogs began leaping about, too. Tweed was the only one who didn’t join in the excitement.

I left Beast to his meat and bread and went over to Tweed. We sniffed each other, and I could feel her nervousness. The searching had been hard on the Airedale. Her toenails were chipped and her eyes were dull. When she wasn’t working, she paced in front of her crate, wearing a path in the earth. Even liver treats from Private Reeves didn’t soothe her.

I whined low in my throat, trying to tell her that soon it would be over.

Or so I thought.