heart. War is for madmen, not for children and animals, he thought.
She raced along the pier above, back and forth, her furiously pleading barks ringing in his ears. Had she not been so close, depended on him so much, most of all had she not been so like his Candy in Dover, he would not have ached as he did that moment. Cursing himself for lacking the courage to shoot the dog upon the beach, he tried to turn away.
Destroyers didn’t tie to the mole, so as to be able to leave quickly in case of a bombing raid, and sailors at each end held the ship to the pier with hooks, just one rope tied loosely around a bollard. There were few men to come aboard now, and he knew the destroyer was ready to leave. Then he realized the dog’s barking had ceased. Knowing her, he felt sure she had a plan.
Gently, slowly, the engines shuddered, turned over, took hold, and the ship began to edge slightly away from the pier. The two naval officers had left the gangplank, the sailors were ready to shove it away. From the mole an officer in khaki called out, “Fourth Division... anyone from the Fourth Division....”
That dog, with her dog’s perception, had seen the naval officers leave the ship’s side. She ran back and forth, silent, watching. The Sergeant stood waiting, watching her.
Above, on the mole, the Airedale gathered speed, raced along beside the ship, and with a sudden burst of energy leaped from the pier over the heads of the men lining the rails. She hit a soldier in the back and sent him knocking against his comrades. He turned, angry, ready to fight, but by this time she had twisted and edged through the crowd to find her Sergeant.
“Down, girl... down... here... get down... down...” he said, as she attempted to leap up on him.
The engines below were revolving, the ship slowly separating from the pier. One or two stragglers rushed out and jumped into the arms of the men on deck. The destroyer gathered momentum. Soon it was edging away from the dock, backing into the Channel, avoiding the wrecks in the harbor, spars and masts showing where ships had been bombed by the Luftwaffe.
The sun had come out, the early morning light of a beautiful summer day shed a kind of magic over the waters. The sea was flat, the thick black smoke from the burning refinery made a lovely pattern along the shore line. That smoke, reaching to the heavens, was the smoke Mrs. Williams and the twins had been watching earlier from the Shakespeare Cliff in Dover.
They were going home. At last. They were going home, all of them, even the dog.
A sailor pushed and shoved his way through the massed troops on deck. He came toward them with a determined air.
“Can’t keep that dog aboard, mate. No dogs allowed; Captain’s orders.”
Before the Sergeant could reply, a shriek came that startled everyone. It was the ship’s air-raid alarm. He glanced up but saw no planes above. However, the sailor immediately turned and wormed his way through the crowd to his gun station aft. The noise grew louder, more penetrating. Still no planes were visible.
They were leaving the harbor by this time and getting outside, when he saw a squadron high in the heavens. A bomb fell a short distance away. A burst of water rose, the vessel rocked violently, many men were tossed to the deck. All about came the harsh sounds of the antiaircraft batteries forward and aft, the rat-tat-tat of the machine guns, last of all the noise of small naval pom-poms from a French frigate coming in to take their place at the mole.
The dog half rose and leaned heavily against him. He could feel her trembling. Or was it he himself? To be bombed now, to be sunk at this moment just when rescue seemed certain! Overhead a Stuka peeled off from the squadron and dived. He could plainly see the black cross on its wings. It roared down, shrieking hideously, and seemed to be headed straight for their destroyer.
He knew it only seemed that way, because the Channel was full of shipping, a target
She raced along the pier above, back and forth, her furiously pleading barks ringing in his ears. Had she not been so close, depended on him so much, most of all had she not been so like his Candy in Dover, he would not have ached as he did that moment. Cursing himself for lacking the courage to shoot the dog upon the beach, he tried to turn away.
Destroyers didn’t tie to the mole, so as to be able to leave quickly in case of a bombing raid, and sailors at each end held the ship to the pier with hooks, just one rope tied loosely around a bollard. There were few men to come aboard now, and he knew the destroyer was ready to leave. Then he realized the dog’s barking had ceased. Knowing her, he felt sure she had a plan.
Gently, slowly, the engines shuddered, turned over, took hold, and the ship began to edge slightly away from the pier. The two naval officers had left the gangplank, the sailors were ready to shove it away. From the mole an officer in khaki called out, “Fourth Division... anyone from the Fourth Division....”
That dog, with her dog’s perception, had seen the naval officers leave the ship’s side. She ran back and forth, silent, watching. The Sergeant stood waiting, watching her.
Above, on the mole, the Airedale gathered speed, raced along beside the ship, and with a sudden burst of energy leaped from the pier over the heads of the men lining the rails. She hit a soldier in the back and sent him knocking against his comrades. He turned, angry, ready to fight, but by this time she had twisted and edged through the crowd to find her Sergeant.
“Down, girl... down... here... get down... down...” he said, as she attempted to leap up on him.
The engines below were revolving, the ship slowly separating from the pier. One or two stragglers rushed out and jumped into the arms of the men on deck. The destroyer gathered momentum. Soon it was edging away from the dock, backing into the Channel, avoiding the wrecks in the harbor, spars and masts showing where ships had been bombed by the Luftwaffe.
The sun had come out, the early morning light of a beautiful summer day shed a kind of magic over the waters. The sea was flat, the thick black smoke from the burning refinery made a lovely pattern along the shore line. That smoke, reaching to the heavens, was the smoke Mrs. Williams and the twins had been watching earlier from the Shakespeare Cliff in Dover.
They were going home. At last. They were going home, all of them, even the dog.
A sailor pushed and shoved his way through the massed troops on deck. He came toward them with a determined air.
“Can’t keep that dog aboard, mate. No dogs allowed; Captain’s orders.”
Before the Sergeant could reply, a shriek came that startled everyone. It was the ship’s air-raid alarm. He glanced up but saw no planes above. However, the sailor immediately turned and wormed his way through the crowd to his gun station aft. The noise grew louder, more penetrating. Still no planes were visible.
They were leaving the harbor by this time and getting outside, when he saw a squadron high in the heavens. A bomb fell a short distance away. A burst of water rose, the vessel rocked violently, many men were tossed to the deck. All about came the harsh sounds of the antiaircraft batteries forward and aft, the rat-tat-tat of the machine guns, last of all the noise of small naval pom-poms from a French frigate coming in to take their place at the mole.
The dog half rose and leaned heavily against him. He could feel her trembling. Or was it he himself? To be bombed now, to be sunk at this moment just when rescue seemed certain! Overhead a Stuka peeled off from the squadron and dived. He could plainly see the black cross on its wings. It roared down, shrieking hideously, and seemed to be headed straight for their destroyer.
He knew it only seemed that way, because the Channel was full of shipping, a target
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