A whistle went and the horseflesh was thrown into the pit. At once, the circle of dogs, though still to heel, grew restless. Bones’s snout quivered but he remained sitting, awaiting Stanley’s command. A few minutes passed and now he began to lose his self-control, half rising and turning, half sitting. He looked at Stanley, reproachfully cocking his head and turning another circle, still crouching, saliva glittering in the sun and swirling out like the chains of a merry-go-round. It was taking all Stanley’s strength now to hold him back. Trigger watched Stanley, laughing, but Stanley thought that Trigger was perhaps a tiny bit jealous, too, of the majestic Bones.
‘Sit, Bones.’
Richardson was speaking. ‘The older dogs will do the training and you’ll again see the pack instinct at work. Your dogs would rather brave the unknown – in this case, the grenades – than let other dogs get all the meat.’ He smiled, put his whistle to his mouth and blew.
The orderlies, standing between the keepers and the pit, lit their fuses and threw the grenades.
‘Get on,’ Stanley whispered to Bones, slipping his collar. The fuses took no more than five seconds to burn, then came the ear-splitting noise – no smoke, no flashes, just noise. Bones was halfway to the pit when he whipped round. Stanley raised a hand to stop him.
The dog’s ears were pricked, his tail lifted like a sabre, his coat bristling at the neck. Already the experienced dogs were through the grenades, hurling themselves into the pit, flinging themselves on to the meat; some of the new dogs, too. Trigger ’s deer-hound, Gypsy, was in already, others following more cautiously.
Bones growled again in the direction of the explosions, placing himself firmly between his master and the bombs.
‘They won’t hurt me. Don’t worry about me. Get on, Bones, get on . . .’
Bones hesitated, then started forward on his catlike paws, his springy step turning to a bounding run, like the bouncing gait of a thoroughbred horse. The dog was fearless; it was just his instinct to guard that formed his biggest challenge.
Later that afternoon Stanley scrubbed the kennel as Bones waited outside, muscular as a prizefighter, proud as a peacock, surveying his field. Everyone else had three kennels to clean while Stanley only had the one. Trigger would say cheerfully that there’d be more dogs along soon for Stanley, but Trigger didn’t really know.
Stanley looked at Bones and wondered about the breeding that had produced such a specimen. Perhaps Da had been right after all to value pure-bloods above all else? Of a sudden, Stanley felt guilty that since having Bones he’d thought so little of Soldier. Now visions came racing back – Soldier cavorting in Trumpet’s stable – the sable eyes and porridge coat – and, flooded with raging anger, Stanley vowed he’d never, ever forgive what Da had done.
Macy, the head nurse, was on his evening round, inspecting the condition of each dog. Bones rose, growling, high-set ears pricked.
‘Shh. It’s only Macy, come to check you over.’
Before Macy began his inspection, Stanley would ask him the question that mattered so much.
‘W-will the C-colonel give me another dog, Macy? He won’t send me to France with only one dog, will he?’
Macy hesitated, sighed and interrupted his examination of Bones’s forepaw. ‘If Russia and Germany sign a peace treaty, Keeper Ryder, we’ll be vastly outnumbered – those troops from the Eastern front all free . . . it’ll be no place—’
‘I have to go, Macy. I have to go—’ The desperate note in his own voice stopped Stanley short and made Macy look up sharply.
‘The Colonel will have reasons of his own for not wanting you to go to France, Ryder . . .’
Bones was half growling, half purring, losing the battle for self-control, his tail poised to wag but his hackles prickling too. There behind Macy was the Colonel.
Stanley rose and faced the Colonel. They were the same height and Stanley met him eye to eye. ‘I want two more dogs, sir.’
The Colonel paused, taken aback by Stanley’s anger. When he answered it was with anger of his own. ‘We’re short, Ryder. Now the officers have seen the dogs in action and know they can save the lives of human runners –’ the Colonel’s blue eyes sparked – ‘now they’re crying out for them. But it’s too late, I can’t get any more. I’ve been waiting three weeks . . . nothing. I’ve put calls on the wireless, in the newspapers. We had twelve thousand dogs handed in, but there are so few left . . . so many were shot, put down, abandoned.’
Stanley was thinking of Da’s rant, about hounds being shot.
‘I’ve placed a new advertisement.’ The Colonel handed Stanley a cutting from his pocket. ‘We’re doing everything we can . . .’
A photograph of Richardson led the news item, followed by the words, ‘THE WAR OFFICE REQUIRES A FURTHER GIFT OF DOGS FOR MILITARY PURPOSES.’
Our women have given their husbands, their sons, their fathers, their brothers – and now, their dogs. Twelve thousand dogs have been handed in so far, an overwhelming response. But still more are needed. There have been several calls on the wireless for the public to donate their dogs. We have already taken dogs from the Dogs Homes at Leeds and Battersea—
Stanley looked up impatiently, handing the cutting back.’ Will you send me to F-France with only one dog?’ The Colonel was silent a moment. When he answered, it was with more sorrow than anger. ‘No, Ryder. With only one dog, I won’t, if I can help it, send you to France. And if I do, I can assure you that it will be against my every instinct. I’m under pressure to provide six dog sections at the end of next week but . . . well, however short we are of men, I cannot see that it is right to send boys so young.’
‘I can do the job, sir, I can do it as well as any man.’
The Colonel was nodding as he knelt. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘Yes, I know you can.’ He reached to stroke Bones. ‘My son loved dogs. He too was a fine boy . . . They told me afterwards that he went over the top and on forward. When he lost his companions, still he went forward. As he was bringing prisoners home, he was hit by his own shells . . . Falling short, they told me.’
Stanley was defeated, silenced by the Colonel’s raw, open grief.
‘He, too, was so very young, Stanley.’
Thursday, 7 March 1918
Shoeburyness, Essex
Once again Stanley walked up and down Shoeburyness High Street. Two hours every afternoon, for four weeks, he thought, while other men rest or swim in the estuary. How much point is there when we might be stuck here forever? The Colonel is protecting me, he thought, but I have only a brother, and that brother is in France, and France is where I should be.
Still, it was good to be out in the sun with Bones, and they’d made steady progress. Bones rarely showed aggression or suspicion, so far today hadn’t growled once.
Stanley’s thoughts turned to Thornley. Had anyone worried where he was? What had Miss Bird done when he’d started missing school? Who did Joe play cards with now? Stanley sighed. Had Da done nothing when he’d found him missing? Did he not care?
No new dogs had arrived, despite the Colonel’s calls. If more dogs did come, Stanley would have to spend another six weeks training them, but at least he’d know for sure that he’d get to France. There were four days to go until the next batch of keepers and dogs were to report at Folkestone. There’d be a final Homing Run test tomorrow, after which the Colonel would announce who would be draughted out. Bones would do the test, but for what? Stanley sighed and stopped in front of a news-stand carrying the headline of the Daily Express, looking for a distraction from these thoughts.