Darling, Mercy Dog of World War I

  Darling

  Mercy Dog of World War I

  Written by Alison Hart

  Illustrated by Michael G. Montgomery

  To all the brave and dedicated working dogs

  —A.H.

  For my dogs—

  devoted and steadfast companions

  through the years

  —M.G.M.

  CHAPTER 1

  Runaway

  February 1917

  Darling is going to be a nurse,” Mistress Katherine said. I felt a tug on my collar as she pulled me toward her.

  “Darling is going to be a soldier!” Master Robert declared. A harder tug yanked me toward him.

  Katherine set a pretend nurse’s cap on my shaggy head. “The British soldiers need Darling to care for their wounds,” she insisted.

  “No, silly goose.” Robert whisked away the cap and replaced it with a heavy helmet. “She will be in the trenches on the Front, fighting.”

  The three of us were in the fenced yard behind “home,” a small brick house in the village of Cosham in England. A pigeon flew from the eaves and flapped over my head. I leaped up, trying to catch it, and the helmet toppled to the ground.

  Katherine grinned. “See? Darling doesn’t want to be a soldier.” She reached for the nurse’s cap, still in Robert’s hand. “Give it to me, please.”

  “Never.” Robert tossed the cap into the rosebush. “She will be a sergeant, like Father.”

  “Oh, you brute! Mummy!” Katherine hollered as she ran for the back door.

  Another pigeon fluttered from the eaves. I jumped, and it soared upward. Ears pricked, I raced after the bird as it glided over the picket fence. I dove beneath the rosebush. The thorns snagged my fur but couldn’t get through the thick rough of my coat. Working furiously, I widened the hole I had been digging for days.

  “No, Darling.” Robert grabbed my collar. “You mustn’t run off. Father is leaving for France this morning. We have to say goodbye.”

  Dirt flew from beneath my paws. Tugging free from Robert’s grasp, I crawled under the fence. Rags met me on the other side, his terrier whiskers bristling with excitement. We raced down the dirt lane. Pigeons burst from sidewalks and stoops, taunting us.

  No pigeon could escape us! Rags and I darted right and left. Turning the corner, Rags led the way up High Street.

  “Get outter the way, you mutts!” Cart wheels barely missed my paw. A burlap sack of last year’s potatoes fell onto the walk in front of me. Thomas, the fruit seller’s cob, whinnied. His hooves danced and his harness jingled as if he wanted to gallop away with us.

  In the distance, I heard Robert and Katherine calling. But I was tired of playing soldier and nurse. Running free was too fun.

  A horn honked as we crossed the cobbled road. Tires screeched. A cane whacked at my head. The baker’s boy yelped as we wound around his legs. Rags zipped past the post office.

  Sparky the postmaster’s dog used to bark from the doorway when we went past. Sweet from the dress shop would chime in with her yips. Where were they now? Lately, Rags’s and my barks were the only ones to be heard.

  I lifted my muzzle in the air. The smell of meat and marrow teased my nose.

  The butcher’s boiling bones! We both knew what that meant. Bones to steal. Bones to gnaw. Bones to bury.

  Rags tossed a “hurry up” bark over his shoulders. Panting, we careened down Wayte Street and stopped at the back corner of the shop. A huge cast-iron kettle steamed over a wood fire. There was no sign of the apron-clad butcher and his cleaver.

  Rags crouched in the shadows around the corner. I waited politely by the back door. My ears pricked when it creaked open.

  “Aye, Darling, you artful beggar. Are you looking for a bit of a treat?” the butcher asked.

  I sat back on my haunches and lifted my paws prettily.

  Plucking two bones from the pot with bare fingers, he tossed them to me. “Don’t be wasting them now. Times are hard since food’s been rationed, and the winter’s been so cold.” He sighed. “I wish this bloody war would end.”

  Rags darted out, snatched a hot bone, and ran off. I barked a thank-you. Delicately, I picked up my bone between my teeth so as not to get burned and trotted after him. He was hiding behind a barrel, gnawing greedily. Rags had grown wary of the police, who shot strays. Since he had no family, he was always hungry. I dropped my bone by his front paws. I knew he would bury it for later.

  Leaving Rags to his treat, I made my way back to High Street. I did have a family. I thought of Robert and Katherine, calling after me. My heart tugged in the direction of home. But my nose pointed north to the sheep pasture just beyond the village.

  Excitement made me trot briskly. Sheep were in my blood. My mum herded on a farm on the outskirts of Cosham. Before my new family had taken me home to live with them, I herded too.

  Past the Railway Hotel, I broke into a run. Portsdown Hill rose in the distance. Sheep dotted the brown foothills like specks of snow. I dashed up the tram line. I heard clattering and clanking and looked over my shoulder to see the emerald green streetcar. It barreled toward me on its way over The Hill. I scooted off the tracks to let it pass. Sheep flowed away from the racket in a wave of white.

  “Darling!”

  “Oh, do be careful!”

  Robert and Katherine stood on the other side of the tracks, waving and shouting. They had put on mittens and caps against the cold.

  Caught! I trotted over the tracks toward my children. My tail was tucked. My ears drooped as I tried to look sorry for running off. Katherine and Robert hurried toward me.

  “Naughty girl!” Robert tied a rope to my collar. “It’s a wonder Farmer James hasn’t shot you. We must hurry now and get to the train station. Father is shipping off for France.”

  “Even though he shouldn’t go to war.” Katherine sounded like Mum. She pulled me close and made sure the knot in the rope was tight. “Father is simply too old. Come along, Darling. Mummy’s waiting at the train station with Baby. She’s been weeping ever since Father volunteered.”

  I cast a wistful glance at the sheep. I didn’t care about Father shipping off. I didn’t care that Mum was weeping. I didn’t care about war and hard times. But I followed Katherine and Robert, wagging my tail and pretending that I did.

  Until I could run away again.

  CHAPTER 2

  Farewell

  February 1917

  Scree-ee-ee-eech! The squeal of the locomotive hurt my ears. I crouched on the platform by Katherine’s side, wishing I was off with the sheep. Mum wore her best coat. Baby’s wool bonnet was decorated with British flags.

  Behind them stood Father, dressed in khaki. I knew this was his uniform because Robert often tried it on and marched around his attic bedroom when no one but me was looking. Father’s back was straight. He frowned when he saw me.

  Smoke and steam filled the air. Squee-ee-ee-al! Slowly the locomotive braked to a stop, the noise drowning out Katherine’s and Mum’s sobs.

  Soldiers milled around us, waiting to depart. I barely recognized the livery boy in his new army uniform, even though he used to chase Rags and me from the stable every morning. The tailor’s son, the green grocer, and the pastry cook at the inn who sometimes threw us scraps were also dressed as soldiers. None of them paid me mind now.

  As a group of soldiers boarded the railway car, cheers rang out. Robert and his friends waved flags and some young ladies held up a banner. The men in uniform gave their last goodbyes. Their smiles were brave, but I could sense their fear.

  Father hugged Katherine. “Don’t cry, my pet. With these fresh recruits, the war will be over by Christmas. I’ll be home with presents.”

 
; “A doll from Paris?” Katherine asked between snuffles. “With a lace skirt?”

  Robert dropped on one knee next to me. “Darling, look.” He pointed to four soldiers standing like a row of trees alongside the nearest railcar. “See their rifles? They’re guarding us from the Germans.”

  “Robert.” Father’s tone was grave.

  Robert jumped to his feet. “Yes, sir.”

  “You must be the man of the house.” Father stuck out his hand and the two shook. “Mother will need your help.”

  “Yes, sir!” Robert saluted him. “And soon I will join you at the Front.”

  Father chuckled. “The war will not wait for you to turn eighteen.”

  “Geoffrey the chimney sweep enlisted at sixteen,” Robert declared.

  “Without his parent’s permission,” Mum said sternly. “And you are but twelve.”

  “All aboard!” The conductor’s shout rang down the platform.

  Father held Mum one last time. Baby squalled; he hated the noise as much as I did. “Christmas, then,” Father told her. “They are saying the war will be over before year’s end. That’s only eight months.”

  Mum nodded, her eyes red. Then she stepped back, Baby clutched tightly in her arms. Father patted my head as if forgiving me for running off. “Watch over them, Darling,” he said before climbing the steps to the railcar.

  “Goodbye, Father!” Katherine waved a lace handkerchief. As the locomotive began to move, Robert snatched my rope from his sister’s hand. Together, we wove through the cheering onlookers, toward the end of the platform. Several soldiers swung aboard at the last minute. The giant steel wheels groaned as the train picked up speed.

  “Next stop, Portsmouth!” the guard shouted from the top of the railcar’s steps.

  “Do you see him, Darling?” Robert asked. I scanned the open windows for Father’s face, barking when I spied him.

  “Goodbye, Father!” Robert hollered. “Goodbye!” Stopping at the end of the platform by the stacked freight, he waved at the departing train.

  Brown shapes scurried among the wooden crates. My nose twitched. Rats!

  I took off, tearing the rope from Robert’s grasp. Dashing between the boxes, I went after the rats. But those pests were quick and clever. If Rags was here, they would have no chance. He caught and killed them with a snap of his jaws. I dashed toward them, but they outwitted me, disappearing in the dark crevices.

  I needed Rags’s help and I knew where to find him. Head low, I sneaked away from the clatter of the train on the rails. I made my way to the outskirts of Cosham. By day, Rags often hid in the chalk pits on Portsdown Hill, away from the dogcatcher’s net. It was an easy run for me.

  When my nose picked up the scent of the sheep, my pace picked up too. Soon I spied them grazing on the slope. I sunk to my belly and crept along the brown grass, eyes keen. One sheep lifted his head. Then another. They began to trot up the hill and I followed them, circling around the herd.

  Go this way! I told them with a nip at their hocks. No, go that way! Confused, they bleated and began to trot faster.

  Suddenly I heard the crack of a gun. Farmer James!

  “Be off, you bloody mongrel!” Another crack.

  I slipped into the middle of the herd, winding among the sheep so Farmer James couldn’t get a clear shot at me. Rope trailing, I plunged through the cowslip, keeping low. Ahead of me were rows of white tents along the swell of Portsdown Hill. Soldiers sat on camp stools and cleaned rifles. Rags and I used to beg at the camp, and the soldiers—training far from home—had been friendly. But things had changed and their faces had grown sterner. Today these soldiers might be as unfriendly as Farmer James.

  I ducked into a thicket of hawthorn and wild privet and peered out from under the branches. There was little cover between here and the chalk pits, but once there I would be safe. Still staying low, I darted toward the hills. Suddenly, I was jerked flat. The rope! The loose end was snagged between two hawthorn branches.

  I scrambled to my feet. Voices. Someone was coming. I tugged furiously, hoping to dislodge the rope, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “Looks like he’s got himself stuck.”

  The voices were coming closer. I yanked harder. The knot was beginning to tear free when strong fingers wrapped around my collar.

  “Aye, lad. Quit your pulling.” The rope lifted and I was jerked from the brush. Wagging my tail, I looked up, hoping neither of the faces were Farmer James or Constable Cornwall. Two soldiers stared down at me, their caps tipped back.

  “He’s a handsome one,” said the man holding my rope. “Has a collar and looks well fed. He must not be a stray.”

  “Though someone was shooting at him. I bet he’s run off.” The other soldier looked me over carefully. “Hello, this isn’t a he…this is a she. Isn’t this the collie we named Lassie who comes begging with her mate? The one who comes round with two children from the village?”

  “What should we do with her? If the farmer or police catch her, they’re bound to shoot her.”

  “Or the dogcatcher will pack her off to Battersea Dogs Home.”

  “I heard the army takes the dogs that end up there. Turns them into war dogs.”

  I licked the soldier’s hand and whined. He laughed. “She’s telling us she doesn’t want to go to war. I know exactly how you feel, lass.”

  “Let’s turn her loose then. She’ll find her way.” The second soldier crouched. “You head home, girl. Dogs all across England are being shot or sent to homes now that the dog tax is so high. Your family must love you a lot to pay it. So go on now.”

  He untied the rope. I circled twice, barked a thank-you, and ran off. This time I sped straight toward Cosham village. I hadn’t understood all the talk about Battersea Dogs Home and war dogs. But I knew that I was lucky. It might have been Farmer James who had caught me—and he would not have spared my life.

  CHAPTER 3

  Letters from Father

  Beginning of March 1917

  This is a jolly good day for you, Robert,” Mister Crispin said when we entered the post office. He pushed a small stack of envelopes across the counter. “You have two letters from your father.”

  Robert’s eyes shone eagerly as he took them. “Is one addressed to me?” he asked.

  “It is.” The postmaster chuckled and leaned over the counter. “Good day to you, Miss Darling,” he said to me. “Are you going to join your master in the war?” He pointed to a bulletin tacked on the wall. “The British Army is using dogs as well as lads.”

  “Really?” Robert led me over to the bulletin. It showed a dog standing proudly on a hill. Bombs blasted behind him. “See Darling? That German shepherd is a soldier. I told Katherine you could be one.”

  “They don’t call them German shepherds anymore,” Mister Crispin said. “They call them Alsatians. On account of us hating the Huns since the war started.”

  Robert read aloud from the poster. “‘Even a Dog Can Aid the War Effort. Why Not You?’” He puffed out his chest. “I would go in an instant, Mister Crispin,” he declared.

  “I too. But alas, I am old with poor eyesight and flat feet. Now hurry home. Your mum will be anxious for those letters. You let me know how your father is faring.”

  “Look, Darling, one is addressed to me!” Robert said. I trotted beside him as he hurried to the top of High Street. Sitting on the chemist shop’s stoop, he carefully opened the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper.

  “‘Dear Robert,’” he read. “‘Mother writes that you and Katherine are working hard at your studies and properly doing chores. Thank you for being a good son. She tells me that Darling is still running off and that Farmer James has complained about Darling worrying the sheep.’”

  Robert frowned. “I told Mum not to tell Father about that. You don’t hurt the sheep. And you always come back…right, girl?”

  I laid my head on his leg. My muzzle twitched; I could smell meat from the butcher’s. Lately, all Katherine fed me was a boil
ed egg or bread soaked in milk. The butcher had been tossing fewer bones as well. I licked my lips. My mouth watered for shepherd’s pie and minced beef.

  Robert ruffled my ears as he continued reading. “‘The French Armies use dogs, and the British are training them, too. Messenger dogs are smart and swift. Sentry dogs are keen and brave. Darling would be fine at either. I know this will be hard for you and your sister, but the dog tax has gone up to ten shillings, and we can no longer afford to keep her. I have written Mister Seligman, the area recruitment officer. He will be coming round to the house to pick up’”—Robert gasped—“‘to pick up Darling’!” He leaped to his feet, startling me. “What is Father saying? That you are to go to war? I won’t allow it! Father says I am in charge. I’ll tell Mum we need you here.”

  Tugging my rope, he raced down the lane toward home. Robert seemed upset, but I was happy to be off with him.

  “Mum! Katherine!” Robert hollered as we rounded the corner. Mum stood on the front walk, talking with Missus Ketchum from next door. Katherine leaned over Baby’s pram. “Who’s my wittle ducky?” she cooed.

  I skittered to a halt as Missus Ketchum swung round, glaring at me. “There’s the scalawag that done this!” She held up a white pillow slip and lacy undergarments, all streaked with dirt.

  “And you can’t play innocent. Look ’ere.” She held a petticoat under Robert’s nose, and he flushed. Brown paw prints dotted the fabric. “It don’t take Sherlock ’olmes to figger out ’oo’s guilty.”

  I slunk behind Robert. Rags had been the one to pull down the wash, but I had joyfully trampled it.

  “I am so sorry, Missus Ketchum. We try to keep her from running loose.” Mum’s face was dark with anger. “Robert, take Darling inside and lock her in the cellar.”

  “Yes ma’am.” Head low, Robert led me into the house and down the narrow hall. He opened the door of the dank cellar. I hesitated, not wanting to go down the narrow steps. “You have made Mum furious, Darling. When Mister Seligman comes, she’ll be only too eager to be rid of you.” He sighed deeply.