his arms and shouting, he dashed onto the pier, past the stretcher-bearers with their burdens, and leaping from plank to plank, raced for the destroyer. As he reached it, he started to jump from the pier to the deck of the ship, despite the restraining arms of several officers standing alongside.
Shaking them off, he leaped into the air. A single shot rang out. The soldier toppled over backward into the water, clutching his stomach. Around his body the ocean crimsoned rapidly. Above, the voice of the naval officer continued in the same monotonous tone.
“Walking wounded only. Walking wounded next aboard. Anyone else embarking will be shot immediately. Walking wounded next....”
It grew lighter, and after a while the mist vanished. Now the wounded were all aboard, and the long lines of troops stretching back up the wide beach began to move. Inch by inch, foot by foot, with a slowness that for the Sergeant and his men was almost unendurable, they edged down toward the cracked masonry of the mole, to safety, to freedom, to the warship, and the open sea. And to home and England waiting beyond.
As they moved forward the dog moved with them. Thinking about his men and himself, the Sergeant had forgotten the Airedale, who had never left his heels through the long dark night. Although many small, nondescript French dogs peered out here and there in the line from a soldier’s knapsack or from the top of a burlap sack carried over a man’s shoulder, this dog, he knew, would never be allowed on that destroyer. Not if she were the dog of the Commander in Chief.
Yet there she was at his heels, trusting, confident, as only a pet can be, a dog that obviously had known only love and affection all her life, a family dog, not a hunting dog, gentle and understanding, an animal for children, big, clumsy, affectionate. And helpless. What to do?
There was time to take her back up the beach in the dunes, shoot her with his revolver, and resume his place in line. The Sergeant had proved himself a brave man those weeks, yet he was not brave enough for this task. That soldier, who never questioned an order or ever failed in his duty under fire, could not obey the command his common sense gave him. One glance down at her trustful brown eyes, looking up at him with confidence, was sufficient to kill reason and common sense. She was too near him, too much a part of him. Together, side by side, they had endured the machine-gunning from the low-flying planes, fought through the suffocating smoke of the burning town, crouched closely on the sands at Bray-Dunes as the 155 mm. shells from the German batteries at Nieuwport sputtered and burst around them.
Kill her he could not.
Ever so slowly at first, then faster, the troops urged on by the destroyer officers moved toward the pier. Next, under orders they broke into a tired trot along the stone mole, jumping upon the planks joining the destroyed portions. Always the Airedale kept close to the heels of the Sergeant. Soon the head of the line was jumping onto the decks of the destroyer.
“Can’t take that dog, Sergeant! No dogs allowed on board,” a naval officer yelled at him.
His men were leaping down one by one, Fingers last of all. The Sergeant followed and naturally the dog followed him. She recognized no naval officer’s right to separate her from someone she loved.
“Toss her back,” said the officer in blue uniform to a sailor. “Heave her back up there.”
Two husky naval ratings reached for her as she scrambled after the Sergeant, who was pushed over to the port side of the ship by the swarm of men coming aboard after him. One sailor caught her by the tail. She let out a piteous yelp. Over his shoulder the Sergeant saw the sailors grab her and half shove, half throw her up to the pier above. He turned away, trying to lose himself in that mass of packed troops on deck.
Immediately from above came piercing, protesting barks, hoarse and frantic. They cut into the Sergeant’s
Shaking them off, he leaped into the air. A single shot rang out. The soldier toppled over backward into the water, clutching his stomach. Around his body the ocean crimsoned rapidly. Above, the voice of the naval officer continued in the same monotonous tone.
“Walking wounded only. Walking wounded next aboard. Anyone else embarking will be shot immediately. Walking wounded next....”
It grew lighter, and after a while the mist vanished. Now the wounded were all aboard, and the long lines of troops stretching back up the wide beach began to move. Inch by inch, foot by foot, with a slowness that for the Sergeant and his men was almost unendurable, they edged down toward the cracked masonry of the mole, to safety, to freedom, to the warship, and the open sea. And to home and England waiting beyond.
As they moved forward the dog moved with them. Thinking about his men and himself, the Sergeant had forgotten the Airedale, who had never left his heels through the long dark night. Although many small, nondescript French dogs peered out here and there in the line from a soldier’s knapsack or from the top of a burlap sack carried over a man’s shoulder, this dog, he knew, would never be allowed on that destroyer. Not if she were the dog of the Commander in Chief.
Yet there she was at his heels, trusting, confident, as only a pet can be, a dog that obviously had known only love and affection all her life, a family dog, not a hunting dog, gentle and understanding, an animal for children, big, clumsy, affectionate. And helpless. What to do?
There was time to take her back up the beach in the dunes, shoot her with his revolver, and resume his place in line. The Sergeant had proved himself a brave man those weeks, yet he was not brave enough for this task. That soldier, who never questioned an order or ever failed in his duty under fire, could not obey the command his common sense gave him. One glance down at her trustful brown eyes, looking up at him with confidence, was sufficient to kill reason and common sense. She was too near him, too much a part of him. Together, side by side, they had endured the machine-gunning from the low-flying planes, fought through the suffocating smoke of the burning town, crouched closely on the sands at Bray-Dunes as the 155 mm. shells from the German batteries at Nieuwport sputtered and burst around them.
Kill her he could not.
Ever so slowly at first, then faster, the troops urged on by the destroyer officers moved toward the pier. Next, under orders they broke into a tired trot along the stone mole, jumping upon the planks joining the destroyed portions. Always the Airedale kept close to the heels of the Sergeant. Soon the head of the line was jumping onto the decks of the destroyer.
“Can’t take that dog, Sergeant! No dogs allowed on board,” a naval officer yelled at him.
His men were leaping down one by one, Fingers last of all. The Sergeant followed and naturally the dog followed him. She recognized no naval officer’s right to separate her from someone she loved.
“Toss her back,” said the officer in blue uniform to a sailor. “Heave her back up there.”
Two husky naval ratings reached for her as she scrambled after the Sergeant, who was pushed over to the port side of the ship by the swarm of men coming aboard after him. One sailor caught her by the tail. She let out a piteous yelp. Over his shoulder the Sergeant saw the sailors grab her and half shove, half throw her up to the pier above. He turned away, trying to lose himself in that mass of packed troops on deck.
Immediately from above came piercing, protesting barks, hoarse and frantic. They cut into the Sergeant’s
Similar Books
