THE BATTLEFIELD
So fast do events move at the front, with the wonderfully organized war
machine, that six hours after the doctor’s unit finally detrained at a
little station somewhere in France, near the Argonne forest, they found
themselves closely following up an American regiment. The regiment was
engaged in that most nerve-racking and hazardous undertaking of routing
out machine-gun nests in a heavily wooded sector.
Even before they left the train they could hear the continuous
cannonading away to the northeast. It was like the constant rolling of
heaviest thunder dotted with many quick staccato explosions. The fire
from the heavy artillery was also visible along the horizon.
At first they went forward through open country, undulating and
broken, but soon entered intermittent woods, with deep ravines and
sharp ridges, just the sort of country for hard fighting.
Much of this region was so rough that the ambulances could not
penetrate it, and the wounded had to be brought out for leagues on
stretchers; but most of them lay where they fell and the surgeons and
Red Cross men gave them first aid there, and trusted to luck to get
them out later.
The region had been the scene of heavy fighting for two days, and the
signs of war’s horrible devastation were on every hand. Shrapnel had
stripped the trees of much of their foliage. Many of them were down
while others were torn and broken, with limbs hanging or strewed on the
ground. The whole face of nature was scarred and furrowed, seamed and
made hideous by the passing of the hurricane of battle.
How beautiful was the fair face of France in peace, yet how terrible in
war.
But now the heaviest fighting had rolled away to the north and the
immediate work was that of the regiment in front of them which was
clearing out the hornet’s nest of machine-guns that the Boche had left
behind.
But the doctor was a man of courage, deeply absorbed in his profession,
and he soon found himself cutting out proud flesh and bandaging up
gaping wounds, with the bullets whistling through the treetops above
him, just as unconcerned as though he were still in the hospital at
Brest. From point to point these brave men followed in the wake of
battle, here and there snatching a desperately wounded man from the
very mouth of hell. No bands played to divert them. There was no
glitter of uniforms, or bright flag to inspire them, only the call of
duty and the pathetic gratitude of the poor fellows whom they succored.
Just at dusk the doctor found himself alone in a narrow gulch. Deep
shade was overhead, and a little brook babbled softly through the
gulch, but now its cool waters were red with blood and roiled with the
passing of many feet. In this gulch the surgeon found several dead and
wounded men, and it was while binding up the wounds of a Tennessee
mountaineer who had been shot through the hip that a stray bullet found
the surgeon and stretched him beside the man whom he was trying to save.
At first he was not in great pain, only paralyzed, but as the hours
passed and the stars appeared up among the tops of the trees, fever
mounted in his veins and finally delirium seized him and he talked
incoherently to a dead man beside him of home and friends far away.
Meanwhile faithful Pep still galloped on to the northeast, obedient to
the strong magnet that pulled him, the call of his master’s heart to
his own loving dog heart, which knew but this one strong passion.
All through that night he galloped, only occasionally slowing down for
a few kilometers to rest. He did not know to what place he was going,
or what it would be like when he arrived, but he did know that at the
end of the long road his master was calling for him. By noon of the day
following his escape from the hospital he was so foot-sore he sometimes
had to stop to lick his paws. They were stone bruised and bleeding at
the roots of the nails. But he did not pause for long, he could not
with his master calling.
By evening he had reached the small station where his master had
deployed with his unit at noon the day before. He immediately struck
into the partly wooded undulating country. The sight of trees and
woods pleased Pep. All the way he had been fearful that some one would
catch him and carry him back to the hospital before he should find
his master. In the woods he felt more secure for here he could hide,
besides something told him that somewhere here in the forest he would
find the doctor.
It was now ten o’clock at night, and the Boche had decided that they
did not want the enemy to bring up fresh troops and occupy the woods,
so they were sweeping the thickets and gulches with shrapnel and
shells. Pep was terrified with the deafening noise and the bright
flashes all about him. Occasionally he would stop and whimper and
crouch close to the ground. The earth was friendly. It would not let
these fierce bolts of lightning or the terrible thunder get him.
Occasionally he would stand uncertain for several seconds and whimper
softly.
Instinctively he knew that these sounds were full of danger to himself.
He had seen what desolation such sounds could make the night the Boche
bombed the hospital. He wanted to go back, but he could not for his
master was still calling. To him there was but one law, and that was
obedience to the voice which he loved. So after a short time he would
again creep forward.
At last after a more fearful explosion than usual, which rained small
particles all about him, he found himself in the narrow gulch, by
the little stream near which his master lay. He stopped for a moment
to cool his burning feet in the water and to lick up some of the
refreshing liquid, then, joy of joys, he discovered the doctor’s
footprints in the sand close to the brook. He sniffed excitedly and
then with a glad yelp sprang forward eagerly keeping his nose close
to the ground in order not to miss the trail. It wound in and out
for several rods. Once it stopped by the side of a dead soldier. Pep
sniffed at the man’s cold face, then hurried on. Would his master be
like that when he found him? He missed the trail for a few feet where
the doctor had stepped on some stones, but he soon recovered it again.
Then joy unyelpable, he took the body scent and abandoned the trail.
Three or four bounds carried him to the spot where the surgeon lay,
prone upon the ground and very still.
Pep sniffed at his master’s face eagerly. It was not cold like the
soldier’s. He licked the face frantically and whimpered pitifully. He
sought the hand and thrust his muzzle into it. That, too, was warm, but
very limp.
Again Pep began washing the dear face and something in the familiar
touch penetrated to the surgeon’s slumbering consciousness, bringing
him partly out of his swoon.
Pep noted with delight that the limp fingers closed gently over his
muzzle and he registered his joy with a glad bark. Had his master been
fully possessed of his senses he would have warned him that it was very
dangerous to bark in the enemy’s country, but the doctor was only
partly conscious. The gentle pressure did not mean as much as the dog
imagined.
It was partly an involuntary movement. He was so used to squeezing the
dog’s muzzle that it was something that he did instinctively. Then the
hand lay still for a long time and the faithful watcher became very
anxious. He returned to the face and showered it with dog kisses. But
his master did not respond, so he went back to the hand.
Here, after a long time, he was again rewarded, for the fingers tweaked
his ears gently. This was an old love token of his master’s and the dog
was delighted. From this time on he went from hand to face licking and
encouraging his master.
It is quite possible that these gentle ministrations did much to revive
the fainting man. They at least gave him something to hold on to. They
formed an objective, something towards which he might struggle, just as
a gleam of light affords the needed clew in the darkness.
At last the physician came to himself enough to speak the dog’s name
in a thick, strange voice, but it was unmistakable and the frantic
terrier was overjoyed. Then the man lapsed into silence and was very
still for another long time.
Finally to the great relief of the agonized dog the hand began fumbling
about and the man to talk incoherently.
“I’m shot through the hips. It is dark. I was lost, and faithful Pep
came and found me. He’s a good dog, faithful old Pep.”
At the sound of his name Pep renewed his frantic kissing of his
master’s face.
“Pep he sticks by me. He is a good dog. God, how weak I am! I am
burning up. If I only had a drop of water.”
His hand went instinctively to his canteen. With a great effort after
many trials he found it, but the hand was too weak to carry it to his
lips. Pep watched these feeble efforts with dismay, his master was
usually so strong and decided in his movements. He had seen men in the
hospital act just like this. His master must be sick, indeed.
Again the doctor rested and Pep waited, not knowing what to do.
Finally, with a deep sigh, the physician raised the canteen slowly to
his lips. He was at least a minute in performing this simple act, but
when his fevered, parched lips closed over the nozzle, the canteen was
found to be entirely empty. With a groan he let it fall and sank back
discouraged. Pep was quick to notice the distress in his master’s voice
when he again addressed him.
“Pep, old comrade, I am dying for the want of a little water. Water,
Pep, I want some water.”
The dog listened intently, but could not catch the man’s meaning, so he
gave him another score of dog kisses.
The doctor reached down and lifted up the empty canteen. “See here,
Pep, old comrade, I want water. I am dying for water.”
Pep whimpered softly, echoing his master’s agonized tones. Then the
gleam of a wonderful idea shot through the doctor’s brain. It was an
inspiration, a thought the good God who watched over all his children
had given him. He laughed as he considered it dazedly. It seemed
feasible. Anyhow it was his only hope. He would try it.
“Pep,” he said, lifting the canteen feebly and tossing it a few feet
away.
“Bring, Pep. Bring.”
The dog at once sprang to the canteen and brought it in his mouth to
his master.
“Good dog, we’ll try again. This time he tossed it towards the brook,
which was about twenty feet away. Again Pep retrieved the canteen. Then
the doctor threw the canteen as far towards the brook as he could,
having first removed the top. It fell just a little short, but Pep
brought it to him, thinking it a fine game.
The next time the physician had the satisfaction of hearing it drop in
the water. Pep was after it in a flash. This was great fun.
To the doctor’s disgust there were only a few drops of water in the
canteen when the dog returned with it as he had held it on its side.
But even these few drops were most grateful to the parched tongue. The
next time they had much better luck. Pep by accident held it by the
nozzle and the doctor found the canteen half full of water. He seized
it with delight and drank long and deep. Then he petted and praised
Pep generously and with a deep sigh of satisfaction lay down to rest.
“You stay here, old comrade, and watch while I sleep. I’m just about
all in. When I have rested we will see if we can get out of this.”
Soon his beloved master was so quiet that Pep was once more alarmed
lest he become like the dead soldier he had seen beside the brook
a few rods back. For a long time he sat on his haunches watching.
Occasionally he would steal close to the man and lick his hand or face.
Then he would return to his silent vigil.
In the bushes near by he could hear a wounded soldier groaning and
moaning, talking in his delirium. In another direction he could hear
some one breathing deeply. The doctor could have told him that this
man was dying, but Pep did not know this. All about them in the woods
shells were bursting. Shrapnel was making the woods hideous, stripping
the foliage and green branches from the already partly denuded trees.
Through open places Pep could see strange lights to the north. These
were signal rockets.
Pep was very tired and foot-sore. He did not feel sleepy, but very wide
awake. There was a glad joy in his faithful dog heart for he had found
his master, but all was not well with them yet. His master wanted to
sleep and sleep. It was not like him. They were far from the hospital.
These frightful noises were not good for either men or dogs, but he
could do nothing else but just watch and wait. Again his master awoke
and began talking to him strangely. He first threw the canteen and
drank from it twice, but he did not seem to get relief. The truth was
his fever was mounting and he was even weaker than he had been before.
Both of these facts finally filtered into his consciousness. Something
must be done at once.
He must have medical aid immediately. Somebody or something must
come to them shortly or it would be too late. Again he drowsed and
considered the facts in the case vaguely.
Once more he had a bright idea, which was another inspiration. He must
manage in some way to get Pep to go for help. This was his only chance.
He could not tell the dog what he wanted, but he could send him away.
Perhaps he would find a Red Cross man somewhere in this inferno of a
woods and bring him back, so he summoned all his remaining strength for
this attempt.
“Here, Pep, old comrade. Come up close and listen.” Pep crowded a
little closer and cocked his ears, alert and eager to do his master’s
bidding.
“You must go for help. I can’t tell you so you will understand, but go
home. Go home.” He struck the dog feebly on the shoulder and repeated
the words, “Go home.”
The blow, slight as it was, hurt Pep keenly, but he listened. The
doctor repeated the blow and the admonition.
The dog knew well what those words meant. They were the most hateful
words in his dog vocabulary, which was not large. How many times
his master had turned, when Pep wanted so much to follow, and said
sternly, “Go home.”
He waited. Surely his master could not mean it this time. Here he was
alone and sick away in the dark woods. Surely he wanted his dog to stay
with him. But again the master struck him, and said, sternly, “Go home.”
Sadly, reluctantly, he turned, whimpering as he went and trotted off
into the darkness occasionally looking back over his shoulder to see if
his master had not repented.
The doctor heard him splash into the brook to cross it, then he sank
down wearily, a great drowsiness creeping over him. For awhile he
fought it, but finally yielded and sank into deep oblivion.