At the breaking out of the war there lived in the little town of Méru,
twenty-five miles distant from Paris, a man named Jacques Thallant. He
had for a daily companion a dog called Bijou, just a common every-day
dog of the French poodle breed.
Jacques was among the first to offer his services to his country and was
accepted. He requested the privilege of taking Bijou with him and his
request was granted. Jacques was sent into active service and Bijou soon
accustomed himself to trench life, and with the soldiers shared their
army privations. Frequently Jacques was placed on picket duty and Bijou
was company for him during the long tedious nights of watching.
Picket duty is one of the most hazardous duties for the soldier. During
the day the enemy locates the picket posts and it requires but little
practice for a sharpshooter to so train his gun as to do most effective
and fatal work at night by shooting at random. A cold, dismal night
found Jacques at a picket post with Bijou at his feet, imparting warmth
as well as companionship. This night proved to be the last for poor
Jacques, as my story will tell. A shot rang out—a bullet sped on its
deadly errand—Jacques fell fatally wounded. His life blood was flowing
rapidly, and his mind turned to his wife and children in far away Méru.
He searched for paper and pencil and found in his pocket a letter he had
that day received from his loved companion at home. Hastily he scrawled
on the envelope the story of his condition, and with weakening hands he
placed the same in the pouch attached to Bijou’s collar, and in failing
voice commanded him to go home to his mistress. In the morning Jacques
was found cold in death, still grasping the pencil in his hand. Search
was made for the dog but he could not be found, and the record was made
“Jacques Thallant shot while on duty.”
Three hundred and more kilometers covered the distance between Verdun
and Méru. Early in the morning of the third day after the soul of
Jacques had passed beyond, Mme. Thallant heard a noise without the house
and hurriedly dressing, reached the door just in time to see the
faithful dog’s death-glazing eyes brighten for an instant, and then with
a convulsive quiver his limbs relaxed in death. On examination a bullet
wound was found in his groin and then they knew the agony he must have
endured in fulfilling his master’s last command. A stray bullet
doubtlessly dealt the death blow as he sped to do his master’s bidding.
For two days and three nights he dragged himself onward with the
entrusted message, without food, without rest, true to the trust imposed
in him, until his work was accomplished and then——
My old friend Hildevert Labrosse told me the story with tears in his
eyes, and together we walked down the narrow street leading to the home
of Widow Thallant. He showed me the gate through which the dog had
dragged himself and up the walk to the house, and the threshold of the
door on which he died. They buried the faithful creature in the corner
of the yard near a shed where he was wont to sleep at night and where
his ever faithful eyes could watch over the safety of his master’s
house. A small headboard with the simple inscription “Bijou, Faithful
Unto Death” marks the last resting place of Jacques’ friend.
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[Illustration: Monte, the Picket.]
“MONTE” THE PICKET
Thousands of soldiers have suffered from shell shock, which proved to be
one of the most trying conditions for the hospital nurses—nerves keyed
to the highest tension for days at a time snapped under the whizzing and
bursting shells which rained destruction in their midst. Horses
frequently suffered from the ill effects of this trying ordeal, but it
was a rare occurrence for the dog to be affected by these conditions.
In the month of January following the armistice, two French soldiers
appeared at the Refuge accompanied by a collie dog. This dog’s home had
been in Montreuil, a small town near Paris, and the soldiers had
nicknamed him “Monte.” For four years Monte had served at the front as a
picket dog. His nightly service was to accompany a soldier assigned to
picket duty, and there through the long night he remained, ever alert to
impending dangers. His keen scent and hearing enabled him to detect the
slightest suspicious movement on the part of the enemy, and many a brave
soldier’s life was saved by his timely warning. The bristling hairs on
his body, his erect ears, the swishing of his tail, quietly conveyed to
his master the approach of the enemy. The whistling, deadly bullet was
beyond his ken and fourteen times in six weeks Monte returned to the
lines alone. Each time they found the picket either killed or wounded.
After four years of this nerve-racking service, Monte was mustered out
and returned with the two surviving soldiers of the original company. He
was suffering from shell shock and returned to the Refuge as a patient.
It was really pitiful to watch him in his sufferings. Worn out from
physical weariness he would drop off into a light sleep, when suddenly
he would bound to his feet, ears pointed and every individual hair on
his body standing erect. This was followed by severe trembling
indicative of shattered nerves.
I made many attempts to photograph Monte, but with futile results. I
finally hit upon a plan to place him on a park bench and was partially
successful in obtaining a fairly good likeness, as you will note by the
above picture.
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[Illustration: “Watchful Waiting.”]
“TOBY” THE RATTER
Of the many annoyances and discomforts of camp and trench life, the rat
is the most unwelcome. This species of the rodent family infests these
places and not only becomes a pest, but a menace to the health of the
soldier. Many a brave man has lost his life from the poisonous bite of
these pesky and annoying creatures. Every effort is made to rid the camp
of their presence. Of all breeds of dogs, the fox terrier has been found
the most effective in the destruction of rats, and many of these dogs
have earned wonderful reputations as “ratters.”
In the Refuge in Neuilly there is a dog named Toby, who has passed into
the professional rat-killer class. During his three years’ service at
the front, four thousand or more “dead ones” have been marked up to his
credit, and all previous records have been smashed.
That the rat was not the only enemy that Toby encountered during his
service for his country, is evidenced by his _gimp_. A stray bullet
snipped one of his front feet off just below the knee, and now Toby is
listed as “wounded but not inactive.” He is the most agile three-footed
tyke I ever saw, and sets the pace for all the other dogs in their
gambols about the grounds.
The soldiers taught Toby many tricks, and on command he says his
prayers, rolls over, plays dead, speaks (barks), sings and performs
other “stunts” that are truly wonderful.
[Illustration: Toby, Ready for the Onslaught.]
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[Illustration: Dick, the Guide.]
“DICK” THE GUIDE
Just a short distance from the Refuge for War Dogs in Neuilly, is
located the Soldiers’ Home for the Blind. This is a spacious building
surrounded by ample grounds containing shrubbery, trees and flowers.
Under the spreading trees are comfortable benches for the accommodation
of the occupants of the Home. Hundreds of soldiers, rendered totally
blind during the war, are cared for, and spend the days wandering
through the grounds and enjoying the comforts that such conditions
afford.
For two years, Dick, the subject of this sketch, has served as a guide
for these soldiers. He is a fine specimen of the French poodle, large in
size, gentle in disposition and perfectly familiar with the duties
expected of him. Early in the morning he reports for duty, and from then
on until the close of day he carefully leads and cares for the sightless
subjects delegated to his charge. It is no unusual sight to see two men
or more, arm in arm, being guided by Dick through various parts of the
grounds. Sometimes you meet them picking their way through the adjacent
streets, Dick always on the alert for their safety.
I had on frequent occasions to pass Dick on my way to and from the dog
hospital on Rue Chauveau, and in time we became great friends. Just
before leaving for my home in America, I paid a final visit to my dog
friends in Neuilly, and was surprised to find Dick in the hospital
recovering from some temporary dog ailment. He joyfully welcomed me as
an old friend, and I expressed a wish to the Countess that I might bring
him to America. She replied that Dick had certainly done his bit for his
country and that it was high time he enjoyed a little of real dog life,
and willingly consented that I should have him. The short time until my
departure prevented me from obtaining the necessary permit to land him
in the United States. The Countess generously offered to care for him
until such time as proper arrangements could be made for his trip from
Paris to New York. Before leaving I requested the Countess’ lady
secretary to instruct Dick in the English language, so that he would be
familiar with the speech of his adopted country. Shortly afterwards I
received the following card from this young lady: “I told Dick a few
days ago that his master in America wished him to learn English, and
Dick replied, ‘Tell my master to learn French, as I am a French dog.’”—a
very clever reply from either lady or dog.
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[Illustration: Leon, a Red Cross Dog.]