A desolate Christmas had come and gone, and still Stanley had heard nothing from Da, from Tom. Had no one even tried to find him? he wondered, as his fingers traced the ‘R.E.’ They’d be amazed, Da and Tom both, if they knew. He’d like them to see him on parade. Stanley’s eyes flickered to the window, and the gates beyond, recognizing now, as he looked, that it was hope that drew his eyes to the gates, hope that Da might come. He’d been here one hundred days exactly and there’d been no word from Da.
If Stanley went to the War Dog School, he’d most likely be detailed to the Western Front and, if he kept his fingers crossed, to France. He wouldn’t write to Tom, not until he got to France. If he wrote before then, Tom might write to Da and get him sent back home. Tom wouldn’t think that his little brother’s having enlisted was a good thing: ‘I will always be thankful,’ his postcard had said, ‘that you were too young to fight.’ Face to face with Tom, Stanley could explain how things had been at home, why he’d had to leave.
Stanley turned from the window, wondering how old Soldier would have been by now, what sort of dog he’d have turned out to be. With a strained glance at the mirror by the door, he straightened his cap.
The six men waiting outside Quigley’s office were clustered around a cutting pinned to the door:
Why had dogs been killed when the Army needed them? ‘Bang. Gone. Horse-meat for France.’ Da had been right to be so angry.
When they were seated, Quigley addressed them. Here, off the parade ground, the man seemed a little diminished.
‘Your time here has only a few days left to run, gentlemen. You are shortly to receive your transfer to Shoeburyness in Essex.’ The Sergeant-Major’s eyes took on a mocking glint. ‘Five weeks seems to be required for the, hmm, Messenger Dog Service.’
Five more weeks, Stanley was thinking, so long till I go to France.
‘This service is a new division of the Signals Service, which as you know, is itself a division of the Royal Engineers. Unike all other Signals Service recruits, you’ll no longer be known as Pioneers, –but as Keepers.’ Quigley’s brows rose in open mockery. ‘Colonel Edwin Hautenville Richardson has been badgering the War Office since 1914 to use his dogs. Well, two of his dogs were trialled by the Royal Artillery, and it appears that they carried messages successfully, so the War Office has allowed him to establish a Dog School.’
Messages? Stanley was puzzled and captivated. How wonderful – to use dogs as messengers!
‘If you fail your training there, you will be returned here.’
I will not, Stanley thought, watching the gleaming moustache twitch, ever come back here; I will never fall into your hands to be bullied again.
Monday, 7 January 1918
Essex
Ten new recruits sat on a series of wooden benches ranged round a dais in front of a window, waiting for the Colonel. Their rough hands, frugal speech and broad faces suggested they were countrymen, ghillies maybe, or farmers or huntsmen.
Through the window, in the last of the day’s light, Stanley saw two fields striped with orderly rows of wooden kennels. The Messenger Dog School was bounded to the east by the sea, to the north by the river. An immense sky dominated the low-lying land, all reclaimed salt marsh, interrupted by hedgerows of scrub elm, ditches and dykes and then the tidal mudflats.
A red admiral, early to arrive, was resting on the window ledge. On its folded wings Stanley saw the flashes of orange red. Stanley would let it out – could do it quickly before the Colonel came in. He rose and moved towards the window. He captured the butterfly, feeling, in the bowl of his palm, its furry thorax and the panicked batting of its powerful wings.
Brisk steps sounded along the corridor. Stanley lifted the sash window and stretched out his arm. The door opened and closed. There were footsteps behind him and Stanley was joined at the window. He opened his palm and glimpsed the black and white tracery of the admiral’s wings as it looped and curved away.
‘Do you know, that tiny wingspan’s no more than seven centimetres . . .’ The voice was entranced and gentle. ‘He weighs perhaps less than two rose petals, but if he hasn’t overwintered here, he’ll have been all the way to Spain or France.’ Stanley turned to face a silver-haired man with a noble nose and stern, periwinkle eyes. He saw too, the Colonel’s smile waver, his eyes sharpen and his arms fall in a gesture of anger and despair. The Colonel turned abruptly. Stanley remembered Quigley’s taunts about his age, remembered the McManus brothers and their fatherly watchfulness, and realized, hurrying to his bench, that they all knew at a glance that he was underage.
Colonel Richardson took the dais and began to speak, his manner courteous but firm. ‘Gentlemen, you are here on probation. I accept only men of the highest character. It is your solemn obligation to display only the qualities you’d like to see in your dogs, because a dog that lives with a man of pluck and courage will itself become plucky and courageous . . .’
The Colonel’s eagle eyes scanned the room, boring into the heart of each recruit, weighing him and assessing him, but always overlooking Stanley. Stanley sat up straight, defiant and intent.
‘I’ll be training you and you’ll be training the dogs. You must forget anything that you’ve ever learned. I don’t want experience . . . I simply want a natural love of dogs.’
Stanley watched the Colonel, challenging him to meet his eyes. He, Stanley, more than anyone here, had a natural love of dogs. He would not be treated as a child . . .
‘Your dogs are new here too. Since arriving, they’ve had twenty-four hours’ isolation and forty-eight hours’ rest. They’ve been dipped and disinfected by Macy, our veterinary head nurse. They’ve been given a leather collar, a tin message-cylinder, a brass tag engraved with “WAR MESSENGER DOG” and a number.’
As the Colonel paused, Stanley heard the thudding of heavy guns from the nearby Artillery practice ground.
‘You’ll each be allocated three dogs. Each dog will have one master. One man and only one man will be his master. You will make each and every thing about his working day a pleasure and a joy to him. You’ll teach him to be a soldier, to have discipline and sang-froid. If a dog is lazy, greedy or cowardly, if he lacks focus or concentration, he will be returned home. Those of you that do well will, when the time comes, serve a fortnight at a time, twelve hours a day, in the front-line trenches with your dogs.’ Still the Colonel was avoiding Stanley, though the boy kept his eyes firmly fixed on him, willing the Colonel to meet his gaze.
Colonel Richardson faced the line of keepers, at his heels a bewildered rabble of dogs, some scrawny, some stout, some tall, whimpering like new children on their first day at school. In the field beyond, chained to their kennels, the experienced dogs, the old hands, snouts held high, surveyed the new recruits – both the men and the new dogs – with silent scepticism.
Stanley would be the last to get his dogs. Starting at the far end of the line, Lance-Corporal Birdwood, known to the men as Birdie, had begun to distribute them.
Birdie and the Colonel were nearing the end of the line. There were two men left to go – Trigger Doyle and Stanley – but only four dogs left in the Colonel’s hands. Were there not enough dogs to go round? Perhaps they’d each have only two dogs. A racy-looking Airedale was still there, along with two very tall dogs and a teddy-bearish sheepdog. Which would be his, and which would be Doyle’s? Stanley glanced sideways at the short, wiry Doyle. His complexion was rough but despite that, and his confidence, he was perhaps as young as Stanley himself. Watching him, Stanley wondered if perhaps Doyle had stood on a pile of books in the recruiting office. Last night he’d introduced himself as ‘Trigger – Trigger Doyle’, and he’d winked at Stanley with a complicity that Stanley didn’t quite like.