The Dog Who Could Fly (23 page)

Antis took up the same position during each and every sortie that his master flew, faithfully awaiting his return. No matter what, he would not be moved.

F
or tonight’s raid over Hamm, Robert had taken a turn as C for Cecilia’s rear gunner. As the hands of his watch crept toward one in the morning, he had felt a slash of blinding light burn into his eyes as a searchlight swept across their aircraft. They were returning from bombing the target, and were passing over the Dutch coast where the Germans had some of their most fearsome defenses. Cecilia was trapped in a cone of blazing light, and Robert could sense the flak creeping ever closer.

Some two thousand feet below he could see a pair of Wellingtons
likewise caught in the deadly glare. Dark puffs of smoke erupted all around them as the flak gunners zeroed in on the warplanes, and he watched in morbid fascination as fingers of glowing tracer groped toward the bellies of the aircraft. An instant later one of the Wellingtons began to glow an eerie golden red as fire bloomed all along her fuselage.

Within seconds the warplane had started to fall to pieces, blazing fragments spinning toward the ground. Moments later the second aircraft seemed to disintegrate before his eyes as a blaze of fiery wreckage tumbled toward earth. Robert tried not to think of the twelve airmen who had just lost their lives—snuffed out in an instant—and very likely from his own squadron.

C for Cecilia was flying an unvarying course dead straight ahead, which could only mean one thing: they must have been hit, and the Wellington’s controls were partially damaged. Capka, their ace pilot, would have been trying to shake off the searchlights otherwise, throwing the heavy bomber into any number of twists and turns. But as the Wellington droned onward neither the pitch of its engines nor its course altered a fraction, and Robert began to wonder just how bad the damage might be.

Capka would only warn them if they were in danger of going down. He was as cool as a cucumber, and as a rule he kept flight chatter to a minimum.

The violent blasts in the sky to left and right crept closer. With each it felt as if a massive fist were punching into one or the other flank of the warplane. Every now and then Robert could hear the horrible sound of burning-hot shards of metal tearing into the Wellington’s fuselage. He tensed his shoulders over his twin Brownings, fearing the shrapnel would bite into him.

A shell burst blindingly close—seemingly right beside the tail of the aircraft—and milliseconds later a shard of metal punched through the Plexiglas gun turret, shattering it, and buried itself in Robert’s forehead. A hot, sticky wetness seeped into his eyes, blinding
him to the skies all around him. He felt a surge of panic grip his guts.
I can’t see! I can’t see!
And if he couldn’t see he couldn’t use his guns to defend the warplane.

He scrunched his knuckles into his eyes, trying to rub away the worst of the cloying wetness. They came away smeared in blood, but at least he could see better now. He scanned the skies from his lonely position at the rear of Cecilia, adrenaline blinding his mind to the pain of the injury. His watch lay on his bloodied wrist, but he only had eyes for the enemy now, and the time of his wounding—one o’clock precisely—went unremarked.

Yet, two hundred miles to the northwest of their position, a dog had felt that wound just as powerfully as if he had been injured himself, Antis throwing his muzzle to the night and howling out his pain and his distress.

Cecilia was losing height now. Any lower, and she’d be a target going begging for the gunners below. Robert had lost a lot of blood and was on the verge of falling unconscious. As the aircraft nosed through the night sky, scattered tufts of cumulus cloud drifted across its path. Sensing cover, Capka banked the aircraft gently to the left and a thicker mass of clouds loomed before them.

As the vicious flak tried to snatch them from the sky, the warplane lumbered into the clouds, the glare of the searchlights dissipating in the heavy, moisture-laden air, before losing them completely. Minutes later Cecilia dropped out of the clouds and Capka found himself over the North Sea.
Not far now.

The crippled bomber droned onward, but with every turn of her tired propellers the Wellington seemed to sink a few feet toward the waves. As the coast of England loomed before her—a dark line on the blacked-out horizon—Capka found that he was so low as to be beneath the line of the cliffs.

He needed a miracle burst of life from Cecilia, or they were going to crash into them.

•  •  •

At East Wretham, S for Sylvia was the first of the returning aircraft to light up the horizon, blinking on her identification lamps so she could land without being mistaken for an enemy warplane. Further aircraft followed, the last being M for Marie, Wing Commander Ocelka’s Wellington. Three of those that had set out on the raid over Hamm had failed to return. One of the missing was C for Cecilia.

At the tent beside the dispersal area Adamek stared into the east, where the skies were showing the first hints of dawn. “We’ll give it another fifteen minutes,” he muttered, glancing worriedly at Robert’s dog.

Antis was sitting on his haunches perfectly motionless, his gaze fixed on the eastern horizon. Every now and again he raised one of his paws, seemingly to point toward the stretch of sky where Cecilia should appear, then lowered it, whimpering softly. Adamek tried placing a comforting hand on the dog’s shoulder, but all it did was make him start. Antis glanced at the Czech for a second, then looked away, eyes flicking back to the patch of light above the trees where the sun would rise, and where Cecilia should by rights reappear.

By now the ground crew had packed up their few things and were readying themselves for breakfast. They tried to retain a cheerful spirit in the face of losing possibly three aircraft—and their aircrew—in the one sortie. But as much as Adamek tried to coax Antis to leave the dispersal area, he was immovable. He had settled down to keep watch, ears straining for the sound he hoped beyond hope to hear.

Presently, Ocelka drove up in his car. The wing commander was still dressed in flying jacket and boots. He pulled to a halt beside Antis, the car bumping across the summer grass. He held open the door for the dog.

“Come on, old boy,” he called. “Into the car with you. You can’t do any good here.”

Normally, Antis loved his rides around the base in Ocelka’s vehicle. Not today. He flicked a swift glance of concern at the wing commander, and then his eyes were back on the horizon once more.

“Any news of Cecilia?” asked Adamek.

Ocelka shook his head. “We’ll hear soon enough.” For once the strain of the night’s mission was showing, not to mention the trauma of the potential loss of three Wellingtons and their crews.

“There’s still a chance they lobbed down somewhere else, isn’t there, sir?” Adamek asked.

“That’s the hope. But come on, no sense in waiting here any longer. Clear off for breakfast and try to relax a bit. As soon as we hear I’ll let you know.” He fixed Antis with a look of real concern. “You too, boy. Into the car now.” He’d said it like an order, but the dog barely flicked an ear in response.

Ocelka got down from the vehicle and went over to him. He petted Antis for a good while, before trying to move him. “Come on, old boy,” he coaxed as he put his hands on the base of the dog’s back and tried to give him a push. All Antis did was stiffen his limbs and dig in with his paws.

Ocelka straightened up. “All right, have it your way . . . I’ve always dreaded this moment. We’ll just have to leave him alone and hope he changes his mind when he gets hungry.”

At that moment Ludva appeared. Other than his master, perhaps no one was closer to Antis than Ludva, but even he couldn’t get the dog to move. Whining miserably, Antis resisted all efforts the Czech airman—one of the Original Eight—made to shift him.

“Damn it, I can’t stand this,” Ludva muttered. “He knows more than we do. I always said it would be me first, and not Robert. Damn this bloody war!”

As the airmen and ground crew drifted away, Antis alone was left on the side of the airfield. It began to rain. One of the ground crew hurried back to throw a ground sheet over the dog. Then Antis
began to howl. It was an eerie and dreadful sound, echoing back and forth between the tethered warplanes, and every man on the base who heard it could sense the dog’s terrible pain and distress, not to mention his fear of what he had lost.

Throughout that dark day airmen and ground crew paid frequent visits to the dog, but still he would not be moved. His coat was sodden wet from the rain and he was visibly shivering, though more from the shock than from the cold. Around midday Adamek and some of the others decided to construct a shelter around him, to keep the rain off. Using wood and several ground sheets, they built a makeshift tent, but the dog seemed to resent it and moved out into the cold and wet once more.

“I reckon it’s so he can hear better,” Adamek muttered. “He doesn’t want anything to get in the way of his sight or his hearing.”

A plate of roast liver—the dog’s favorite dish—was procured from the kitchens. But when it was laid on the ground beside him Antis left it ignored.

Late that afternoon there was some positive news for the men at East Wretham. C for Cecilia had landed all but intact. Apparently, Capka had coaxed enough power from her engines to get her over the English cliffs, whereupon the port engine had spluttered and died. They’d made an emergency landing at the nearest airfield, which happened to be RAF Coltishall. No sooner was the stricken aircraft down than Robert was loaded into an ambulance and rushed to the nearest hospital.

It was welcome news for all, but no one could think how to pass on the glad tidings to Robert’s dog. All through that night Antis kept his lonely vigil. Come the witching hour, the dog seemed to perk up a little. With dawn would come that special time when aircraft returned to base, and the dog had to be reasoning that Cecilia might be among them. But the squadron had been stood down for the night, and not a single Wellington loomed out of the skies.

An hour after first light Antis began to howl once more. It was a terrible sound to hear, and especially heartbreaking for Ludva, who brought Antis his first meal of the day. It was another plate of roast liver, but as with the first it went untouched. Ludva tried everything he could think of to let the dog know that his master was safe and well, if suffering a head injury, and that he was being treated at Norfolk Hospital.

Turning his gaze on Ludva, the dog made real contact with a human being for perhaps the first time since C for Cecilia had failed to return. His eyelashes were bejeweled in dew, his coat was slick with the soft rain that was still falling, and he was a picture of misery. But his tail attempted a few feeble thumps on the ground as he tried to show his gratitude for the man’s care. It was torturing Ludva—the man who, after Robert, loved the dog more than just about any other, and who had been through so much with him—to see Antis so forlorn and hopeless, and without need, for his master had returned, just to a different destination.

He knelt down beside Antis in the wet grass. “Come on, boy. Let me take you in. Let’s go find Robert. Let’s go find him.”

The dog’s ears perked up at the mention of his master’s name, but when there was still no sign of him his focus returned to his resolute vigil. Ludva tried to move him, but a low growl from Antis said it all.
Thanks for the comfort, friend, but I will not be moved.

Wing Commander Ocelka seemed as tortured as was Ludva at the dog’s stubborn loyalty. He drove around the perimeter track that afternoon, determined to make a concerted effort to move the dog. He roared to a stop beside Antis, and next to him in the vehicle he had the base chaplain.

“Will you look at that!” Ocelka exclaimed angrily. “Why the devil hasn’t someone moved him? Men on operations should never have pets. You can see the misery it causes when the master doesn’t return.”

Ocelka’s angry outburst masked the pain he was feeling at the
dog’s awful predicament. The chaplain placed a calming hand on the wing commander’s arm.

“Sure, sir, but isn’t it an example to Christianity, such devotion. No man could wish for a more faithful companion and many of us could profit from this lesson.”

“Ludva, get the blanket from my car,” the CO ordered, pretty much ignoring the chaplain’s words. “Cover Antis with it and keep him warm. I’m clearing you of all duties. You’re to get Antis back to your and Robert’s room, and stay with him until he’s fully recovered. And make—”

“It’d break the dog’s heart to move him,” the chaplain interjected. “And besides, he’ll howl like the devil and keep awake all those crews trying to sleep.”

“Well, what do you suggest?” Ocelka snapped.

It was all very fine talking about Christian examples and the like, but Robert was likely to be in the hospital for several days, and Cecilia was likewise grounded for repairs. If the dog refused to eat or take shelter for all that time, he’d very likely die.

“I think with God’s grace I may have the germ of an idea, sir,” the chaplain replied, with a twinkle in his eye. “You told me Robert is in pretty good shape considering. Why not ring the hospital, and persuade them to let him out for a few hours, so he can come in person and fetch his dog in?”

“Damn and blast it! That’s the answer! Why the devil didn’t I think of that?”

The chaplain shrugged. “The Lord works in mysterious ways . . .”

“D’you think the hospital will allow it, though?”

As it happened, the hospital matron was happy to let Robert out for a few short hours, but only when he was deemed fit enough to travel. They’d have to wait another twenty-four hours before that would be possible. Once more Antis settled in for a long night’s vigil. Once more his friends tried to erect some form of shelter for
the dog. But once it was finished he crawled out on legs stiff and cramped with the cold so he could keep his uninterrupted view of the skies.

Antis flopped down, weakened by lack of food and sleep, plus the chill, and he set his eyes toward the horizon. Troubled though they all were, there was nothing more that his friends could do for him.