The Dog Who Could Fly (30 page)

In reply, Antis gave a smug toss of his thick, glossy mane, as if to say,
Just watch me, Buster, just watch me.

Antis knew right away what Robert wanted of him, and it was truly amazing how completely man and dog understood each other. Yet to them their instinctive communication had become like second nature, and it warranted little if any special notice.

During their wanderings across half of Europe, not to mention
their frequent deployments to different airbases, Antis had learned to always take careful note of his surroundings. And while the city environment was somewhat alien to him, he still retained a scent map in his head, a plot of those smells that were familiar to him no matter where he might be—for instance, his own odor and that of his master.

With his head down, sniffing up the scent like a vacuum cleaner, Antis began to move. He led Robert across the street and began to retrace the route they had just taken. Within five minutes, he stopped in front of a large Edwardian property—one in a row of almost identical buildings. He stood gazing up at it, his head cocked to one side and his tail wagging fiercely.

Here we are then
, his expression seemed to say.
That wasn’t so difficult, was it?

The city streets were totally blacked out, and Robert could barely see a thing. He struck a match and gazed doubtfully at the building’s brass nameplate.

“Well, I’m damned!” he finally exclaimed. “St. Margaret’s Hotel . . . It’s all coming back to me.” He turned and patted Antis’s head, a little sheepishly. “All right, old boy, you win. Thank goodness one of us is sober, anyway.”

•  •  •

A few days later they left London, but before man and dog could head for their Scottish training base, Robert had to train to be a trainer. He was assigned to RAF St. Athan, in south Wales, one of the RAF’s largest bases in Britain. At St. Athan he roomed with Vladimir Cupak, a fellow Czech airman who knew both Robert and Antis from the time he had served at 311 Squadron. All was going well until Robert was sent to attend a gunnery leaders’ course at RAF Chelveston.

Because the people at Training Command were known to be sticklers about rules, especially with regard to instructors keeping
pets, Robert asked Vladimir if he would look after Antis for the next few days. On arrival at Chelveston he’d apply for a permit for Antis to join him, after which they could travel on together to RAF Evanton, their permanent assignment. Robert figured it would take him only a few days to get the permit, so theirs would be a brief parting.

He said his farewells to both Antis and Vladimir that Sunday at the nearby station. Sure enough, a couple of days after reaching Chelveston, Robert had secured his permit. He put a call through to Vladimir, to tell him he’d be back to collect Antis during the weekend.

“Hold on,” Vladimir interrupted, just as soon as Robert had begun to talk, “we’re in trouble, bad trouble. Antis’s chased a sheep and he’s been shot.”

For a moment Robert felt as if his heart had stopped. “What d’you mean he’s been shot? Is he dead?”

“No, he’s injured, but recovering. That’s not the main problem. Antis has been locked up by the police and he’s going to be put on trial.”

“What d’you mean, put on trial? Antis is in prison?”

“No, no, he’s in the guardroom at the base, but things are still pretty bad . . .”

Robert asked for the story from the beginning.

“I took Antis for a walk this morning and he wanted a run,” Vladimir began. “He’s been acting odd since you left, but I figured a good blast might do him some good. I let him off his lead and it was then he spotted some sheep—”

“So what if he saw some sheep,” Robert interrupted. “He’s seen hundreds. He’s never gone chasing any before.”

“Well, like I said, he’s been acting strangely since you left. Anyhow, he dashed off after them and refused to be called back. He went around a hedge and I heard a shot. Antis seemed to stagger back toward me, and then there was another shot and he fell. He picked
himself right back up again, but then I saw the farmer on his tail. He came right up to me as livid as can be. Claimed Antis had killed three of his sheep in the past few weeks. He’s demanding compensation and that Antis be put down . . .”

“How on earth can Antis have killed any of his blasted sheep?” Robert raged. “He’s never been out of our sight to do so.”

“I know. But the farmer went right to the police and the CO’s ordered Antis to be locked up until he can go before the local magistrate.”

“So he is going to be put on trial!”

“He is, which is why I said we’re in trouble.”

“So how is he now?”

“Not so bad. They took thirty-six lead pellets out of his hide. There are quite a lot left, though. I’m putting poultices on his injured eye every two hours, and I’m allowed to take him for a walk twice a day. Otherwise, he’s locked in the guardroom.”

“But he must be hating it!” Robert paused. “So when does his case come up?”

“No one seems to know, but it’ll be heard here, at Cowbridge. D’you think you can make it back? The CO’s flat out to help, but he’s in a bit of a bind because the farmer, Mr. Williams, is out for blood.”

“Damn Mr. Williams! I’ll do everything I can to make it.”

That night Robert couldn’t sleep. He’d asked for leave that very day, but it had been refused, largely because he’d only just started the course. He was at his wits’ end. After all they had been through, and after their countless near misses at the hands of the enemy, was Antis finally to lose his life courtesy of an angry Welsh sheep farmer? Not if Robert had anything to do with it he wasn’t.

As dawn broke across the winter sky Robert sensed a ray of hope piercing his despair. Both Wing Commander Ocelka and his former boss, Group Captain Pickard, had promised help if ever Robert or Antis were in trouble. Well, now was most certainly his time of greatest
need. Pickard’s name in particular might carry some weight and help sway the judge, for he was a war hero of some standing.

Robert penned a letter to both, outlining Antis’s predicament and asking for their help. He sent them express and waited on tenterhooks for some kind of response.

The following afternoon Robert received a telegram. “Will see what I can do. Good luck. Pickard.”

Ocelka replied in a similar vein and Robert felt his spirits rise a little. Days passed. He could only imagine Antis’s state of mind, locked in the guardroom and bereft of his master, and largely cut off from any of his friends. His dog would be going out of his mind.

On the day of the court hearing, Robert had to force himself to sit in a lecture on gunnery skills, pretending to pay attention, when his mind was one hundred percent focused on a trial taking place in rural Cowbridge, one that would decide the fate of his beloved dog.

He got the phone call just after midday.

“It’s good news!” Vladimir exclaimed. “Antis has been pardoned. We have to pay costs, compensate the farmer, and sign a pledge to keep him under proper control. But other than that, he’s free!”

Robert was lost for words. Once again, Antis had evaded being taken by the Grim Reaper, who seemed so determined to claim him. Luckily, the letters written by Wing Commander Ocelka and Group Captain Pickard had been read out at the start of the court case. Pickard’s letter pointed out that Antis had flown dozens of daring sorties with the RAF over Germany, and that his airman owner wanted him back as soon as possible, so as to “recommence operational flights once again.” Ocelka’s letter praised the bulldog spirit of 311 Squadron’s official mascot, who was needed back on duty.

Those letters played a key part in swaying the judge. By the end of the court hearing the local police had lost the argument that the dog should be put down. The magistrate gave a firm ruling against ending the life of such a veteran war hero. The court reporter duly
picked up on this amazing story. In spite of the RAF’s stonewalling, the British press finally had proof—in sworn court documents—that the flying dog of war existed, and it lapped up the story.

The newspaper reports hailed Antis’s reprieve: “The Dog That Flies Over Germany—His Life Saved For More Sorties.” All they needed now was the name of the dog and that of his airman master—which had so far been withheld—and the pair’s renown and their fame as great British war heroes would be complete. Robert’s birth name was Václav Bozdech, but ever since arriving in Britain, he had adopted the name Robert. Yet none of newspapers had yet been able to get either his or Antis’s name.

•  •  •

With the court case won, Antis’s trials and tribulations were far from over. The dog was sick from his wounds and lovesick for his master. Vladimir had given a solemn promise to the court that Antis would be kept under firm control. But in Antis’s mind there was only one thought now: if his master couldn’t come to him, he would go to his master.

The first morning that Vladimir was reunited with Antis, he left him asleep on his blanket, with Robert’s possessions scattered all around him for company. Vladimir headed to the mess for breakfast, but en route back to his hut he was accosted by the base CO, Wing Commander Shepherd.

“Sergeant, where did you leave your dog?” he demanded angrily.

“In my room, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure, sir. I left him there when I went for breakfast.”

“Then how do you explain that I found him near the railway station in the village?”

“It can’t be Antis,” Vladimir objected. “With your permission, sir, I’ll fetch him from my room.”

The CO snorted. “Don’t bother. Just come with me.”

Wing Commander Shepherd marched Vladimir to his office. He threw open the door, and there was Antis tethered firmly to his desk by a gas-mask strap. The dog had a guilty-as-sin expression on his face, and it wasn’t helped by the way the CO proceeded to tear into Vladimir.

“You do realize you gave a promise to the magistrate that you’d keep this dog under proper control? And this is how you keep your word! Just one more episode like this and the dog will be shot. I’m willing to try to help, but not if you fail to keep your word. Now get out, and see that there’s no more trouble of this nature!”

Vladimir couldn’t understand it. He’d left Antis locked in his room, so how the devil had he escaped? He discovered the answer just as soon as they were back: he’d left the key in the lock. At East Wretham, Antis had been taught to open doors by twisting the handle with his jaws, so he could come and go at night when he needed to pee. He’d clearly adapted such skills to turning a key and unlocking a door!

Vladimir swore to himself that he’d take no more chances. Robert was due back that Saturday—in four days’ time—and he was determined to keep Antis out of trouble until then. That Friday evening Vladimir decided to take in a movie. He left Antis triply secured. He was tied to his master’s bed with a strong strap, the window and door were latched and locked, and the key was safely in Vladimir’s pocket.

After his friend’s departure, Antis must have lain in the darkness for a long time, puzzling out his predicament. He could smell his master’s things in the room, so he clearly hadn’t abandoned him for good. But where was he? He’d been gone for weeks now, and man and dog had never before been parted for more than a few days—and that due to injury and their aircraft having been shot up. Antis felt certain something dreadful must have happened to his master, and he was determined to go to his aid.

Whining from the pain of his recent injuries, he tried to bite and chew his way through the strap that constrained him. But the thick leather defeated his efforts. Now and again he could hear the hollow thump of boots as the camp guards made the rounds of the base perimeter. When all was quiet he went back to his task, using his powerful jaws to work on the strap. Finally, with a twang, it parted.

Antis jumped onto his master’s bed, from where he could reach the window. He began to worry at the latch. The catch was not the strongest ever made, and after several powerful bites it buckled, and Antis was able to nose up the window. He poked his muzzle out, sniffing carefully at the air. Were any guards in the vicinity? Judging that the coast was clear, he jumped out of the window, trotted across the grass, and disappeared into the shadows.

He made his way across open fields to the village. He was headed for the railway station, the place where he had last seen his master and where they had said their goodbyes. It was the only place at which he could think of restarting his search. Darting from bush to bush, he approached his target. Reaching it, he lurked in a patch of darkness for the train he knew must come. In Antis’s mind one of those puffing steam engines had carried away his master, so if he followed in his footsteps he would most likely find him.

His patience was rewarded. A train came to a squealing halt at the station, the doors opening to disgorge a few passengers. Like a streak of gray lightning Antis dashed across the platform and darted inside. His journey to find his master had begun. Now all he had to do was pick up his scent among all the other human smells on the train, and track him to wherever he might be.

•  •  •

When Vladimir returned from the movie he could barely believe his eyes. He organized all the men he could find into search parties. While some pedaled off on bicycles for the railway station, others
went to scour the nearby fields, especially those with flocks of sheep. As sunrise neared, Vladimir was dreading the new day. He would have no choice but to go and report that his dog was missing, at which point the CO would more than likely order him to be shot.

At dawn, groups of airmen returned to the camp from their various searches. All were empty-handed. All hope seemed to have been lost. There was no sign of the errant dog, and Antis might be just about anywhere by now. Vladimir and a friend were the last to return to the base, having made one final abortive tour of the nearby fields.

They dragged their tired limbs along the road leading to RAF St. Athan, with Vladimir dreading what was coming.

Twenty-one