‘Clever boy, clever boy, that’s it, take cover,’ breathed Stanley. Minutes passed. Too long, too long – he should be up by now. Stanley glimpsed Hunter shaking his head from side to side. Stanley steadied himself. No, Hunter was wrong, the dog would come up, but where? Fidget clutched at Stanley again – pointing. The dog was out now, keeping tigerishly low to the ground, his brindled body unflinching, negotiating ridges and crests and jagged pieces of iron. They watched Bones make a semicircle round the high, firm edge of a crater.
‘Astonishing . . .’ said Hunter.
Stanley could see in his heart the black triangle ears and shining eyes, hear in his heart the firm tread of his paws. That little message round his neck, if only Bones knew it, would go from Hunter to Brigade HQ, then by dispatch rider to the Corps Commander and on by telephone to an Army HQ, from there to the HQ of the Commander-in-Chief and finally all the way across the Channel to the War Office.
Awash with pride, Stanley saw Bones racing across the ravaged plain. He himself had trained that dog, Stanley told himself, seeing himself opening the cylinder, pulling out the message, checking the time, noting it in his Army Record Book, handing the message to an amazed and grateful Hunter.
Stanley, Hunter and Fidget all stood close, all intent on Bones. Beyond Fidget stretched a row of tense, watching men. Bones dropped into a shallow runnel and Stanley heard Hunter say, ‘Amazing . . . He’s taking cover again . . .’
‘Come, Bones, come,’ whispered Stanley.
There were perhaps only four hundred yards to go. Stanley prepared to let the dog in, holding aside the trench netting over the fire step, fingering the titbit in his pocket, ready with the words, ‘Good boy, good.’
A sudden mortar exploded to Bones’s left and he was tossed skyward in a volcanic eruption of earth and flying steel. Frozen with horror, Stanley saw him, legs upward, like a stuffed toy. The ground fell away beneath Stanley. Numb and sick with dread he searched and searched again the area where he’d last seen the dog.
‘Where did that come from?’ said Hunter. ‘Can you see the dog?’
‘There, sir, a hundred yards, sir, to the north, where the line’s given way – there to the left – an enemy outpost behind the line!’ shouted Fidget.
Hunter gripped Stanley’s arm and pointed. ‘There – he’s there – your dog’s up . . .’
Stanley couldn’t see at first, he was shaking so violently. Then he could – Bones was up, but facing the wrong way.
‘Bones!’ he shouted, starting on to the parapet. Hunter yanked him back. ‘Bones!’ Stanley called again. Bones’s head was turning one way, then the other. He was confused. The dog was flummoxed by his landing, or the shelling. Stanley rammed one fist into the other, sick with dread, but now Bones was racing away in a demented zigzag course perpendicular to that he’d started out on. On and on he went, his back end rounded and hunched. Hunter cursed. Stanley started up the fire step again. The dog was not well, he had to call him back – Bones never deviated from his course. ‘Bones!’ he called. ‘Bones!’
Hunter pulled him back. ‘No . . . No . . .’ Hunter’s arm was around his shoulder now. ‘Get down, stay low. Let the dog go.’
Stanley shook himself free and started forward again.
‘Get down, Ryder. That’s an order,’ barked Hunter.
Two hours trickled by in quiet misery. Stanley combed the plain, inch by aching inch, again and again and again. If Bones were alive he’d come back; he’d been hit perhaps, but he’d been able to run.
The tangle of wire and weeds on the parapet grew dark and indistinct. In the far distance to the north, the enemy guns began again their grumbling and their winking stabs and flashes of light. Knowing that Stanley was waiting for Bones, wouldn’t leave his dug-out till the dog came in, Corporal Hunter carried Stanley’s rations to him. Hunter said nothing but Stanley felt his despair, the despair of all the Devons, whose hope lay in the cylinder around Bones’s neck. Hunter placed Stanley’s rations on the platform, rested a hand on Stanley’s shoulder and said, ‘Eat, Ryder, you must—’ He stopped, open-mouthed, ghastly pale, looking along the length of the trench. ‘Ryder . . .’ Hunter’s voice died away.
At the end of straight bay, the section of trench beyond Fidget, stood Cook, a candle in his hand. Now men were rising, some still holding their mess tins, rising in a wave and standing aside, in silent horror.
‘Ryder – your dog – he’s made it back . . .’ Again Hunter’s whispered words tailed away.
Stanley leaped forward, then stopped. Bones was stumbling, unsure of his legs, of his ground, of his direction – what was wrong? He was staggering, legs buckling and head low, grazing the ground – what was wrong? Those eyes – they were gooey, oozing. Bones couldn’t see. Terrible to watch, blind and staggering, all grace gone, every bending step the heartbreaking depiction of nobility, courage and loyalty.
Cook’s candle was passed down the line. More candles were lit by the men who stood aside, a fitting guard of honour for the great dog stumbling on between them, hocks and stifles bent double.
Not wanting to confuse Bones, Stanley took a slow, deliberate step, holding out his hand, now moving closer again. Bones’s ears flickered. He raised his head an inch or two.
‘Good boy, good,’ Stanley whispered. Bones took another buckling step. One more and he reached his master, staggering, falling at Stanley’s feet. A second passed. ‘Good boy, good,’ Stanley was whispering, but now, with the last of his strength, Bones was straining to rise, to straighten his trembling forelegs, to lift his head to his master.
Stanley saw his ears prick, his tail quiver, and he saw the gummed-up, damaged eyes.
‘Good boy, good.’ With fumbling, useless fingers, Stanley unclasped the cylinder and took out the message, then handed it to Hunter.
Bones’s head thudded to the ground, his jowls loose and sprawling on the dusty duckboards.
Fidget was wringing his hands. ‘Gas, Stanley, he’s been gassed. Shoot him . . . kindest thing . . . to shoot him.’
‘I’ll shoot you before I shoot this dog.’ Stanley heard the anger in Hunter’s voice, turned and saw him wipe his eyes as he tried to read the message.
There was a new note of panic as Hunter, still reading, shouted for a sapper.
‘B Company are holding Boche prisoners. There’s no front line to speak of there – they’re trapped – surrounded on three sides, two hundred feet to the right of the intersection of the road and the sunken railway line. All signalling equipment destroyed before leaving the post. The prisoners have revealed a further attack coming tonight. Twenty-hours.’ Hunter looked up. ‘That’s minutes – fifteen minutes from now – we’ve no front line in this sector – we’re sitting ducks.’ Hunter handed the message to the sapper, whirled around to Stanley, then away again, hesitated and turned back.
‘Fifteen minutes . . . Good God! . . . Thank God, Ryder, for your dog. I’d never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.’ Hunter leaped away, shouting for an AVC man, for a veterinary man, as he ran down to the Signal Station.
Minutes later, there was panic and disorder all along the line.
‘Move backwards. Move backwards. Take up position in the support lines.’
‘Back down the trench. Get back, back down the trench.’
‘Keep moving backwards.’
Amidst the flood of men heading for the communication trench, Stanley sat alone, cradling Bones’s head, searching Bones’s flank for wounds with panicked, jittery fingers. Only fifteen minutes till the Hun attack. He felt a sharp prick in the pad of a finger. Along the lower edge of exposed flank, along the line of the belly, ran a deep gash, the length of a child’s arm, the skin ripped, the pink and white guts laced with barbs of steel. Stanley made a choking sound, hands trembling helplessly above the ragged skin. Blind. Wire in his guts and with gas in his lungs. Oh, when would someone come to help them? He couldn’t carry the dog – would they be left behind as everyone retreated?