Darling, Mercy Dog of World War I by Alison Hart & Michael G. Montgomery

Author:Alison Hart & Michael G. Montgomery
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Peachtree Publishers
Published: 2013-08-28T04:00:00+00:00

“Don’t rhyme proper,” the orderly said.

“‘Fell’ and ‘shell’ do,” the stretcher bearer protested.

“Where’s mention of the bloody rations?” the other stretcher bearer complained. “If I eat one more tin of cold bully beef, I’ll mutiny.”

“I thought your poem were right powerful,” Private Kent said solemnly.

“Thank you, mate.” Folding the paper, the stretcher bearer slipped it in his pocket. “If I die, you can send it to the Wipers Times.”

“The Wipers Times?” Private Kent asked.

“You haven’t heard of our trench magazine?” The orderly pulled another folded paper from his pocket. “Named after the town of Ypres, which us stupid Brits call Wipers ’cause we can’t pronounce the Belgian name. The mag’s filled with good old English humor.” He opened the magazine. “Listen to today’s weather report. ‘From five to one—mist. From eleven to two—east wind. From eight to one—chlorine gas.’”

Laughter rose in the small earthen room, and as the orderly continued to read aloud, I dozed, comforted by the cheerful voices.

At dark, Sergeant Hanson roused us. We hurried up the steps from the dugout to the trench. Sensing the tension when we emerged, I stayed close by Private Kent’s side.

Lieutenant Hudson was inspecting his men, who stood tall and ready despite their weary stares and dirt-streaked uniforms. I scanned their faces. Some were as young as the German soldiers who had been taken prisoner. Others looked as if they’d been fighting forever.

“It’s time,” the lieutenant finally said. “Let’s mop them up.” With that, Company B streamed over the top.

Private Kent and I, Private Reeves and Tweed, and a messenger dog and his handler stayed behind. Sergeant Hanson went with Company B and the remaining handlers and dogs.

Almost immediately, a barrage of heavy British artillery split the air. “Right on schedule,” Private Kent said. “Company B should be nearing its target.” I pictured the soldiers running forward in the dark. The Germans firing blindly. Soldiers on both sides falling.

The whine of an incoming shell made me cringe.

“Gas!” The sentries’ warning cries rang up and down the trench. Private Kent didn’t need to hear the word twice. He yanked his mask over his head, then reached in his canvas bag for mine. Quickly, he buckled it on me. I hated that mask. I could barely see out and it pinched my muzzle. But when I saw a soldier clutch his throat because he had been too slow to obey the warning, I was glad Private Kent had reacted swiftly.

Bombs continued to rend the air. Suddenly a horrendous boom crashed near us. Above and beyond the trench, earth rose in the air as high as Portsdown Hill.

“The Huns are blowing up the howitzer battery!” someone hollered. Private Kent covered me with his body as dirt and metal rained over us. When he straightened, there was blood on his cheek. I nuzzled my head against him. “Just a nick, lass,” he assured me.

Finally a breeze carried the gas fumes away, and the sentries’ all-clear cry ran up and down the trench. Slowly, men began to take off their masks.

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