The Dog Who Could Fly (28 page)

A dozen or more searchlights converged on the stricken warplane. She was caught in a concentrated cone of light, yet Capka had no choice but to plow resolutely onward. If he tried to weave or dodge in an effort to lose the deadly light, he might lose control of his aircraft and she might plummet out of the skies. Robert redoubled his watch as one formation of searchlights after another took over the task of illuminating the Wellington. The aircraft was a sitting duck, and no one doubted that the enemy’s warplanes were coming.

Robert stared out of his gun turret, trying to shade his eyes from the blinding dazzle and see the enemy coming. Flak still burst around their aircraft, and few German fighters would want to brave all of that. He figured the enemy warplanes were a few minutes out. Then the bursting of shells ceased quite suddenly. In its place there was an ominous silence. Where the hell were the enemy fighters? he wondered.

There was only quiet now, plus the eerie inrush of the wind through the aircraft’s punctured fuselage. The silence was broken by a terrifying sound: the staccato, punching beat of heavy cannon fire. Robert felt Cecilia shudder violently as the shells tore into her. But the skies to his rear were devoid of enemy fighters, and he could only presume they were being attacked from the front or the flanks. He swung the twin Brownings around, scanning for the enemy, finger itching to unleash fire, but not a sign of a German fighter could he see.

Up front, smoke and the sickly firework smell of cordite filled the cockpit. A gout of hot oil splashed across the windshield, half blinding Capka and his copilot. Cold air gushed in through the hole in the floor between them—the one that allowed them to communicate
with their front turret gunner and their navigator/bomb aimer. It made an eerie whistling sound—proof positive if they needed it how extensively their aircraft had been holed. But at least the inrush of air cleared the cockpit of the smoke and choking fumes. While Capka fought to keep the stricken aircraft airborne, the others struggled to stem the flow of escaping oil.

A further burst of rounds tore into the side of the aircraft, yet just when Capka had decided she could take no more and they were going down, the firing ceased. For no discernible reason—perhaps they were out of ammo?—the German fighters were gone. Still coned in the blinding light, Cecilia plowed stubbornly onward. The crew braced themselves for the next onslaught, the one that would surely finish her. Robert’s mind flipped to thoughts of his dog, and how on earth the two of them were going to manage to bail out together—just as it had when fog lay thick over their East Wretham airfield, preventing a landing.

Well, come what may, he was determined to take Antis with him. If they survived the jump and were captured, Robert would probably face a firing squad, as would the rest of the Czech crew. But he had to presume that because a dog has no nationality the Germans might take pity on Antis, though how he would survive without his master Robert dreaded to think. He reached down and ruffled his dog’s hair. It struck him as odd that Antis could remain so still and so quiet in the midst of so much murderous fire and carnage.

“Get ready to make the jump, boy,” he murmured. “ ’Cause if Jerry comes back for another go, I reckon we’re all getting out of here. You and me together to the end, eh, boy?”

Once again Robert felt his dog’s searching gaze upon him, but he was unable to take his eyes from the night sky. He could sense the enemy out there poised to attack. He needed to be ready.

Up ahead Capka spotted the promise of relief: a thick bank of clouds. He eased the wounded aircraft around, hoping and praying
that her injuries wouldn’t prove mortal. The Wellington rattled and thundered her way onward, and for now at least she seemed to be stubbornly refusing to give up the ghost. The cloudbank drew inexorably closer. Holding their breath and praying that they would make it, the crew of C for Cecilia counted down the seconds. Then the first wisps of sullen gray flashed past the aircraft’s windows, and the Wellington churned her way into the blanket of water vapor.

The bomber shook and rattled all the more as the turbulence within the cloud mass threw her about, but to the crew of C for Cecilia it was a very welcome rough ride. Almost the instant she had hit the cloud the searchlights lost her, and for now at least she was safe from enemy warplanes. Cecilia droned onward. Her engines seemed to have found their rhythm again. Every now and then there was a worrying cough and a splutter, but otherwise the cloudbank threw back only a comforting drone to the six men who were longing to reach home.

In the rear turret Robert allowed himself a moment’s relaxation. There would be no spotting enemy aircraft while they thundered onward through this cloud.

He let go of the gun’s grips. “How you feeling, boy?” he murmured. He reached down for an instant to commune with his dog. “We did a fine job of weathering the storm, eh, and as long as we get home in one—”

Robert’s words froze in midsentence. For the first time since they had been raked by that burst of flak above Mannheim, he had been able to take a good look at his dog. Antis was gazing back at him with his head held at an odd angle, and there was a distinctly glazed look in his eyes. It wasn’t the look of sleep; and anyway, even Antis couldn’t have managed to doze through the last hour or so.

With a growing sense of panic Robert flicked on the shaded light that lay to one side of his turret. The sight that met his eyes was a sickening one. His dog was lying in a slick of blood. With shaking
fingers he unhooked the straps that held the mask to the dog’s face. He held Antis’s head in both his hands, gently stroking him. He was lost for words, and he could feel hot tears pricking at his eyes. He had no idea how badly wounded his dog was, and they were still a good forty minutes out from RAF East Wretham.

Unhooking his own mask and flight harness, Robert bent to inspect his dog. He had to know how serious his injuries were: was it a shrapnel wound, or had Antis been shot? He felt around until he found the cause of the bleeding. Antis had a deep gash in his chest, one that looked as if it had been caused by a large chunk of shrapnel. But at least as far as Robert could tell, the dog hadn’t been hit by an enemy bullet, so hopefully none of his internal organs had been damaged.

Either way he seemed to have lost one hell of a lot of blood. They needed to land their damaged aircraft and get their dog into the sick bay, and quickly. As far as Robert was concerned, nothing else mattered now but saving their dog of war—for if Antis died, their talisman would have died. And as legend had it, any aircrew that lost their talisman was surely doomed.

If, as seemed likely, Antis had been wounded by flak when they were over Mannheim, he had lain there for hours in a pool of his own blood, suffering intense pain. Yet never once had he cried out or whimpered, or tried to distract Robert from his task—that of defending their aircraft. He had borne his injuries with a fortitude that would challenge the bravest of men, but heaven forbid that the end result would be the loss of their dog of war.

Robert lifted his eyes from his stricken dog, only to realize that they’d left the cloud behind. Cecilia had lost altitude and they were coming in across the English countryside, with dawn reddening the skies to their east. It looked as if the battle-worn Wellington was going to make it home in one piece; whether their canine crew member did as well was still to be determined.

Capka’s voice came over the intercom. “Can’t get the wheels down. Brace for a crash landing. As soon as we stop rolling get out fast, and be ready for a fire.”

For a moment Robert wondered whether he should warn everyone that they had an injured crew member. There didn’t seem to be much point. Capka had enough to deal with landing the stricken aircraft, after which every man’s responsibility was to get out fast, before the Wellington caught fire or exploded.

As they came in toward East Wretham the copilot fired off a red Very light from the cockpit—the recognized warning signal for a crash landing. With Antis clamped between his knees, Robert strapped himself in and braced for what was coming. The last thing he did was throw a protective arm around Antis’s head as he heard Capka cut the engines. To left and right the propellers spluttered to a stop, and in the last few eerie moments before impact the only noise was the rush of the wind through the torn and shredded flanks of the warplane.

She hit with a deafening crunch, the belly of the Wellington tearing into the soft grass of the runway. With a horrible shrieking of tortured metal, the wounded beast of the air skidded and juddered for several seconds, before finally coming to a halt. Firemen and an ambulance speeded out to intercept her.

The rear turret was resting on the ground, and Robert was able to kick open the emergency exit door. He jumped down, leaned back inside, and levered up his injured dog, lifting him out. With the heavy animal held in his arms he ran for the ambulance. As far as Robert knew, Antis was Cecilia’s only injured crew member, so he felt perfectly justified in claiming pole position in the waiting vehicle.

Seeing the state of their dog, 311 Squadron’s mascot—hair soaked in blood, head hanging limply—the ambulance crew needed no urging. They set off, the speeding vehicle taking their wounded crew
member to the station sick bay. From the ambulance he was rushed directly to the operating table. As a male nurse held Antis’s paws, keeping his legs out of the way, the doctor inspected the chest wound. Robert couldn’t bear to look. A lump of shrapnel had torn a three-inch-long gash deep into Antis’s chest, and the doctor wasn’t sure if the jagged piece of metal still lay inside.

“He’s lucky it missed his heart,” the doctor remarked as he reached for his surgical instruments. “Hold him and comfort him, Sergeant Bozdech, for I’ll not be able to use any anesthetic on a dog.”

As the doctor cleaned, probed, and sutured the wound, Robert held Antis’s head in his hands, and talked to him constantly. His dog must have sensed that, in spite of the pain, all those around him were trying to help, and that whatever process he was undergoing here, it was critical to his life. An hour later the operation was all but done. The doctor raised his eyes from his task and fixed Robert with a look.

“I’d like to give him blood, of course, but we have none for dogs. Even so, he should make it through okay. He’s a strong dog and in perfect condition.” The doctor paused. “But make no mistake, Robert, he needs to be grounded for some time to come now. No more flying combat missions for Antis. He needs time to rest and recuperate, and in any case his wound might burst open under the pressure of flying at any altitude.”

Robert told the doctor that he understood. For now at least, the flying dog of war was very much grounded.

As luck would have it, Ludva—the redheaded, fiery-tempered member of the Original Eight—was fresh out of the sick bay himself, having been wounded on a recent mission over Germany. So at least Antis had one of the all-for-one-and-one-for-allers to keep him company as he convalesced back at their digs in Manor Farm. Antis clearly hated being grounded. He disliked even more being banned from the airfield, but Robert felt he had no choice but to keep him
away, for fear he might sneak onto C for Cecilia and stow away once more.

Each time Robert and crew left their digs to prepare for a mission, Antis would wag his tail and whine entreaties, lobbying hard to be allowed to go. Each time he had to be refused. To the flying dog of war this was anathema. It was also inexplicable. He was one of C for Cecilia’s regular crew; he had never comported himself with anything but the utmost professionalism when in the air; and he was the only crew member to have been badly injured—yet this was his reward, to be left behind.

It didn’t sit easy with the dog.

He started refusing to eat in mute protest at the way in which he was being treated. Robert spoke softly and patiently to Antis, for he recognized the seeming injustice of the present situation.

“Listen, boy, it’s for your own good. We don’t want to leave you behind: none of us do. But you’ve got to have the time to heal—doctor’s orders. Be patient. Get well. You’ll see—you’ll be back with us in no time.”

At least the torture of not being allowed to accompany his team was lessened a little by the fact that Antis couldn’t actually hear C for Cecilia getting airborne. The Wellington was so badly damaged from the mission over Mannheim and the crash landing that had followed that she was out of service for nine consecutive days. As a result, Robert, Capka, and crew were forced to fly a sister Wellington, U for Ursula, which meant that Antis couldn’t detect the engine noise of his beloved Cecilia taking to the skies.

He was saved that particular torture, and in the meantime Robert found Antis a mission all of his very own, one designed to further take his mind off being grounded: Operation Jacqueline. Jacqueline was a pretty four-year-old girl who lived in the end cottage at Manor Farm. Her father had been killed during the evacuation of Dunkirk, at a similar time to when the Original Eight—Robert and Antis
included—had themselves been trying to escape from war-torn France. Jacqueline’s grandmother ran the grocery shop at the far end of the village. She had been nicknamed “Mother” by the Czech airmen, for she had gone out of her way to make them feel at home in their adopted country.

Jacqueline’s mother was busy working on the farm, and her grandma was likewise busy with her shop. Robert set Antis the task of being the little girl’s babysitter, chaperone, and protector. Very quickly there developed an unspoken understanding between dog and child. Antis seemed to be able to read her mind, and he would rise early to meet her as they headed off together on whatever adventures she had planned. With her tiny fingers hooked in his collar, Antis would lead her through the village to Grandma’s shop, or to the nearby fields to play. He was a couple of inches taller than she, and his thick, dark hair set off her wild blond curls admirably.

When Antis was with Jacqueline all knew that no harm would come to her. A photo of the two of them appeared in the local newspaper, under the caption “Little Red Riding Hood.” The story that accompanied the photo spoke of their unique friendship. The veteran dog of war, wounded twice in action, had proven to have a heart of gold.