‘These drops will dim your sight till you can see nothing, and that will be a blessing to you.’
Amidst the fog of pain and nausea, there were paws scrabbling at his shirt, quick panting animal breath on his face.
‘Orderly! Over here! Get the dog off him.’
Stanley’s chest tightened with panic.
‘Off. Off!’
Soldier’s paws tore at his chest but Stanley’s arms were pinned down, his head raised, a bandage wrapped around his eyes. He must hold Soldier, keep him close, but he couldn’t move his own head, his arms, couldn’t make them do his bidding. His clothes were on fire, searing him.
‘I said, get that animal off him.’
There was a snarl as the tremulous body on Stanley’s chest was wrenched away.
‘Get the dog off.’
Where were they taking Soldier? Stanley had to summon some strength, had to tell the man that he couldn’t take Soldier away, but his clothes were searing his skin, burning thorns were pricking his raw flesh. He swayed and fell back.
‘Here you – stretcher-bearer!’ another voice shouted.
Someone was cleaning the wound on Stanley’s arm. Now he was being hauled up but his legs were buckling beneath him. Stanley’s good arm was hooked around someone’s shoulder, a sling was hooped around his neck, and his bad arm eased in. Stanley must fight the needles in his throat, must ask the man holding him – Soldier, where was Soldier?
‘You can count yourself lucky you can’t see what I can see. There’s bits and pieces of men all over and nothing we can do for ’em . . .’
One single thought filled Stanley’s entire being, one longing: he must commandeer his useless limbs, must ask, ‘My dog? Where’s my dog?’
He’d made only a feeble gurgling sound, must lift his head, and try again.
‘Soldier!’ But he made no sound and his chest was racked with screaming, throbbing pain.
‘He wants the dog.’
‘Well, I’m not carrying every dead quadruped out of this swamp – there’s tops and tails of ’em all over and these are Medical Corps not veterinary stretchers.’
‘Keep moving.’
Stanley felt the sharp prick of what might be a bayonet.
‘Move on. Hop it.’ There was the click of a rifle loading.
‘I’ll keep the tip of this little toothpick to your backside to speed you along. Now hop it. We’re taking you to the Casualty Clearing Station.’
Stanley was forced forward, crumpling into the arms which held him, legs buckling beneath him, head straining to where he thought Soldier might have been.
Stanley’s good arm rested on the shoulder of the man in front, his left on the handle of a crutch, another man’s hand on his own shoulder. They’d come out of the trenches, there were no duckboards beneath his feet, just cobbles. Around him, men whimpered and moaned. There was something over his shoulders, a blanket perhaps, pressing on his burning skin. His lungs tore at every breath. His bandaged eyes were weeping and clogged. Darkness pressed against his eyes, filling his head, suffocating him. The line shuffled forward, and gentle hands pushed Stanley on, his legs moving without any volition of his own, each buckling step taking him further from Soldier. If only he could let go, sink down, numb to fear and pain and grief.
Somewhere to Stanley’s left there was a shout and a clattering, the rattling of iron on stone, the snorting and whinnying of a horse. Stanley smelt dung and sweat and the thick breath of horses. There were pounding hoofs, a startled whinny, a horse out of control.
‘Squadron Leader Ryder, sir!’ a young voice called out. There was another frightened whinny.
Stanley’s heart vaulted, throttled guttering noises came from his mouth. Tom! That would be Tom. Stanley must get to him, must get the bandage off his eyes. Dropping his crutch, he tore at the blindfold with his good arm – where was that voice? He must stop his legs from bending, must get to Tom.
There were running footsteps again to Stanley’s left. He reached out, but his hand caught only empty air and the footsteps ran on past.
‘Squadron Leader Ryder!’ that first voice cried out, and there was another whinny. Stanley felt a light hand on his shoulder, pushing him forward. Another voice drifted to him through the thick sea of fever.
‘Fifty light draught horses, sir, and twenty draught mules, all properly branded and shod, sir.’
Stanley stopped and swung his head towards that voice. The man behind him shuffled forward, caught the back of Stanley’s right boot and Stanley fell. Lying doubled up with pain, he called out, ‘Tom!’
Gentle hands raised him to his feet. Stanley shook himself free.
‘Tom! Tom!’ Stanley’s throat was tearing; he’d called out but his words had been no more than a strangled, guttering sound. His right hand scrabbled in his pocket. With shaky fingers, he pushed open the matchbox, pulled out the whistle and blew. Notes, too faint for anyone to hear but him, dissolved before they’d risen. He had no breath, there were knives in his throat, no breath in his constricted, gurgling chest.
Stanley must try one last time. Again he blew and the notes were clean and bright but officious hands took his shoulders, pulled him back, pushed him on.
The line shuffled forward, then paused and Stanley waited, head hanging.
Somewhere someone was running, now stopping, now running again. Every muscle tense, amidst the sounds of wheels and hoofs and shuffling boots, Stanley strained to hear those running feet. Nothing. They’d stopped – but there was a new sound – powerful, rippling notes that soared and bubbled in a bright fountain. A whistle – a reed whistle – the notes of the moors, of sunlit uplands and drystone walls, the sound of his boyhood. Stanley’s heart vaulted. His urgent, shaking hand, fumbled for his whistle. Needles jabbed his throat, but with the last of his strength and the last of his breath, he blew. Clear strong notes were rising, floating upward. A trembling second passed, then someone was running, stopping, running again. Stanley stretched his arm out, blind, in the empty air, turning and turning in the darkness. His hand was taken, lowered to his side and he was turned, wrapped in strong arms, was dissolving against a broad chest, feeling the damp on his Da’s cheeks, Da’s hand stroking his own head.
‘Son . . .’
Stanley’s right arm rose, his fingers clawed at the bandages on his eyes; he wanted to see Da’s face.
‘Squadron Leader Ryder! At the double!’
‘He’s here, son, your dog is here. I’m here to find him, to find him, to return him to you.’
Stanley nodded and made a choking sound. Da put his forehead to Stanley’s and they stayed there a second, temple to temple.
‘Messenger Dog 2176. They told me he’s here.’
An immense sob rose within Stanley’s chest and he raised his bandaged eyes, nodding urgently in the direction from which he thought he’d come. He heard Da’s sharp intake of breath.
‘What happened, son? Where is he?’
If Stanley talked with his mouth only, not his throat, perhaps he could just form the words with his lips.
‘I couldn’t see him, Da.’ Stanley’s voice was a desperate whisper but he wasn’t stuttering, his words were forming as he wanted them to. ‘They took me away . . . left him out there.’ He could feel Da’s breath against his face, then felt Da’s lips on his forehead. He clawed again at the bandages on his eyes; he had to see Da – the bandage was in his mouth but his hand caught air as he tried to touch Da.
‘I can’t see you, Da.’
‘Squadron Leader Ryder! At the double!’
Da lifted the bandage and put it back over Stanley’s eyes. He took Stanley’s hands in his own, touching his temple again to Stanley’s, then turning him forward.