Bones’s rumbling purr cranked up. The closer the orderly came, the louder his growl. Stanley cuffed him round the ears. Bones looked up briefly, clamping his jaws in injured pride before turning again, unable to suppress a final warning growl.
‘You big silly,’ Stanley said grinning. ‘Don’t be so suspicious.’ Bones’s round eyes shot up to his master, confused, then back to the oncoming danger.
‘No, Bones. No. We’re going to walk through the village again this afternoon, and we’ll keep on and on, until you learn not to guard me but to come home to me.’ Bones shuffled back against Stanley, rump on Stanley’s feet, head against his hip bone, intermittent rumblings still escaping. Stanley handed the lead over to the orderly.
‘Leave,’ Stanley commanded. Bones looked up, mystified. Was Stanley really sure, those chestnut eyes asked: was it not madness to go off with someone else?
‘Leave.’
Bones leaped up good-naturedly and loped away with his springy, easy gait to take his place beyond the infantry.
Stanley scuffed the grass with his boot. Yesterday Bones had advanced, then reversed, casting around for a way to Stanley which avoided the infantry. When he’d found none, the pack instinct had tugged him forward with the other dogs into the storm of blanks. Bones was wilful, but he must do what was asked of him, not what he thought best.
A whistle blew. The infantry burst into fire. It was hard, in the smoke and confusion, to see what was happening, but there – there was the first dog – already on the nearside. Stanley searched the flurry of dogs tearing home. No Bones. Now that the smoke was beginning to lift, Stanley could see the line of orderlies beyond the riflemen. Bones wasn’t among them, nor among the rush of tail-wagging dogs greeting their keepers. Stanley felt a flicker of irritation that all Doyle’s dogs had arrived home. Where had Bones gone? Stanley whirled round and Bones hurled himself at him, breathless and slobbering and frantic with pride, looking as though he might vault into the boy’s arms. Bones had gone the long way round behind the shed, avoiding the gunfire, coming up at Stanley from behind, but Stanley saw the pride in his shining, black-rimmed eyes, and his exasperation melted at the sheer charm of the dog, at his child-like exuberance.
‘Sit,’ commanded Stanley with his hand only. Bones chomped and slathered, and reluctantly sat, waiting for his reward. Stanley kept his hand raised; there’d be no reward this time. Bones snuffled Stanley’s pocket for his titbit.
‘No,’ said Stanley. ‘You’ll go back and do it again, until you get it right.’
Bones was taken forward again and again, but each time avoided the guns. Stanley’s tone grew firmer. Once again Stanley signalled for an orderly to collect Bones. All the other men and dogs had finished, leaving only Stanley, the orderly, Bones and the infantry in the gathering dusk.
‘Wait,’ Stanley called, racing up behind the orderly. ‘I’ll go with him. I’ll walk through the guns with him, I’ll show him myself what he must do.’
‘Are you sure, Keeper Ryder?’
Stanley braced himself as he looked towards the sinister barrels of the rifles, and nodded. He didn’t want to but he would – to show Bones. They took their place beyond the infantry. The orderly blew a whistle, released Bones’s lead.
‘Come, Bones, come. Follow me.’ Stanley started off at a run. The blanks and the noise wouldn’t hurt him any more than they’d hurt Bones. Stanley tensed as the guns burst into fire, but forced himself onward into the red flashes of red, and the noise, Bones loping cheerfully along at his side.
They’d reached the line and gone through. As they reached their post, Stanley raised his hand, then held out some chopped liver, saying, ‘Good boy, good. Now, go, Bones, on your own now. The way I showed you.’
‘Last time,’ shouted the infantry officer, checking his watch, as the orderly collected Bones. The dog took his place. Stanley kept his eyes on him, willing Bones to do what was asked.
‘Come, Bones, come,’ he breathed. The whistle blew and Bones was released. Bones paused, forepaw raised and hesitant, his expressive head cast in an unusually thoughtful attitude. Bones, thought Stanley smiling, was not a dog much given to thoughtfulness. Bones was loping forward now, not step by trembling step as the other dogs had run into the guns, but with playful, headlong nonchalance.
That evening the Colonel sought Stanley out in the canteen and told him that he must continue for another week on the Firing Drill, while other men progressed to the Heavy Guns. Bones had to be very clear, the Colonel said, what was expected of him. After all they’d gone through that day, Stanley gritted his teeth.
‘Yes, sir,’ Stanley said as gamely as he could manage. He wouldn’t be beaten, he would do whatever it took.
Stanley’s personal frustration was echoed in the prevailing mood of the country. The New Year had brought new depths of gloom and despair. The Hun had come back after Cambrai with a tiger’s pounce and now those church bells looked premature and foolish.
Day after day went by in this way until the Colonel signalled, with a forced and silent nod, to move them on to the Heavy Guns. Bones was used to the distant thundering of the guns, but today he’d be no more than twelve feet away from them and must remain calm and still as they pounded away.
Stanley stood waiting with Bones, his pockets full of chopped liver, ready to distract the dog if he took fright at the heavies. Bones was alert, his close-set ears pricked high. Stanley eyed the eighteen-pounders nervously. At a signal the gunners burst into fire, and Stanley held his hands up against the deafening roar. Bones launched his entire bulk at Stanley as though to leap into his arms. Boy and dog fell together, tangled on the damp grass, Bones trying to bury himself beneath Stanley, the ground rattling under them, but now Bones was snuffling at the liver in Stanley’s pocket. Stanley laughed despairingly, disentangled himself and sat up. Bones let a distracted growl escape in the direction of the guns, then nosed again at Stanley’s pockets.
‘Big silly,’ Stanley said. ‘Sit.’ Bones sat, growling sporadically at the guns, chains of saliva swinging greedily from his jowls. Stanley fed him a titbit. ‘Good boy,’ he kept whispering.
On and on went the hurricane of ear-scorching fire. Only Bones among the fretful, unsettled animals sat firm, head up, highly conscious of his own majesty and dreaming of raw liver.
After another week, Stanley and Bones moved on to Bomb Drill. As they joined the circle of men and dogs around a deep pit, Richardson addressed the keepers.
‘This is the third exercise in preparation for No Man’s Land, and is designed to accustom the dogs to mortar bombs. At my first whistle, the orderlies will throw raw meat into the pit. At my second, they’ll throw dummy mortar bombs on to the surrounding area. At my third, you will release your dogs. This training will be very gradual. Don’t speak roughly to your dogs. If a dog fails, take him back to try again, and if he does it well, if he eats from the pit, reward him.’
Stanley eyed the vicious-looking grenades the orderlies held. He looked at Bones sitting statue still. Next to Bones were Trigger Doyle and his dogs, keeping, like everyone else, a respectful berth around Bones. Stanley liked Trigger, liked that Trigger took everyone as they came, not minding that Stanley didn’t talk much. Trigger said he worked as a ghillie, but Stanley wasn’t sure, thought there was something raggedy, perhaps, about Trigger’s morals. More poacher than ghillie, Stanley thought to himself. Still, he liked Trigger.