Never confuse the "War dog" with the "dog of War." The War dog is a
direct product of the War, but you never yet met him collecting for
a hospital, or succouring the wounded, or assisting the police, or
hauling a mitrailleuse if he could help it. Yet the War dog worships
the Army; it represents a square meal and a "cushy" bed. The new draft
takes him for a mascot; but the old hand knows him better. A shameless
blend of petty larceny, mendacity, fleas, gourmandism, dirt and
unequalled plausibility.
You meet the War dog on some endless road. He will probably be wearing
round his neck a piece of dirty card analogous to the eye patch and
drooping Inverness cape of some mendicants nearer home--a "property"
in fact, and put there by himself, the writer is convinced, although
he has not yet actually caught the War dog dressing for the part. The
War dog on the road has "spotted" you long before you have seen him,
and he has marked you for his own. You become conscious of a piteous
whine just behind you and, turning, see the War dog, his eyes filled
with tears of entreaty, crawling towards you on his stomach. He
advances inch by inch, and on being encouraged with comfortable words
of invitation the parasite wriggles his lean body (it is trained
to _look_ lean--actually it is well padded with stolen food from
officers' kitchens) up to your feet, and, selecting a puddle in token
of his deep humility, rolls upon his back and smiles tearfully up
at you from between his grimy fore-paws. Then the game goes forward
merrily as per schedule.
Of course you take him back to camp and give him your last piece of
Blighty cake. You introduce your protégé--always crawling on his
stomach--to the cook; swear to the dog's immaculate conduct; beg a
trifle of straw from the transport, and in short see him comfortably
settled for the night.
The War dog has you now well beneath his paws. He joins the Mess and
listens with an ill-concealed grin as each in turn boasts of the
rat-catching powers of his dog at home. Then the War dog retreats
hurriedly as a mouse appears; and you, his victim, apologise for him
and explain how he has been shaken by adversity and what a noble
creature a few days of good food and kind treatment will make of him.
The rest is simple. The War dog (with his court) invades your bed
and home parcels, and brings you into disrepute with all and
sundry--especially the Cook and Quarter. He is fought and soundly
thrashed by the regimental mascot (half his size), and the battalion
wit composes limericks about you and your pet.
Then suddenly your War dog disappears. You are just beginning to live
him down--having moved into another area--when you espy him from the
street, the centre of a noisy group in a not too reputable wine-shop.
But the War dog never recognises you. He has finished with you--grown
tired of you, in fact (he rarely "works" the same victim for more than
three weeks). You and your battalion are to him as it were a bone
picked clean; and you depart with a prayer that he may die a stray's
death at the hands of the Military Police.
One month travelling snugly in a G.S. waggon (you never catch him
marching like an honest mascot), the next "swinging the lead" in some
warm dug-out--there are few moves on the board of the great War game
that he does not know. He will patronise a score of regiments in three
months; travel from one end of the Western Front to the other and back
again, taking care never to attempt to renew an old acquaintance.
Occasionally he makes the mistake of running across a mitrailleuse
battery with its dog-teams needing reinforcements, or tries to billet
himself on a military pigeon-loft and meets a violent death. But
whatever fortune may bring him we can confidently assert that he is
much too fly to chance his luck across the border and into the land
where the sausage-machines guard the secret of perpetual motion.
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