Robert trained Antis never to cross the runway or approach one of their Wellington bombers when the engines were running—crucial for a dog on duty.
Having watched his master disappear up the front steps leading into the belly of the Wellington, Antis stood trembling on the edge of the dispersal area, his eyes glued to the warplane. He tracked the heavily laden aircraft as it taxied toward the end of the runway. One by one the bombers took off, but Antis seemed to know exactly which was the one that contained his master. As C for Cecilia turned ponderously, accelerated, and became airborne, clawing into the dark sky, his mournful gaze remained fixed on the warplane.
He couldn’t pull his eyes away until the last speck of the Wellington had disappeared into the southern skies. Even then, as the ground crew gathered up their tools in preparation for returning to their tent, Antis’s focus remained on the dark horizon, his ears pricked forward to catch the last vestiges of sound. Finally, with a drooping tail, he turned from the runway and joined Adamek and the others as they headed for their tent.
But Antis stopped short. He found a place at the side of the dispersal area, sank onto his haunches, and made it clear to all that that was where he was going to stay. No amount of entreaties could persuade the dog to join them in the shelter, and so the warmhearted Adamek opted to remain with Antis, at least for the first hour or so. Adamek was a natural-born optimist, and while he knew from sad experience how often crews failed to return from missions, he never once allowed himself to think that C for Cecilia might suffer such a fate.
There would be no end of volunteers at 311 Squadron to take the dog, were Robert to be captured or killed. At the front of the line would be Adamek himself, Squadron Leader Pickard, Wing Commander Ocelka, and of course Uncle Vlasta and Ludva. That wasn’t the worry. The worry was whether a dog who was so intimately bonded with his master could ever recover from losing him. Adamek didn’t allow his mind to dwell on such thoughts. There was enough darkness in this war without worrying about grief and loss that would perhaps never happen.
After a good hour with the dog, Adamek went to get a hot meal. He returned to find Antis stretched out with his head resting on his forepaws, sound asleep. He had brought Antis some food, but when the dog awakened he absolutely refused to eat. This would become his unbreakable habit: whenever his master was away flying, not a morsel of food would pass his lips.
As the first faint skeins of a duck-egg blue shot through the sky to the east, presaging dawn, Adamek sensed the dog’s growing excitement. It was almost as if he knew that this was the time when the warplanes would return, and when all those waiting would know for sure if one had been lost. Adamek placed a powerful arm around the dog’s shoulders, whispering words of comfort to him—that his master would be home soon.
Antis whimpered softly, all of his senses focused on the skies now, his ears straining to hear the first sounds of a Wellington powering in to land. As Adamek watched the dog carefully, he suddenly saw a change come over him. The whining stopped and Antis cocked his head to one side, every molecule of his being concentrating on the noises in his head.
Antis had caught the distant sound of a Wellington’s twin Bristol Pegasus radial engines. In fact he could hear several. He was sifting those various sounds, searching for the one that he’d learned to recognize as C for Cecilia’s signature engine beat. As his excitement grew, the first black specks appeared, silhouetted against the barely nascent dawn. Suddenly, Antis was on his feet and he barked loudly, beginning the wild war dance for joy that Uncle Vlasta had first noticed, tearing around and around the group of waiting men as if he’d gone half mad.
At last C for Cecilia touched down. As the Wellington taxied across to her dispersal point, Antis could hardly contain his excitement. But the lesson he’d learned never to approach an aircraft with engines running held him back, right until the moment the hatches opened and out stepped the crew. Antis bolted forward, so he was waiting at the bottom of the ladder as Robert climbed down.
Robert’s welcome back to East Wretham after the mission to bomb the Prinz Eugen was to be half bowled over by one crazy-happy dog.
As it turned out, the raid had been only a partial success. All aircraft had reached the target and completed their bombing runs. But C for Cecilia’s bomb load had fallen just to the west of the target, where they’d counted six blasts on what had to be the quayside. They had been close, but not close enough. Their munitions had overshot. Still, Cecilia’s crew had proven they could navigate to a specific point, carry out near-precision bombing under heavy fire, and return to their airbase, which was about as good as it got for a freshman crew.
They’d only get a damage assessment on the Prinz Eugen once the local cells of the French resistance had managed to set eyes on the ship and radio through a report on what bombs may have hit. In the meantime breakfast called, and Robert felt ravenous. As he ate he could feel the adrenaline of the night sortie bleeding out of his system, to be replaced by a leaden fatigue.
He cycled back to Manor Farm with Antis running happily at his side. By now it was broad daylight. Robert closed the curtains in their room and lay down to rest. Antis settled on his blanket beside him, head on his paws and eyes fixed on his master’s prone form. Only when Robert’s breathing became regular and easy did Antis decide that the time had come for him too to get some sleep.
So the pattern was set, as C for Cecilia began to fly nightly sorties, making the most of the fine weather of the first days of spring, while Antis stood his dark vigils on the dispersal area waiting for his master’s return. With over a dozen missions behind them, C for Cecilia’s crew graduated from being freshmen to something closer to veterans. They had made their mark on the squadron of twenty Wellingtons and were thought to be as reliable and solid a crew as any.
• • •
That spring a film documentary crew descended upon East Wretham. They were there to shoot a morale-boosting film showing how Bomber Command was taking the fight to the German enemy—a message that everyone in Great Britain was desperate to hear. For too long the Allies had been on the back foot, as the Germans’ seemingly invincible war machine had stamped its jackboot across much of Europe. The film, entitled Target for Tonight, was to tell a very different story—that night after night the crews of Bomber Command were flying into the teeth of the German guns, striking at the heart of the enemy.
Recognizing that Antis was an integral part of 311 Squadron—he wasn’t just its mascot; he was a working part of what made it whole—Squadron Leader Pickard decided the dog was going to have to play his part. Pick had a real soft spot for Antis. As Great Britain had struggled to feed her own people under the German sea and air assault, many pets—beloved dogs included—had been ordered to be put down (as many as one hundred thousand in the war). As a result, Antis was something of a rarity, and Pickard well appreciated the morale-boosting effect of putting a brave and handsome dog on the screen.
Pickard was to star in the film as the pilot of “F for Freddie,” and he decided Antis should figure as the dog that led the aircrew from their briefing in the crew room to the aircraft as they prepared to get airborne. Strictly speaking, the aircrew didn’t run to their aircraft. The distance was too far, and they’d go by crew bus. But Pickard wasn’t averse to a bit of poetic license, and neither was the British Ministry of Information film crew; nor, as it turned out, was Antis, who seemed to love the rehearsals and the filming that followed.
Pickard had made it clear to Robert that if the unfortunate happened and C for Cecilia did ever fail to return from a mission, then he would love to take the dog as his own. Robert had thanked him for the offer, but made it clear that he had no intention of ever failing to return. In any case, Pick would have to join the line of would-be owners.
Little did Robert appreciate then what a debt he’d owe to Pickard and his love of dogs, for there would come a time in the near future when the squadron leader would be called upon to save Antis’s life, and from a threat very much closer to home than that posed by the German enemy. But for now, there were missions to fly and a war to be fought. And there was the trauma of the death of close colleagues to be borne by the men, seemingly on a daily basis.
Shortly after the filming of Target for Tonight was complete, there was news of further tragedy. Of the three crews that had joined 311 Squadron on New Year’s Day—Robert’s and two others—one had already been shot down over France. Now came worse news: the second crew had failed to return from a night raid. Their Wellington had been seen going down in flames over the German city of Düsseldorf, and it was presumed that all were lost. One of those was Stetka—the larger-than-life beer-swilling airman they had first met at RAF Speke, and a man to whom both Robert and his dog had grown close.
In the few short months that they had been based at East Wretham, Stetka had gotten to know every pub and bar in the vicinity. He was always broke, always borrowing money from his pals, and always spending it on beer. Three days before his final, deathly sortie, Stetka had approached Robert in an uncharacteristically somber mood. He’d asked him for a private word, and Robert presumed that his friend was seeking yet another loan, something that he had never once refused him.
“Robert, can you help me?” Stetka had asked.
“Of course. How much is it this time?”
Stetka had shaken his head vigorously. “No, no, I’m not after a loan. In fact, I want you to make me a solemn promise you will never lend me any money again. I owe seven and six to Josef, fifteen bob to you, and eight to Ludva. Tomorrow is payday, and I can settle my debts with three pounds left over.”
Robert hadn’t known what to say. Why was Stetka in such a strange mood, and why on earth was he so determined to pay off his beer debts? And what would he do for money to finance his happy habit once the three pounds was exhausted? Robert had agreed to Stetka’s request, though it had all seemed very odd.
Two days later his good friend was dead, and had gone to his grave owing no money to any of his friends. Robert could only presume that Stetka had had a premonition of his own death. Nothing else made any sense. And being the thoroughly decent fellow that he was, he’d decided to pay off all his loans before the Grim Reaper claimed him.
The morning after Stetka’s death, Robert and Ludva were awakened by the noise of RAF orderlies clearing out his room, which was adjacent to their own. They were packing up the airman’s few possessions, most likely so a replacement could have his room.
“Why the hell can’t they at least wait until we’ve gone on a mission or something?” Robert demanded angrily. “Why do it now, when we’re still here?”
“Steady, Robert, steady,” Ludva replied. “He was my friend too, you know. It’s best not to think about it. After all, it will come to most of us sooner or later, you know.”
“Thanks!” Robert snorted. “That’s really cheered me up.”
“Well, I tell you one thing,” Ludva continued, “when my time comes they’ll have no problem sorting my gear.” He jerked a thumb at the end of his bed. “It’s all there, neatly piled, with a list drawn up of everything and who it’s to go to.” He paused. “You know, I wanted to get married someday, but I’ve a hunch that I won’t make it.”
Robert stared at Ludva in alarm. His roommate was normally as high-spirited and upbeat as the beery Stetka had been. “What the devil do you mean?”
“Well, someone has to get lucky, just as others don’t,” Ludva replied casually. “I’ve a strong feeling you’ll be all right. You’ll make it through. As for me, well, let’s just say I wouldn’t place a bet on myself . . .”
Before Robert could think of a suitable reply, Ludva rolled over and sighed heavily, then seemingly went back to sleep. Robert lay awake pondering what his close friend had said. Was it really coming to them all? The odds would suggest so: since Robert had joined 311 Squadron they’d lost two-thirds of the aircrew, and that in a few short months.
Should he too make a list of his possessions? Robert wondered. But the more he thought about it the more he realized he only really had one thing that he valued, and that was Antis. The only “possession” he’d bother putting on any list was his dog—and Antis was already promised to his brother airmen, if ever he didn’t make it back again. He dropped his hand over the side of the bed and felt for his dog. He ruffled the thick hair a few times, and heard Antis give a little snort of satisfaction—an acknowledgment in his sleep that he’d felt his master’s touch and was comforted by it.
Antis would wake in a few hours’ time and discover that another of his two-legged brothers was gone—Stetka, the bighearted one who was always trying to get the squadron mascot to drink his fair share of beer. It was another loss that the poor dog would have to come to terms with.
In light of Ludva’s morbid remarks, Robert made a mental note to move Wing Commander Ocelka to the top of the list. At the rate they were losing regular aircrew, none might be left by the time someone was needed to adopt Antis. Being the squadron’s commanding officer, Ocelka flew fewer sorties than the others, and by rights his chances of survival should be greater. Robert then decided he would tell Ocelka that he was the chosen one, and with that thought he rolled over and went back to sleep.
He was shaken awake sometime later by the duty officer, who was standing between Robert’s and Ludva’s beds with a clipboard in his hand.
“How many crews on the list tonight, sir?” Robert asked sleepily.
“Eight. And both you and Ludva are on it.”
• • •
That evening Robert and his fellow airmen set off for the crew room to collect their parachutes, leaving Antis to make his own way to his regular nightly position on the dispersal area. Antis had had his paws trodden on one too many times in the crew bus, and preferred to make his way to the airstrip on foot. At the entrance to the runway stood a guard in the dark blue uniform of the Air Ministry Constabulary. Unbeknownst to Antis, this hard-faced military policeman had taken a dislike to 311 Squadron’s mascot. In his mind the squadron’s business was flying missions against the enemy, not keeping pets.
Seeing Antis trotting along the roadway toward the main gate, this man decided he’d had enough of the dog’s damned impertinence. It was high time he exerted his authority. He dragged his bicycle across the road so as to block the dog’s path. He yelled at Antis, telling him to clear off. Amazed, the dog stopped dead in his tracks. He’d rarely if ever been the object of such behavior and couldn’t for the life of him understand what was happening.
He tried to skirt around the irate policeman, but each time the man wheeled his bike one way or the other to block the dog’s way. Antis had never faced such naked human aggression. More importantly, he’d never had a human try to keep him from his master. Deciding that the policeman was best avoided, Antis opted to jump the ditch and fence that bordered the gate. But the policeman, realizing what he was up to, jammed his bike into the dog’s way. Antis jumped, failed to clear the bike, and crashed into it painfully.
Suddenly, Antis’s mood flipped. He’d realized by now this man was intent on keeping him from his master, and no one—nobody—ever got away with that. His eyes flashing fire, Antis wheeled around, growling menacingly at his oppressor. This sudden change of demeanor had the gallant policeman on the defensive. With the bike held protectively before him as a shield, he backed toward the safety of his tiny little wooden hut that lay to one side of the gate.
Antis advanced as the policeman retreated, determined to get through the gate and on his way to dispersal. But as the policeman backed away he caught his heel on the grass verge, tumbled backward, and with the bicycle on top of him, fell into a muddy ditch. Completely ignoring the policeman’s curses, Antis continued to go about his business. At that moment three other airmen—who had seen the confrontation unfolding—came rushing up to lend what help they could.
Their concern was all for the squadron’s dog. Throwing a few choice insults at the stocky policeman, who was still struggling to get out of the ditch, they grabbed Antis by the collar and moved off toward the airfield. Antis knew that he’d lost precious time during the confrontation, and that C for Cecilia might already be getting airborne. Head down and legs pumping, he raced for the dispersal area, resisting the temptation to take a shortcut across the runway.
He got there just in time, and was able to nuzzle a wet nose into Robert’s hand as he listened to the final briefing prior to takeoff.
“What kept you, boy?” Robert whispered. “You’re late!”
There was no way that Antis could relate what had just happened. It was good enough for him that he’d made it to his position to see his master into the air on another mission. The target tonight was Osnabrück—one of the first German cities to have been bombed by the Allies during the war. It lay in the direct flight path of Bomber Command squadrons heading for Berlin and central Germany’s industrial heartland, so it was a stepping-stone in the process of familiarizing aircrew with that route.
Tonight’s raid was to be one of the first flown by the crew of C for Cecilia into Germany itself. With their radar-controlled searchlights and integrated air defense systems, the defenders of most German cities were able to vector both ground fire and fighter planes onto Allied aircraft far more effectively than their counterparts in the rest of occupied Europe—hence bombing missions flown into Germany itself were rightly seen as being by far the more risk-laden. Antis had been right to insist on getting to the airfield in time to see his master off, for there was every chance of losses on tonight’s mission.
As matters transpired, the enemy fire over Osnabrück was less fierce than expected. C for Cecilia was able to drop her bombs and return to base well before dawn, as were the rest of that night’s aircrew. Antis met the returning aircraft with his now-familiar war dance for joy, and after a quick breakfast man and dog retired to Manor Farm for a much-needed sleep. It wasn’t to prove very restful, however.
Robert hadn’t long been asleep when he was shaken awake. “Sergeant Bozdech, you’re to report to the adjutant’s office,” the orderly sergeant told him.
“What, now? I’m off duty. I was on operations last night.”
“The adjutant wants to see you at eleven sharp.” The man glanced at his watch. “It’s five past ten now. You’d better get a move on.”
Hurriedly, Robert shaved and dressed himself. It wasn’t usual to deprive an aircrewman of much-needed sleep after a night operation, especially as he might be needed to fly again that evening. But the sun was out and Robert was feeling remarkably contented as he cycled into the base with Antis trotting beside him. He reached the main gate and called out a cheery “good morning” to the policeman on duty. All he got in return was a sneer, plus a scowl for his dog.
He headed for the main building, made his way down the polished corridor, and knocked on the adjutant’s door. It was five minutes to eleven, so he had actually arrived early. He was called in and came to attention. The adjutant was sitting bolt upright in his chair, arms folded, an expression like thunder on his features.
“You sent for me, sir?”
“I did.” He threw a glance at Antis, who was standing obediently at Robert’s heel. “That dog of yours—he has to go.”
“Sorry, sir? Dog? My dog has to go? Go where, sir?”
“He must be removed from the camp forthwith!” the adjutant snapped.
“But he’s the squadron mascot, sir. Why would he have to go?”
“It’s simple. It’s come to my attention you have no official permit to keep a dog on this camp. Ergo, the dog has to go.”
“Group Captain Pickard never asked for one, sir. He knew the dog was here and was happy . . .”
“Group Captain Pickard is no longer the station commander,” the adjutant cut in. He was right. Pickard had been promoted and moved on to other duties.
“But Wing Commander Ocelka is equally—”
“Wing Commander Ocelka is away at present. That leaves my good self having to deal with a very unfortunate matter that has arisen.” The adjutant picked up a sheet of paper lying on his desk. “I have before me a report from the Air Ministry warden on the gate that your dog tried to savage him last night. The report outlines the laws that exist in this country to deal with vicious dogs.”
“It’s the first I’ve heard of any of this. Antis would never go for anyone—”
“Are you accusing a British policeman of making an unfounded allegation?”
“No, sir. But it doesn’t make any sense. Antis isn’t a vicious dog, or savage. Can I speak to the wing commander about this?”
“As I said, he is presently away on a visit to the Air Ministry, but I am certain he will back my decision. You are to report to the station warrant officer, who has an official letter for you, outlining what you must do. You are to read and sign that letter, then continue as instructed. That is all.”
Robert made his way to the SWO’s office, his mind a whirl of thoughts. He didn’t believe for one moment that Antis had attacked anyone. Even if he had, there had to be a reason, and there was no way that Robert was going to take this lying down. It was all very convenient that this had blown up just when Ocelka—a man who had formally accepted Robert’s request that he adopt his dog should Robert be lost in combat—happened to be away from the base.
Robert smelled a rat. His fears were more than justified when he collected the letter. It gave him forty-eight hours in which to find an alternative home for his dog. If he wasn’t off the base by then, Antis was to be “destroyed.”
The letter was penned by the adjutant, and it was almost as if he had signed Antis’s death warrant.