Even the animals in the French villages seemed to know the difference
between us and the Germans, and they used to come out to meet us. There
was a dog that followed our battery on the march for four days, and
we hadn’t the heart to chase it away, and kept it with us. It was a
soldier’s dog, you could see, and it died a soldier’s death, for it was
smashed to pieces by a shell when curled upon the ground beside one
of our guns in action. We crave it a soldier’s funeral with our own
comrades next day: _An Artilleryman, of Leicester_.