For the moment there was to be no attack, the High Command still arguing among itself, the Australians refusing to obey English orders to counter-attack in daylight. Some sort of rations had come up and a queue was forming by Cook. Cook must be relieved, Stanley thought, to put down his bayonet and find himself back in charge of his kitchen. Stanley stayed where he was, his thoughts still with Tom, with Da, his fingers worrying at Pistol’s ears.
Fidget appeared, holding his army biscuits in one hand, in the other a letter. Fidget handed over the biscuits, then, as a thing of infinitely lesser value, the letter. Stanley saw the stamp ‘ON ACTIVE SERVICE’ along the top, saw the stilted hand on the envelope – Da. His heart racing, his palms sweaty, he saw the APO S11 stamp: Cross Mail, the stamp of the Stationary Field Post Office at Etaples – Da was still at Etaples! Stanley took a deep breath, opened the envelope, unfolded the sheet, saw the careful letters and the hand that had laboured over the unwilling words. Warily, he began to read.
Out here? Had Da taken leave of his senses? Had he not—? Soldier not dead – out here? Alive and out here? Stanley raced on.
Stanley gulped and froze. Da hadn’t done it, he’d never done it – he’d taken Soldier to the Home, hadn’t drowned him – Soldier was alive – where? Stanley charged on, scrambling and tripping over words.
Where is he, Da? Tell me where he is.
2176? Stanley’s heart vaulted – blue twos and ones and sevens and sixes shimmered and jumped on the white page. With fumbling fingers, Stanley clutched at Pistol’s collar – he knew the number – but – no – something was wrong – Pistol was 2176. Stanley stared at the tag. The digits leaped and jumped and disordered themselves. Stanley’s fingers released the tag. Stanley began to shake. 2176, Pistol was 2176. Feverish and clumsy, Stanley took up the letter. 2176 it said – Da was wrong – had got the number wrong – Pistol was 2176. Stanley turned from the letter to the collar again and looked, still uncomprehending into Pistol’s troubled eyes. Stanley caught his breath – those dark eyes – his gut lurching with doubt and shock and wondrous hope – those eyes . . . Was it possible – were they Soldier’s? The milky pup he’d held in the palm of his hand, the tiny bundle Rocket had dropped on his lap – was it possible? – Could he have grown so tall? Soldier would be five months now, almost six – Soldier’s tripping, coltish legs – had they grown so long, so fast? Stanley held fistfuls of Pistol’s grey coat. Was this Soldier’s – had the porridge deepened to silver?
Tears streaming down his cheeks, Stanley caught at Soldier’s ears, his tail, his legs, in a fever of amazement.
‘Soldier,’ he choked. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’ With bemused and narrowed laughing eyes, Soldier opened his jaws and grinned back at Stanley. ‘You knew as soon as you saw me, you’ve known all along, but I, I didn’t . . .’
Stanley threw himself on Soldier, held the whole dog in his arms, rocking him back and forth, a sunburst of wonder and warmth erupting in the wounded centre of his heart, unravelling its dark knot of grief. Adrift and weightless on a surge of joy, Stanley leaned back against the sandbag, pulling the dog closer, breathing the warm wet smell of his coat, feeling the quiet tears on his own cheeks.
‘Was it me,’ he asked, ‘me that you were trying to find when you broke free from the home?’
Soldier’s tail flipped to and fro with pleasure at his master’s sudden and unexpected show of affection. That feathery tail and coat – that was the Laxton dog in Soldier, that was Jake, the hound Stanley had met on Rocky Brow the afternoon he’d lost Rocket; but Soldier’s lightness and speed were all Rocket’s.
Holding Da’s letter behind Soldier’s head, Stanley read on.
‘God willing’? What had Stanley done? He stared with blurred eyes at the rumpled, trembling sheet. Drips fell through the trench cover, splodging the ink. Da was out here.
Stanley swung from the dizzy tiptop of joy to the hollows of fear. What had he done?
‘Da must go home, Soldier, this is no place for Da.’ Stanley leaped up. ‘He shouldn’t be here. We must find him, tell him we can all go home now.’
What did the boy want? Soldier’s arched, flickering brows asked.
‘We must find Da and we must take him home.’
His mind racing, Stanley snatched up his pack, clipped a lead on Soldier. He’d tell James that he and Soldier were leaving.
They reached the steps to the Signal Station and Stanley came abruptly face to face with Captain McManus. Behind stood Hamish, the pair of them filling the height and width of the trench, men born to larger lands, to deeper valleys and steeper hills than these.
‘Oh no,’ breathed Stanley and began to shake his head firmly and slowly from side to side.
Holding Stanley’s gaze, the Captain’s blue eyes were worried, his face grim and drawn.
‘No,’ said Stanley. ‘No. I can’t. I have to find my father.’ The Captain didn’t hear, was speaking at the same time.
‘Keeper Ryder, we’ve got to make contact with the men in the Monument. We’ve got to clear the enemy machine-gun positions there before we can counter-attack. Prepare your dog. I’m sending him up by the route under the canal.’
Hamish stepped forward and put a gentle hand on Stanley’s shoulder. Stanley shook his head.
‘No.’
The Captain stepped closer, lowered his voice, and said urgently, ‘Stanley, only the men in the Monument know the enemy positions. We’ve got to get a message back from them. I can get a runner out there, but I can’t get him back up the slope. There’s no cover, it’s too exposed from below.’
‘No. I must find my father.’
‘Stanley, I’ve no choice. Your dog is our only hope.’
You have no choice, but I do, thought Stanley. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head again, ‘I cannot lose this dog, he cannot go.’ Stanley’s words were firm and strong, no dryness, no stammer. ‘No,’ he said again. When the Captain replied, there was anguish in his voice.
‘We lost ten runners, Stanley. Ten.’ Behind Hamish, Stanley saw an Australian infantryman waiting. Stanley glanced out over the parapet. Send Soldier? He spun round.
‘No,’ he said again. ‘No.’
The Captain bent forward and hissed, ‘They’re sitting ducks till they get a message back with the position of the machine guns. Keeper Ryder, the Lancs have no other hope.’
The Lancs. Stanley recoiled as the full agony of his position hit him. Without Soldier’s message, Tom and the men in the Monument could not be saved. Stanley was to lose either a brother or a dog.
‘I’ll go. I’ll go. Don’t send the dog, send me.’
James gave an exasperated shake of his head, stood tall and said in a sharp, clipped voice, ‘I have no other option, and you, Keeper Ryder, have a duty and will obey my order.’
Hamish intercepted gently.
‘You have no choice, Stanley. The dog must go.’
With mingled fear and horror, Stanley turned to Soldier. He saw Soldier’s watchful, flickering brows, his liquid eyes, swishing tail, the poised and ready foreleg. Stanley bowed his head, knelt in the sump water of the trench, held the long grey head and said, ‘Bring me a message from Tom . . . but . . . come back . . . just come back. With a strangled sound, he added, ‘Go, boy. Go,’ as he held out the lead to the waiting infantryman.