Tommy's Ark: Soldiers and Their Animals in the Great War. Richard Van Emden (29 page)

Birds haunted my dreams. Sleep meant for me a visit to one of the bird-crowded islets that my mother had pictured in my nursery days. From the restless horror and hideousness of the war zone I could slip away to the imagined wonder of wave-washed rocks and the clamour of sea fowl and the eggs lying bare upon the ledges or bowered amid sea pink and campion: I knew them in those days as I know my home.

Pte Thomas Williams, 19th King’s Liverpool Rgt

A sniper’s bullet hit the wire just in front of our post. The whine of the ricochet had scarcely died away before another sound was heard, a sound which one would least expect in such a situation. It was the song of a bird.

Starting at first with a subdued chattering, the voice soon became wonderfully sweet and loud. If I had any doubts as to the identity of the singer they were quickly dispelled when a breath-catching torrent of pure, liquid notes were poured forth. I could scarcely believe my own ears, but there was no mistaking that passionate burst of music. It was the nightingale’s inimitable crescendo.

Modern students of bird psychology tell us that the nightingale’s song is one of joy, not of melancholy sorrow as the poets would have us believe. This may be so, but few nature lovers, however practical in their studies, could fail to have been impressed with the sweet sadness of that lovely music rising and falling over the war debris of no-man’s-land. One could not have wished to hear a more fitting requiem for those who had made the Supreme Sacrifice on this gruesome, moonlit battlefield.

Standing alone with the stars glittering overhead, the beautiful verses of Keats and Matthew Arnold came to my mind. But my thoughts did not linger over the poets’ vision of pain and death. Like the skylark’s carol, Philomela’s voice filled me with a great joy and hope. Some day the war would end, and, if God willed, I might be left alive. I might be spared to hear once more the nightingale’s song, not amongst crumbling ruins and water-filled shell-holes, but far away from the thunder of the guns, in Hampshire woods and in Surrey lanes.

During the nights that followed I listened intently for the lovely contralto bird voice. Each night the song sounded sweeter and louder as the rifle or machine-gun fire grew in intensity. Just as a stone thrown into the reeds will start a sedge warbler singing, so the whine of the spent bullets on our wire seemed to incite the nightingale. The more active the snipers, the more vehement became the notes from the hidden bird.

With the obvious exception of rats and perhaps mice, no other wild creature is mentioned more in soldiers’ memoirs or diaries than birds. Not only their singing but merely their presence acted as a balm for men bereft of affection and contact with loved ones back home. And birds offered something spiritual too, not necessarily religious, more intangible, perhaps, but understood by many who were there.

The ability to soar above all the filth and blood on a battlefield was something any four-legged animal might have envied, stuck as so many of them were between opposing forces or tethered to a limber or gun. Aggressive, feral dogs and cats in no-man’s-land reminded soldiers only of their own unalterable predicament.

Pte Harry Patch, 7th Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry

You looked out into no-man’s-land between the firing points, and all you could see was a couple of stray dogs looking for something to eat to keep alive. I thought, ‘Oh well, I don’t know, there they are out there, two stray animals, and if they found a biscuit to eat they would start a fight over who should have a bite. Well, what are we doing that’s really different? We’re fighting for our lives, just the same.’

Capt. John Marshall, 468th Field Coy, RE

The woods were infested with packs of dogs from the destroyed towns and villages. They had run quite wild, but picked up a good living from the bones thrown away by soldiers. These packs contained the most curious assortment of the canine species that one could imagine: pugs, Pomeranians, Dalmatians and dachshunds, nearly all long-haired and bushy tailed, looking most extraordinary, when running in a pack in search of food.

Pte William Golightly, 1st Northumberland Fusiliers

We had a forward post in front of our trench with the Lewis gun on it. We had managed to camouflage it pretty well and the Germans hadn’t spotted it. I remember looking out one night through a little hole and I saw a pair of eyes looking back at me. God almighty! Do you know what it was? It was a bloody cat. It scared the living daylights out of me. There were domestic cats, lost or abandoned and left to run wild, and they survived by eating off the dead, fighting with the rats for food.

Throughout the war, each side attempted to dominate by frequently raiding opposing trenches or by aggressively patrolling no-man’s-land at night. At the same time, as part and parcel of protecting the trenches, listening patrols were at work while working parties mended the barbed wire in front of the trenches; on all of these occasions it was critical that near-silence was maintained so as not to alert the enemy. However, working in silence naturally magnified all other sounds, sounds that brought a man on patrol out in a cold sweat.

Pte Thomas Williams, 19th King’s Liverpool Rgt

It was exceedingly dark when the patrol ventured out. We heard them scramble through our wire and then, without the slightest warning, a perfect hubbub of loud, wild calls broke the stillness of the night. Flares were sent up from the German trenches; a machine gun started to cackle and soon the bullets were coming from all directions. When the firing had died down the party made a decidedly hurried return! They tumbled back into the trench excited and breathless as though the devil himself had been after them. The sudden and unexpected medley of calls had sounded almost unearthly in the pitch-black silence of the night.

When safely back under cover, every member of the patrol laughed heartily, especially when they realised what had been the cause of the disturbance. In crossing a swampy patch of ground they had nearly trodden on a party of wild duck! It is, of course, a well-known fact that flighting duck will descend to almost any splash of water at night-time and this habit probably accounted for their presence in front of our wire.

2/Lt John Gamble, 14th Durham Light Infantry

For a day or two, a large black dog had appeared occasionally, running about on the German parapet and behind the lines. It was only when he was able to escape the vigilance of the Boche in the trenches, evidently, that he managed to take these little trips, as he was invariably hauled in by unseen hands, or unheard coaxings. He was quite safe, however, as we never fired at him, and it was novel to see a dog running about amongst that inferno.

Well, on Tuesday night, I was out between the lines with an NCO, a grenadier, and another man, reconnoitring the ground . . . when the NCO touched my arm to get my attention, and silently pointed in a half-right direction. There we distinctly saw someone moving. We were of course quite prepared for meeting an enemy patrol similar to ourselves, and were fully armed to the teeth. The movements were under a broken-down tree near the German line, and we could clearly see black-looking figures running about. Everything was very dark and quiet, and a flare light had not been sent up for some time. We waited and waited, on high tension, but still they did not approach us, and I was just wondering whether we ought to stalk them, when up went a brilliant flare, lighting up the whole surroundings. We kept absolutely flat and still, but with a gentle, imperceptible movement I raised my head, and saw that black dog, calmly examining something which had probably been thrown out of the German trench – possibly meat or other wasted food, as he appeared to be in an eating attitude.

When I got back, and related the experience to the other officers over a cup of hot cocoa, we simply screamed, and the following morning when the animal appeared on the parapet for a few moments, he was greeted by laughter from everyone who knew about it.

Pte Robert Renwick, 16th King’s Royal Rifle Corps

I had a mate called Jim Morris from Macclesfield. About half a dozen of us were sent out on a reconnoitring patrol to try and get a prisoner, and we met a very heavy German patrol. Jim said, ‘I’ll give out such a yell they’ll think there’s a battalion coming.’ He did, and the Germans scattered, but we collared one prisoner and a dog. I suppose the dog was meant to smell our scent and warn of our approach. When we got back into the line, the bombing officer was on duty and he said, ‘Halt! Who goes there?’ And Jimmy shouts, ‘King’s Royal Rifle patrol, a prisoner and one dog, sir.’ We adopted the dog. Once Jerry’s mascot, now it was ours.

It was not beyond the wit of most men to muse about how man, so predominant a species in the world, did not dare to stick his head above the parapet while animals had the right to pass freely from one side of no-man’s-land to the other, as happy to be friends with the Germans as the British. Such thoughts no doubt occurred to German soldiers too, and perhaps with this in mind a dog was used to offer a peace that, sadly, no one could take up. Private Voigt recalled hearing the men comment about the incident, revealing a surprising sense of kinship with the enemy.

Pte Frederick Voigt, Labour Corps

I reckon Fritz is a bloody good sport. We ought ter shake ’ands ’an make peace now. Peace at any price, that’s what I say . . . I tell yer a thing what ’appened when I was in the line. We ’ad a little dog wi’ us an’ one night she must a strayed inter Fritz’s trenches. The next mornin’ she came back wi’ a card tied round ’er neck an’ on the card it ad: ‘To our comrades in misfortune What about Peace?’ I reckon that was a jolly decent thing ter say. Jerry wants ter get ’ome to ’is missis an’ kiddies just as much as what we do!

Pte Christopher Massie, 76th Brigade, RAMC

The war dog is subject to every other condition of war except discipline. So he is not a soldier. He is always deserting from one regiment and joining another; hiding himself among the French or Belgian civilians. He has been known to go over the top with the first wave of our infantry and return again – a prisoner – among the German prisoners, laughing mightily as though this was one of the best jokes in the world. The war dog is a gypsy, a vagabond, a loveable scoundrel, affectionate when he is hungry, disdainful when he is full, a born thief, an artful rogue, a prodigal who is always sure to turn up at the killing of the fatted calf.

Massie did not have a pet. Some dogs remained utterly faithful to their owners, and the feeling was mutual. For men on both sides of the line who were fortunate enough to have the full affection of their pet, the bond was total.

Lt Andrew McCormick, 182nd Labour Coy

When we were at Quéant I noticed a strange wolf-like dog with a coat of yellowish tinge. It always stood at a spot near to which had been a Boche hospital. It seemed to be wearing its heart out looking for its master. I coaxed and cajoled it on many occasions, but it was averse to eating anything until I had gone away from the food. I had made progress, however, for on one occasion it took cheese from my hand. It was touching to see that dog daily returning to the same spot and looking longingly for its master – loyal and devoted to its own yet intractable and regardless of the stranger. I had determined to try to find out what was on the collar of this one I saw at Quéant with the patient, devoted look in its eyes, but the exigencies of war gave us another hurried move forwards and I often wonder how the faithful wolfhound solved its problem; and hope that it met with good treatment for its constancy to its old masters.

Maj. Neil Fraser-Tytler, D Batt., 149th Brigade, RFA

Soon after we were back in action, fate dealt us a cruel blow. My Irish pointer, which had joined us a month previously, was reclaimed by one who declared himself to be the rightful owner, so off went Mehal-Shahal-Hash-Baz, which was his name for short, meaning in Hebrew ‘rending and destruction’, and right well did he earn his name if ever he was left in a dugout alone!

A rumour which I did not contradict got round the battery that I was prepared to give a large sum for the dog if returned to me on our march away from here, at a safe distance from Henin Hill, so the many professional and unprofessional dog stealers in the battery set to work to effect his recovery from his home about half a mile to our flank. By day, however, the dog was carefully guarded, and at night kept securely tied up in a dugout in a trench. The plans tried were many and various. Individuals carrying telephones and pretending they were signallers looking for an imaginary battery at night asked the guard of the dog for directions, while another gang came up from the wagon line and with Red Indian stealth tried to stalk the sentry and get into the dugout unobserved. Others again started sapping up a disused trench hoping to tunnel into the trench, and it was only our move out of the locality that brought to an end these pious efforts.