‘Keeper Ryder, sir.’ Stanley saluted the Major at the desk of Central Kennel HQ.
‘Ah.’ The officer leaped to his feet. ‘Keeper Ryder.’ He moved around his desk to stand in front of Stanley. ‘I’m sorry, lad. Corporal Hunter cabled to say . . . We heard, Ryder, we all heard what your dog did.’
‘Corporal Hunter?’ Stanley asked dully.
The Major nodded, closing his eyes. ‘Yes, he cabled to say the battalion was saved, by the message your dog carried. Not C Company. There – there was nothing anyone could do – but the back lines, the remains of the front line, they got back. Ten minutes after Hunter sent his last cable, the Station was hit. He was killed outright. That cable said the dog deserves a VC, that his courage and sense of duty were the equal of any man.’
Numb and helpless, Stanley allowed himself to be steered by the Major towards the door.
‘They counter-attacked in the late afternoon with fresh troops – the Australians under Colonel Milne took two German divisions. Well, we haven’t stopped the Hun dreaming of Villers yet, but we’ve kept him off for a bit.’
Stanley, lagging a little behind the Major, kicked at the white dust.
‘You’re one of our best men, Ryder. We’ll get you back up there as soon as we can.’
‘No . . . no. I don’t, I don’t – I won’t – go back up, I don’t want another dog.’
‘Follow me.’ The Major seemed to be practised at not hearing. ‘We’ve a dog waiting. The vet will tell you about him. Something else might turn up, but start on this one, and we’ll soon get you back to the Front.’
With no strength to resist, Stanley found himself being led to the Kennels’ Veterinary Hut where he was passed, like a helpless child, from the Major who wished him well, to Lieutenant-Colonel Thorne. Thorne was steering Stanley round to the back of the hut. He took lots of little, fast steps on small, rather dainty feet. Thorne was all chest, his hips and legs tailing away like a tadpole’s.
‘Here he is. Pistol.’
Stanley didn’t look at the dog, was looking directly at Thorne; he didn’t want to be given another dog. Thorne was all puffed-up and pigeon-chested. His face was bird-like, too, round-eyed and sharp-nosed, but he was smiling now, his face crinkling into a bright, surprisingly likeable smile, and he seemed to want some kind of response from Stanley. Stanley looked and saw, briefly, a still, silent dog, coiled on the dusty ground, some sixty feet or so away. Stanley looked back at the Lieutenant-Colonel.
‘I don’t want a new dog. I want to go home.’
The Lieutenant-Colonel had probably heard this before, Stanley realized – was as practised as the Major at shepherding men back into line – but Stanley had nothing to give, no strength, no love, no courage; he had been emptied by grief and loss. He wanted, simply, to be at home. Soldier and Bones had taken all of him with them. He looked away over the blinding white expanse, through the rows of kennels to the tents beyond. He saw only a world drained of colour and feeling. So many men, so many men, but still a boy could drown in his own aloneness. Yet, if Bones had not run home, Stanley thought dully, he too would have been in that Signal Station, he too would have died.
‘You could do the dog some good, help him along . . . He’s had a bad shock.’
Thorne was drawing tentatively closer to the dog. It rose to its feet and whipped around, snarling, cringing, curling its lips, baring its teeth. It was hairless in places, with tufts of hair the colour of steel in others. Its listless eyes made Stanley want to look away, feared to see the head that hung like a weight, the flesh dotted with open sores. The dog widdled where it stood without so much as lifting a leg. Now it was crouching and cowering, every fibre expressing extreme fear. The Lieutenant-Colonel, looking a little hurt, had scuttled back to stand by Stanley.
‘What happened?’ asked Stanley simply. ‘Who did this?’ The dog crouched so low that the raw skin of its belly grazed the ground.
‘Well. It’s a long story . . . This urchin was a stray, rounded up by police in Liverpool. They’re not killing strays any more, you see, that’s how Colonel Richardson got him. Macy, the vet, treated him – he’d a bad case of sarcoptic mange, that’s why the skin’s rough, like a hide in places. Macy gave him a mange wash and its been on the mend for a while now.’
Stanley was looking away, far beyond the tents. I could just start walking, he was thinking, just turn around and walk and walk till I get to the boats.
‘Now look, Keeper Ryder, this dog might not look much but he’s muscular and light, he’s strong and he’s clever. They have brains usually, these summer breeds, and it’s cleverness that you want. He’s good – you won’t have to teach him anything.’
The dog whimpered and dribbled more urine, featherless tail tucked low between its legs, and then sank down to the ground it had just puddled.
‘No,’ Stanley would have shouted to the skies if there’d been any strength in him, but he simply looked at Lieutenant-Colonel Thorne and shook his head. ‘No,’ he repeated out loud. He would be heard. He would go home. Perhaps all officers were used to men saying no, because the Lieutenant-Colonel was still speaking. ‘Don’t be put off by his looks. You see there, around his neck – those patches of skin were very sore, but now they’re softer – see? – bristling with new hair. He’ll look better every day. Earn his trust and you’ll make him a good soldier.’
Stanley saw the dry cracked skin around the ears, the patches of raw flesh. He felt spiritless, sickened, then turned away, unable to fight his revulsion. It wasn’t lovable, this dog, it wasn’t like Bones. No dog could ever be like Bones. Thorne was stepping inside his hut, perhaps to fetch something.
‘N-n-n-no,’ said Stanley, too late for Thorne to hear him. ‘I won’t go back up.’
Remote, and disconnected from all around him, Stanley was still thinking, I will just walk, walk and walk and if they stop me, I’ll tell them I’m too young.
The grey dog gave a strange, heart-rending whimper, prodding Stanley from his dreams. In spite of himself, in spite of his weariness, Stanley crouched and remained a minute or so looking at the dog.
‘Why are you so sad?’ he whispered.
Still crouching, Stanley moved forward. The dog flinched and whipped back with a shotgun reflex, baring his teeth.
‘You’re all spent, aren’t you? As empty and all gone as I am.’ Numb with exhaustion, revulsion and pity, the boy stayed there, head bowed now over his arms. Thorne was at the door, holding out a collar, message cylinder and lead. ‘Wh-what happened? What happened to him?’ Stanley burst out. ‘M-mange, mange on its own – mange doesn’t do this to a dog.’
The Lieutenant-Colonel took a deep breath, his chest inflating beyond all reasonable probability.
‘Pistol saw a short spell of active service but his keeper . . . well, his keeper got shell shock – a bad case, nasty case. He lost his head and lashed out, picked up a gun –’ Thorne covered his eyes – ‘so we were told – held it to the dog’s head and fired . . .’
Stanley reeled. Pistol’s own master had picked up a gun . . . Thorne was still talking.
‘Someone stepped in and pushed the barrel aside, but the dog knew . . .’
To point a gun, Stanley was thinking, at a dog that would give his all, his everything, for you! Disgusted and sickened, Stanley looked at the innocent grey dog on the ground.