One day, I went down to the beach in just such a mood of contemplation. Hands in my pockets, collar up against the wind.
Then I saw, slightly distorted by the reflections on the wet gleamy sand, what I took to be a man running along the water’s edge. Absurdly, spontaneously, I thought: was this my German doppelgänger come to meet me?… I peered at the distorted black shape, trying to separate bouncing solid from bouncing reflection. A man? A small man? He was certainly moving in a curious gait. I seemed to see a cripple, terribly bent over, hunched, traveling along in a fast lolloping limp.
Then as I looked the enigma resolved itself. A dog, rather large, bounding along in a kind of easy half gallop, pausing occasionally to sniff at seaweed or a piece of tide wrack before starting off again. I watched it approach. Then it saw me and changed course. The loose-limbed canter became a pelting, ears-back gallop. I felt uneasy, then fearful. Bloody hell, I thought crazily, what if this is some sort of Hun secret weapon? Killer dogs loosed behind the lines? Mad … rabid.
I looked down at my heavy boots. I’ll kick it in the throat, I said to myself, none too confidently. The dog was three hundred yards away and approaching fast. I threw away my cigarette, turned and ran for the dunes. I was seriously impeded by my greatcoat and heavy boots. I flashed a glance over my shoulder. Christ! It was coming at me like a cheetah — head down, tail out. I could hear the skittering thump of its feet on the sand.
“Help!” I bellowed aimlessly at the tranquil dunes. “Bastaaaaaard!”
The dog was on me as I lumbered vainly along. Jumping up and down, barging into me, tongue lolling, darting forward and back, crouching down like a pseudo-beast of prey in that irritating manner dogs have when they want some fun. I stopped, threw my head back and gulped air, hands on my hips.
The dog, I saw, was quite big, with untidy gray fur and a blunt stupid face. It looked like a cross of Irish wolfhound, setter and bull terrier. It came up to me, tail wagging, and stuck its nose in my crotch.
“Get off! Dirty bugger!”
I slapped its face away. I felt hot, angry and itchy from my hectic run. I wiped sweat from my eyebrows and upper lip. My peaceful, contemplative stroll had been ruined by this idiot hound, which was now, as far as I could see, eating sand.
I trudged back through the dunes towards the company lines, the dog following. I spoke violently to it (it is strange how we address dumb animals so, is it not?).
“If you don’t leave me alone, I’ll go back to camp get my rifle and shoot you.”
The dog was adopted by the bombers as section mascot. Bookbinder and Pawsey made a great fuss of it giving it tins of MacConnachie stew several times a day. A name was chosen by lottery (I did not participate) and the dog became known as Ralph — Tim Somerville-Start’s choice. I wanted nothing to do with the beast. In fact I was rather superstitious of it — it had come from the direction of the German lines, after all. I refused to call it Ralph, never petted it and every time it shat in the tent, pissed on someone’s shoes, knocked over stands of rifles, coffeepots and mess tins, my voice was loudly raised urging its peremptory execution. But the animal never left me alone. It came to me, it sat by me, it slept as near to me as it was allowed. This provoked considerable jealousy among the others.
“Are you feeding Ralph secretly, Todd?” Pawsey demanded.
“Come here, boy, here, here,” Teague would call. The dog never budged.
“I think Todd must have some special dog-smell,” Kite said. “See how Ralph is always trying to snuffle at his balls?” Much laughter at this.
“Some sort of Scotch affinity with the beasts of the field,” Bookbinder said.
“Scots or Scottish. Scotch is whiskey,” Druce said.
“Thank you, Druce,” I said. “Look, I want to kill the damn thing. I hate it.”
“Och aye! The fury of the Pict when roused,” Somerville-Start said. “Perhaps we should see how Ralph reacts to the pipe band. Here, Ralph. Here, Ralphie boy. Biscuit.”
Ralph went to him. He was always lured by food.
There was a certain amount of tedious, though good-natured, mockery of my accent, which at that time was quite marked and in strong contrast to the others in the tent. I was something of the odd man out in more ways than this. Teague and Somerville-Start had been to the same school. Most people in the battalion came from schools in the South of England. Most knew of each other’s schools, had friends at them, had played sports against them. No one had ever heard of Minto Academy. I kept my answers to their questions vague. Also, they were all older than me. Pawsey, the next youngest, was nineteen. Druce and Teague were the oldest, both twenty-four. They were all English too, and at first, to my untutored ears, they all seemed to speak with one voice, like a gang of Chinese.
Howard Pawsey was tall, thin, with straight hair parted in the middle. Every time he bent his head, two wings would fall across his brow. To my increasing annoyance he had developed a habit of sweeping only one back and leaving the other dangling. He had a weak chin.
Tim Somerville-Start was fair, fresh-faced, broad-shouldered and incredibly stupid. He and Julian Teague were longing to fight the enemy. They were the self-appointed warriors among us. Teague was more complex in his zeal, though. He had very curly hair forced back over his head to form regular waves, as if they had been created by curling tongs. He had a square face, a thick neck, a small moustache and small restless eyes. He was most unhappy that we had been posted to a quiet sector.
Noel Kite had blond thinning hair and a handsome lean face. He had the easy insouciance of the very rich. The material problems of his life having been taken care of, he cultivated a languid incuriosity about everything. Cynicism seemed to be the most vehement emotion in his repertoire.
Maitland Bookbinder was a curiosity: plump, lazy, genial, an old Etonian — one felt he should have been in the Guards. When asked what he was doing in the 13th, he said merely that he had wanted a change.
Leo Druce was the only one I instinctively liked, and at the same time was the most enigmatic. He wore his toffee-brown hair brushed straight back, glossy with a specially prepared, scented pomade. He had fine, almost delicate features, which sat oddly with his deep bass voice. He was clever, cleverer than all of us, and this was why I was drawn to him. Druce was a lance corporal, in charge of the section. The rest of us were privates. We were distinguished from all the other enlisted men in the British Army by possessing two letters in front of our army serial number. PS: Public School. I was PS 300712.
“Where are you going, Todd?”
It was Louise.
“Down to the beach.”
“Maike sure you’re bick by six.”
“Could you hang on to Ralph for five minutes, please, Louise? Just till I’m out of sight.”
Louise took hold of Ralph’s collar.
“For God’s sake, min, you mustn’t call me Louise!”
He looked hurt, as he crouched holding a straining, panting Ralph.
“What if the colonel heard? Don’t be so bliddy selfish.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Right, that’s bitter. Off you go. Ah’ve got the dog.”