CHAPTER 15
Unfit for Duty

June 14, 1917

Sergeant Hanson traveled from the Front several times to visit me. The convalescent horse depot was far enough away that the sound of gunfire didn’t reach us, but the road past it was often crowded with troops and traffic. No matter how noisy it was, though, I could always make out the roar of the motorcycle engine that announced the sergeant’s arrival.

Each time he came he brought more stew. I tried to eat it to show my appreciation. Sometimes I had to force myself. Then he would clean my wound and put on fresh bandages before he returned to the dog squad.

On his fourth visit, he took off his uniform tunic the moment he arrived. After he had removed my bandages, he slipped a looped leash around my neck. “Time for a bath, Darling,” he announced. “Major Clemson says your paws are healed. Your neck wound could use some soap and water.” He wrinkled his nose. “Besides, you smell like bully meat left to rot.”

He led me away from my crate for the first time since my arrival. I hobbled after him, my leg and shoulder still sore. For a moment I stood in the open barn doorway to enjoy the warm sun on the crusty gash on my neck and the cool breeze on my skin where my hair had been shorn.

A bath sounded good even to me.

Private Jimmy was filling a washtub with water with a hand pump. “I added hot water like you asked, Sergeant. Though it seems to me I haven’t had a hot bath myself for weeks.”

The sergeant laughed. “Nor I, Private. But I think we may get plenty wet right now.”

I followed Sergeant Hanson to the tub. The muscles in my shoulder were stiff, but something more was wrong with my right leg. It only moved a short distance with each step. I used to gallop up and down Portsdown Hill, but now I could barely walk.

Private Jimmy watched me with solemn eyes as I came closer. “It’s a shame such a beauty has to be so thin and scarred.”

“She’s still a beauty,” said the sergeant. Carefully, he lifted and set me into the water. At first it stung my still-healing wounds. But after a few moments it felt comforting.

The two men bent over the tub. I stood motionless as Private Jimmy ran warm water from a kettle over my back and Sergeant Hanson scrubbed me with a bar of soap.

Soon the water was brown. The final rinse was a cold shower from a hose. I shook, almost falling over when my wounded side gave way. Sergeant Hanson carried me to a sunny spot by a horse paddock. I rolled in the grass, waving my three good legs in the air.

After the sun had dried me, Sergeant Hanson led me into the barn. He and Jimmy worked on my tangles with horse brushes until I yelped for them to stop. Then they stepped back and inspected me with serious expressions on their faces.

Neither man said a word. I wagged my tail, again wondering what was wrong. Suddenly a terrible thought struck me. The crippled horse had been given extra care, he’d been carefully brushed—and then he hadn’t returned.

I sank down on the floor. I was lame. I wasn’t going to get better. I knew my fate.

Sergeant Hanson put on his tunic. Slowly, he buttoned it. Then he slicked back his hair and set his cap carefully on his head. Private Jimmy brought my old collar, which he’d cleaned with saddle soap, and buckled it around my neck. The “204” stood out once again, no longer covered in dirt and blood. He gave Sergeant Hanson the leash.

“Godspeed,” Private Jimmy whispered.

My heart began to thump as the sergeant led me from the barn. Balking in the doorway, I looked around for the two men who had taken the horse away. They stood by the side of the road under the shade of a tree.

But instead of handing my leash to them, Sergeant Hanson picked me up and carried me to his motorcycle. He set me in the sidecar. I whined anxiously and tried to scramble out.

“Sit,” Sergeant Hanson ordered in a firm voice.

I obeyed, though I couldn’t stop trembling. Private Jimmy waved goodbye as the motorcycle roared from the depot. We bumped down the road, weaving around marching troops and stalled tanks. Safe at the depot, I’d almost forgotten there was a war going on. Why should I care? Even though I wore my collar, I was no longer a war dog.

I had been deemed unfit for service. Only fit to be destroyed.