The Dog Who Could Fly (18 page)

Robert reached out a restraining hand. “Easy, Antis, easy, boy.”

“Rather than pandering to that feral dog of yours, do you mind answering my question, Sergeant. Who gave you permission to take up quarters here?”

“You turned us out of our room,” Robert replied, “so obviously we had to find ourselves somewhere else.”

“Correction, Sergeant,” the SWO barked. “Nobody turned
you
out of anywhere. You were simply asked to comply with the rules regarding your dog.”

Robert had been woken from a deep sleep in the middle of the night, only to face an unwanted interrogation by a man he was truly starting to hate. He was sitting in his underclothes, with only a blanket to cover him, and it was clear who had the advantage. He was having real trouble keeping his temper in check.

“Where my dog goes, I go,” he grated.

“Is that so? Is—that—so?” The SWO spat out each of the words slowly and with real vitriol. He jerked his head toward his orderly corporal. “Take this man’s name. To report to my office after parade tomorrow morning. I’ve a mind to put you under open arrest. Make no mistake, Sergeant, we will fix you properly this time.”

The two men gone, Robert sat awake in the darkness, his face and that of his dog lit only by the glow of the stove. What did “fixing” him mean? he wondered. Was he to lose his dog? Was he to be thrown out of the RAF? Was he to lose his chance to take the fight to the enemy, the one thing more than any other that he burned for? Out on that airstrip was a Wellington in which he’d gotten accustomed to slipping behind the twin Browning machine guns as he scanned the skies for enemy warplanes.

Was all of that at an end now, and all due to the petty attitude of a dog-hating, and apparently xenophobic, British SWO?

Robert was damned if that was to be the case. His mind drifted through the months that Antis and he had shared together. This extraordinary dog had come to him as if by a miracle. From the very first he had felt as if the two of them were fated to be together. Ever since that chance meeting he and his dog had acted pretty much as free agents, going where they pleased and taking to the air, to train,
to cart, or ship more or less at will. Their lives together had been defined by rule-breaking wherever necessary: after all, their very arrival in Great Britain had involved smuggling Antis past customs and quarantine. Throughout all of that Robert had forged an unbreakable bond with his dog.

For many an evening here at RAF Honington the two of them had sat together in their otherwise deserted hut, Robert with his arm around the German shepherd’s thick neck as he talked to him in low whispers. He’d shared with Antis his innermost thoughts, emotions, and concerns. His homesickness for his native country and for family and friends he’d left behind. His growing affection for Pamela—was this the big Love? His fear for what the future months might hold—for few of Bomber Command’s aircrew ever completed a tour of duty unscathed. As he’d sat there and talked, Antis had growled and snuffled his soft responses, showing that—to Robert’s mind at least—he understood.

No. There was no way that Robert was going to allow the SWO to hurt, harm, or disrespect his dog. It wasn’t going to happen. Instead, he knew exactly what he had to do.

Very early the next morning Robert went and sought out the station’s Czech translator, Flight Lieutenant Divis. They were old friends, and Divis knew well how much Antis meant to his master. Robert discovered the flight lieutenant in his room having an early-morning shave. He blurted out the story of what had happened between him, his dog, and SWO Meade.

“All right, all right,” Divis told him, “calm down a little. I’ll go see the station adjutant this morning, over breakfast, and maybe the CO if I can grab him. I reckon the CO’s taken a fancy to Antis, whenever he’s seen him around the base. Don’t worry—I’ve no doubt we’ll think of something.”

Thanking him profusely, Robert went to stand that morning’s parade, after which he headed straight for the SWO’s office. He knocked
on the man’s door determined to fight for his dog every step of the way, no matter what it might cost him. He had almost abandoned Antis once before, back in a shell-torn French farmhouse. He wasn’t ever about to do so again.

“Ah yes, Sergeant Bozdech, do come in,” SWO Meade greeted him. Robert could have sworn he detected a forced air of bonhomie about the horrid man. “Now, I’ve seen the CO and it has been decided—just this once, mind you—to take no further action in this matter. You’re to report for your duties as normal.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Robert, almost choking on the words.

“Not at all, not at all. But you chaps must realize, of course, that the RAF has its standards to keep up, and people in my position are the standard-bearers. We have a job to do and there’s nothing personal about it, of course. Yes, yes. What’s right is right, and what’s wrong is wrong, and I daresay there’s not a man among us would argue with that.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Now, there is a general mess meeting this week, and it may be possible—only
may
, mind you—to rescind that particular order about animals in sergeants’ rooms, but it’s up to the entire mess as a whole—”

“Please, sir, don’t bother, not on my behalf,” Robert interrupted. “I’m grateful, of course, but Antis and I are quite happy where we are.”

“As you wish, Sergeant,” the SWO remarked, picking up a file from his desk. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll wish you good morning.”

“Good morning, sir.”

As matters transpired, the CO had given SWO Meade a ten-minute lecture that morning on the proper treatment to be accorded England’s gallant Czech allies. “For pity’s sake, Mr. Meade, bear in mind those poor bastards have come one hell of a long way to fight in our cause, and it behooves us to show some forbearance and a proper
sense of an English welcome . . .” Hence the remarkable turnaround in the SWO’s attitude.

That evening, when Robert returned to his derelict hut, he found it transformed. There was a pile of freshly cut wood by the stove, plus a bucket filled to the brim with coal. Under one window was a brand-new desk and chairs that must have come straight from stores. There was also a camp bed, and on top of that a pile of neatly folded blankets. Maybe SWO Meade wasn’t such a bad sort, Robert reflected.

Maybe he’d teach the man to become a dog lover after all.

Twelve

W
ith Bomber Command launching sorties far into occupied Europe, and even into the German heartland itself, the Luftwaffe had redoubled its efforts to smash the British bomber squadrons wherever it encountered them—on the ground or in the air. RAF Honington had so far escaped largely unscathed. But during those dark December days, when thick banks of cloud lay low and glowering over the airbase, it would be easy enough for the Germans’ fighter-bombers to sneak up unseen and launch their attacks.

A few days before Christmas the first of the enemy came. Robert was making his way to the cookhouse one lunchtime, hoping very much for a hot meal for himself and his dog. In spite of the SWO’s improvements to their hut, it was still like an icebox in the midst of a freezing British winter. Antis was hurrying ahead of him, sensing the chance of a good hot feed.

Suddenly, the dog stopped and assumed a pose that Robert had gotten to know well . . . and fear. Head raised and limbs trembling, he was staring toward the distant, cloud-enshrouded horizon, a low growl beginning in the depths of his throat. Robert knew instantly what it signified: they had an enemy aircraft inbound.

As he sprinted for the nearest shelter with Antis hot on his heels, he spotted a group of WAAFs chatting and giggling. Robert could hear the deep throb of the aircraft now, and he figured it was less than a mile away. He recognized it as the engine beat of a Dornier Do 17—a “flying pencil” sneak raider that would drop without warning out of the cloud base. At its top speed of 250 miles per hour, it would be over the base within a matter of seconds.

He yelled over at the WAAFs: “For God’s sake, get down! Get down!”

Having paused to warn them, Robert knew he’d never make it to the shelter in time. He threw himself flat on the frozen ground. But the WAAFs must have assumed he was joking. The Dornier had beaten the camp’s defenses, for no warning siren or firing of defensive guns could be heard, and presumably the girls figured this foreign airman was playing some distasteful joke on them.

They waltzed away several paces, noses held disdainfully in the air, and then the flying pencil came tearing out of the clouds. Stunned by its sudden appearance, the women stood as if frozen. As the sleek bomber leveled out and prepared to release its bombs, Robert jumped to his feet and rugby-tackled the lot of them, the thin blanket of snow that lay across the airfield cushioning their fall. One tumbled on top of Antis, but his howls of distress were drowned out by the deafening explosions as the first of the bombs struck.

The Dornier had strung out its twenty fifty-kilogram bombs like a necklace across the entire length of the runway. The explosions tore over Robert, his dog, and the WAAFs, as if a giant hand were trying to rip them from the earth. In among the deafening roar of the detonations and the snarl of the Dornier’s twin engines, Robert detected the whistling of the last of the bombs. It seemed to be coming directly at them.

The blunt-nosed bomb plowed into the ground barely yards away, bounced up, tore across their prone forms, and exploded on the far
side of the runway, flattening the station’s clothing store. Out of the corner of his eye Robert saw a figure blasted into the air, and he knew instantly that whoever the victim was he had to be finished. It was an eighteen-year-old trainee airman, and sure enough he was dead by the time his body hit the earth.

The Dornier was climbing away now, making for the safety of the glowering clouds. But before it could reach them, a streak of silver flashed above Robert’s head as the sleek form of a Spitfire howled past, right on the German’s tail. An instant later Robert saw the British fighter’s guns spitting fire, and the clear impact of cannon rounds sparking all along the enemy aircraft’s fuselage.

Moments later, with its twin engines trailing tongues of flame, the Dornier’s nose dropped and it plowed into the earth. A mushroom cloud of dark smoke punched upward from the impact point, and Robert felt a surge of elation that the Dornier had been taken down. The bodies of the German airmen would later be found in the tangled heap of wreckage, the knowledge of their deaths only strengthening Robert’s hunger to get airborne and into action.

•  •  •

Christmas 1940 came, marking the end of their training at Honington. In a matter of days now, Robert and his fellow Czech airmen would be moved to 311 Squadron’s operational airbase at nearby RAF East Wretham, just a dozen miles across the Suffolk–Norfolk border. The base had been hastily pressed into service at the start of the war, and the runways and aircraft standing areas consisted mostly of stretches of mown grass, ringed with trees.

The Christmas celebrations were to be the last at Honington for Robert and his fellows. The beer flowed freely in the mess, and the only sign that this was a British airbase ensnared in a bitter and bloody war was the four airmen wearing their white pullovers and heavy flying boots, the only ones who were abstaining from alcohol. Since dusk
they had been standing by in readiness, just in case the enemy should violate the spirit of Christmas, during which hostilities between the warring parties were traditionally put on hold.

At around ten that evening Robert carried a full roast dinner across the airfield to the distant hut so that Antis could have his festive meal. While his dog enjoyed the food, Robert surveyed their quarters. On the desk provided by the SWO stood a small Christmas tree, around which were arranged photos of his parents and his sisters, plus one of Pamela. Earlier that evening she had phoned to wish him and his dog a happy Christmas, which had been a wonderful surprise. It was good to know that she was thinking of them at this special time.

Robert was lost in thoughts of his girl and reminiscences of home, and he completely forgot his promise to his brother airmen to return to the party. It was an hour after he’d left the mess when he heard the stamp of heavy boots outside and the sound of raucous laughter. As their friend hadn’t seen fit to rejoin them, Robert’s brother airmen had come to join him. A dozen piled into the hut, each bringing with him an armful of bottles. As Antis moved among them, sniffing at familiar figures with his tail wagging happily, the drink started to flow.

There was something about the candlelit hut set far from the main base that was strangely conducive to partying. As drink followed drink and the singing became ever more rowdy and spirited, Robert worried for a moment about the possible consequences of having an illegal party in his only recently made legal quarters. But he was soon caught up in the swing of things, and Antis, it seemed, had also embraced the party mood. He moved around quietly, his nose sneaking into various glasses placed absentmindedly on the floor, until finally he stumbled into Stetka’s legs and half tripped him.

Stetka gave a drunken cry of alarm, and Antis reacted by barking
loudly and chasing his own tail. So fast was he spinning round and round that it looked as if three or four dogs were whirling madly in a blur.

“Antis, have you gone barking mad?” Robert exclaimed. He’d never seen the likes of this before from his dog.

At the sound of his master’s voice Antis tried to stop and move toward Robert, but he got his legs and tail all tangled up and ended up in a mess on the floor. When he tried to stand again, all he could manage was a halfhearted stagger and a weave across the space between them. For the first time in his life Antis was drunk as a lord.

Robert had no idea what time the party must have ended. The next thing he knew he was awake, lying on the hut floor with the camp bed above him. He was even more astonished when he wriggled out from underneath it only to find his dog sleeping soundly on top and all tucked up in the blankets!

Thankfully, there were no duties to attend to that day. By lunchtime Robert was feeling a little recovered, but Antis lay on the bed snoring. He didn’t even wake up when Robert lifted him off and put him in his rightful place—on his blanket on the floor. By that evening Robert was getting worried. He tried toweling his dog down with cold, wet cloths, but the only reaction he got was a series of disgruntled snorts and growls.