Robert stared at the letter with unseeing eyes. It was as if his mind was incapable of processing the words he had just read. One thing stood out to him above all else, though: it was the adjutant’s signature at the bottom of the page. Robert returned to the man’s office in one more effort to make him see sense.
“Sir, if I might have a word, please?”
The adjutant barely glanced up from his desk. “Not now, Sergeant. Can’t you see I’m busy? Anyhow, you have your written orders. See that they are carried out.”
For a long moment Robert stared at the balding head of his tormentor. The man was a coward. He was a desk-bound pen pusher, a man who never once had flown into danger as had Robert and his fellow airmen. His lack of backbone was typified in his decision to let the station SWO deliver the letter to Robert, instead of having the guts to face him. Robert despised the man.
“Sir, now see this,” Robert announced.
As the adjutant glanced up in surprise, Robert began to slowly and methodically tear up the letter in front of his face. He took a step forward and placed the shredded remains on the adjutant’s desk.
“I’ve never known such insubordination!” the adjutant exploded. His eyes were bulging out of their sockets as he stared at Robert’s handiwork. “You know the consequences of what you’ve just done, don’t you, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir.”
His actions had been incendiary, but also very deliberate. Nothing was more likely to see him go before the CO than what he had just done—tearing up his orders. Come what may, he’d get to say his piece before Ocelka.
“I should by rights put you under arrest. But you are operating tonight, so I shall desist from doing so. But, and mark my words, when the wing commander gets back I shall ensure he deals with you. In the meantime, you know my orders concerning your dog, even though you have had the temerity to tear them to pieces. Make sure those orders are carried out. Now, get on your way.”
With Antis at his heel, Robert made his sorry way to the mess. By now word of the adjutant’s orders had spread around the base, and he was greeted by a posse of airmen whose anger and indignation were clear for all to see.
“We’ll form a delegation and put it to that bloody despot,” Uncle Vlasta exclaimed. The father of the Original Eight was never one to lose his cool, but the adjutant’s orders had really stirred his ire. “The CO’s away and this happens—it’s a bloody frame-up!”
“Vlasta’s right,” added Cupak, who served as Ocelka’s rear gunner. “It would never have happened were the ‘old man’ here!”
“Antis is one of us,” Ludva added, “and if anything should happen to him . . .”
All present knew what Ludva was driving at. Like airmen everywhere they were a superstitious lot, and each carried with him some form of lucky charm or talisman to keep him safe in the air. Capka, the pilot of C for Cecilia, had his unwashed maroon underpants that were first issued to him in the French Foreign Legion. Gustav had a set of miniature ivory elephants without which he would never fly. And Antis was the squadron mascot, the lucky charm that arguably kept them all safe in the air. For many it went even deeper than that. For the surviving members of the Original Eight—and for many others who’d listened to their stories—Antis was the miracle dog who’d gotten them out of war-torn France alive. It was unthinkable that some puffed-up outsider like the adjutant might have the power of life and death over such a dog.
“Come on!” exclaimed Ludva. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go! All for one, and one for all! Antis is one of us, and no one’s getting rid of our dog!”
Glancing around the sea of flushed faces, Robert could well imagine what was going to happen if they went en masse to confront the adjutant. His fellow Czechs were by nature a solid and mellow bunch, but only until their ire was roused, whereupon they’d fight like the best of them. The situation was heated enough already and he could easily see it coming to blows. It was bad enough having one of them—himself—facing a court-martial, let alone the entire squadron.
Robert quieted the men down. “We’ll find another way. All we need to do is hold out long enough for the CO to return, and then Antis will get his reprieve.” He checked his watch. “Come on, there’s an air test scheduled shortly. Let’s get it done, then work on our battle plan.”
The route to the airfield took them through the gate manned by the policeman who was the cause of all the present trouble. As the group of airmen approached with Antis trotting happily in their midst, the blue-uniformed symbol of authority stepped out of his little hut and stood blocking their way.
“Do you have a permit to keep that dog on Air Ministry property?” he demanded. “If so, I need to see it.”
“You know I haven’t!” Robert retorted as he clenched his fists with anger.
“Take it easy, Robert,” Uncle Vlasta warned. “He’s only trying to provoke you.”
The policeman held out his stubby fingers. “The permit, if you please? Otherwise he cannot pass.”
“You listen to me,” Robert rasped. “You may think you are a very fine policeman, but you are actually a complete fool. We are airmen on duty, flying missions against the enemy, and all the while you remain here in your cozy little hut. You’d best get out of our way and stay out of our way, if you know what’s good for you!”
“You’re headed for that ditch a second time,” Ludva added, “only now it’ll be head bloody first!”
“Come on,” urged Capka, “on we go. Don’t take any notice of him.”
They hustled past the red-faced policeman, Antis growling at him from their midst.
“There’s going to be hell to pay,” muttered Josef as they headed for their aircraft.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” replied Robert grimly, the germ of an idea forming in his mind.
How many times now had he been all but forced to abandon his dog? There was the time at the French farmhouse in no-man’s-land, when Robert had slipped the tiny puppy inside his flying jacket instead. There was the time at the quayside in Gibraltar, when a trick with a bucket on a rope had reunited them. There was the time when a dog hidden in a mountain of luggage had evaded British customs. Then there was the confrontation at RAF Honington with a SWO who was an unredeemable hater of dogs.
Together, he and Antis had survived it all, and Robert had a good idea how they might do so again.
Once they were back at Manor Farm, Robert went and sought out Colly, an old man who lived in a nearby farm cottage. Over the months Robert had struck up a friendship with him. He was a natural-born rebel, as well as a dyed-in-the-wool countryman. Robert had gotten into the habit of bringing him an ounce of tobacco, for he didn’t have much, and listening to his stories of the “olden days.” Colly had been an arch poacher in his youth, and Robert loved the tales he told of midnight fistfights with gamekeepers and subsequent escapes across moonlit fields.
Colly was also an ardent admirer of Robert’s dog, and he felt certain the old boy would have an answer to the adjutant’s cruel diktat. He found him digging potatoes in his back garden.
“Do away with your dog!” Colly exclaimed, once Robert had explained things. “That’s criminal, that is. Bloody mindless authority. We’ll soon see to a way to fix ’em.”
Colly thrilled to the idea of sticking it to the adjutant, not to mention the policeman. Authority was there to be resisted, in the old boy’s view. He showed Robert to a set of steps at the rear of his cottage that led into an old cellar. It was half hidden with brambles and it looked as if it hadn’t been used for many a year.
“Still dry she is,” Colly told him as he lifted the ring set into the trapdoor. “Many a crop of ’taties we’ve had stored in there. We’ll clean her out a bit, and your Antis’ll be quite safe in there. I’ll take him food and water when he needs, and let him out at night for a minute to see to his needs. And none of them fools will ever think of looking in there.”
Robert helped Colly clear one end of the cellar, which seemed to run the entire length of the cottage. Then, with the help of his brother airmen, he carried whatever they felt Antis might need down there, including some of Robert’s things, in an effort to make him feel more at home. That done, Robert went and fetched his dog. He led him down to his new home, settled him on his blanket, and spent a good deal of time talking to him, explaining that they were in real trouble and that Antis needed to stay hidden here until it all blew over.
Everything depended on the hiding place remaining undetected, Robert explained. Antis seemed at last to understand. When Robert went to leave, his dog didn’t try to follow, but instead settled down on his blanket, throwing a trusting look at his master as he climbed the rough wooden steps and disappeared.
Two days passed with Antis remaining secreted in his subterranean hideout. On returning from night operations, Robert was able to take him out for a short walk, with Capka, Josef, Uncle Vlasta, and Ludva positioned as lookouts keeping watch for the enemy—the adjutant, or the Air Ministry police. That Friday, with C for Cecilia’s crew relieved of flying duties for the weekend, Robert moved into the cellar alongside his dog. The adjutant’s forty-eight-hour deadline was all but expired, but by Monday Ocelka, the squadron CO, was expected back at the base.
That Saturday afternoon Robert and friends got a tip-off that the adjutant was on his way. Robert, Vlasta, Josef, and Ludva were sitting on the farmyard wall as the adjutant, escorted by his orderly sergeant and a corporal, strode into the farm. The Czech airmen could hear the search going on inside their quarters as the three men rattled windows, lifted beds, and slammed cupboard doors. They could see the adjutant’s ramrod-straight figure striding angrily from room to room, searching for Robert’s renegade dog.
Ten minutes later he was back in the farmyard, his face crimson with rage. For a moment he stood resolute on the porch, as if torn as to his next course of action. And then, without a word to the Czech airmen—Robert included—he stomped out the gate and took the road leading back to the airbase, his minions trailing in his wake. Barely ten minutes later the corporal was back again.
“Sergeant Bozdech to report to the station adjutant’s office immediately!” he announced.
Robert slid off the wall. “Lead on, Corporal.”
The corporal paused for a moment, glancing all around to check that he wasn’t about to be overheard. “They’ve all come forward,” he hissed. “All four of ’em.”
“All four of whom?” Robert queried.
“The four crew who saw what the bleedin’ copper did to your dog.”
“So what did they say?”
“The truth. That your dog was provoked. That it was the copper’s fault.”
“My God, you’re in the clear, Robert!” one of the others exclaimed. “That’s what we’ve been waiting for!”
“That,” said Robert, “remains to be seen. Knowing the adjutant . . .”
He left the last part of the sentence unsaid and made his way to the adjutant’s office. The man’s face when he entered was a darker shade of puce than Robert had ever imagined possible.
“Sir.” He saluted. “You asked to see me.”
“Where is that damn dog?” the adjutant barked.
“Hidden, sir.”
For a long moment Robert feared the man was going to have a heart attack. “Hidden! What d’you mean, hidden? I ordered you to hand that dog over or have him destroyed!”
“Sorry, sir, that’s an order I cannot carry out.”
The adjutant’s fist slammed onto his desk. “Do you have any idea what you are saying! I will have you court-martialed for disobeying an officer!”
“If that’s what you feel you have to do, sir, so be it. But I could never obey such an order, especially in the knowledge that my commanding officer wouldn’t approve it.”
“That’s quite enough! Get out!”
Robert stood his ground. “Look, sir, if you’d known all the facts I’m sure you’d never have drafted that order in the first place. Four witnesses have come forward—”
“Oh yes, I know all about your witnesses!” the adjutant cut him off. “I daresay the entire base would back you and that hound of yours, he’s oh-so-popular. If you imagine for one moment I’ll risk losing the cooperation of the police over a dog—well, you’re sorely mistaken. Now, as I said, get out of my office!”
As Robert had suspected, the adjutant was far from done. Knowing that he was scheduled to fly a mission starting at nine o’clock that evening, the adjutant put a call through to the local civilian police force. He reported that a savage dog was loose somewhere on the base, and asked that they mount a search starting at precisely fifteen minutes past nine, when the dog was likely to be out and about and could be apprehended.
As C for Cecilia taxied toward the runway Antis must have heard her familiar engine noise from his hiding place. He let out an excited bark, and those acting as his chaperones during Robert’s absence had to try to calm him before his yelping gave them away. The candle in the cellar was kicked out, and in the darkness they waited for the crunch of boot on gravel that might signal their discovery.
That night Robert was set to fly a sortie over the German port city of Hamburg, bombing the docks. But all through that mission half his mind was back at Manor Farm, in a darkened cellar. The police who had been called out soon learned the nature of the supposedly savage dog for whom they’d been tasked to search: it was Antis. Everyone in the East Wretham area knew the dog well, and they didn’t believe for one minute that he was capable of savaging anyone. After a perfunctory search of the base, the policemen were soon home and tucked up in their beds.
At midday on Monday Wing Commander Ocelka returned to East Wretham. News reached Robert almost immediately that the CO was back. Pausing only briefly to reassure Antis that his imprisonment would soon be over, Robert cycled over to the base at top speed. He made straight for the adjutant’s office.
Robert lifted a salute to the man he had learned to hate. “Permission to see the CO, sir.”
“Refused,” the adjutant shot back at him, his eyes hard and cold as ice. “He’s only just back and is far too busy—”
“Is that bloody Bozdech?” a friendly voice called out from the CO’s office. His door was half open. “And if it is, where’s my best friend, Antis? I’ve got something for him.”
“Yes, it is, sir, it’s me,” Robert replied.
“Well, come on in, and bring your dog with you,” the CO called.
“Thank God you’re back, sir,” Robert blurted out, saluting smartly. “I’m in bad trouble.”
“Nothing new.” The CO smiled. “More importantly, where’s the dog? I’ve got him a new collar.”
“In hiding, sir.”
Ocelka glanced up at him sharply. “What d’you mean, in hiding?” He was twirling a shiny new collar between thumb and forefinger. “How can I give him this if you’ve hidden him?”
“I’m sorry, but I had to hide him, sir . . .”
A stiff figure appeared at Robert’s shoulder. “Let me explain, sir. You need to hear this, anyway. While you were away this man’s dog attacked an Air Ministry policeman . . .”
Ocelka shook his head. “Impossible. Antis wouldn’t hurt a fly, let alone a fellow human being. Well, not that he’s human, of course, but he practically is, squadron mascot and all that.”
“I’m afraid the policeman’s report is very clear,” the adjutant continued stiffly. “ ‘Savaged by a ferocious Alsatian’ is how he describes it. I had no option but to order the dog to be removed from the base, or if not, destroyed. Sergeant Bozdech has unfortunately done nothing to comply with my order. In fact, he ripped up my letter of orders and—”
The CO waved the adjutant into silence. “Yes, yes, that’s as may be, but it isn’t my chief concern. My chief concern is this: I have spoken to you every day while I have been away, by phone, so why didn’t you tell me what was happening?”
The adjutant bristled. “It’s a straightforward case, sir. Sergeant Bozdech has no permit to keep the dog on camp. I didn’t think you’d want to be bothered by such a minor—”
“You’re my adjutant,” the CO cut in. “Anything concerning the personnel who serve in my squadron concerns me, and it’s your duty to report it to me.” He turned to Robert. “Now, let’s hear it from your side, Sergeant, and hold nothing back.”
As Robert related the story he could see the CO’s demeanor getting darker and darker. It was only his presence that was preventing Ocelka from unloading with both barrels on the adjutant. It was clear as day that the man had seized the chance when the CO was away to try to get rid of the squadron’s mascot. For a man like Ocelka—both a dog lover and a gentleman—it was unforgivable.
Once Robert had finished speaking, Ocelka called for a file copy of the adjutant’s letter. When he read the order for the forty-eight-hour deadline, after which the mascot of 311 Squadron was to be destroyed, he couldn’t contain himself any longer. He turned and dictated a short letter to his typist, to be rendered both in English and Czech.
It read: “Permit for German Shepherd Antis, 311 Squadron’s mascot, to remain at RAF East Wretham Airbase. Access: unlimited. Time limit: none. The dog is of a friendly nature and it is considered unnecessary to keep him on a lead.”
“And that,” announced Ocelka, “is that.” He turned to the adjutant. “Good day, Adjutant. Sergeant Bozdech, if you’ll stay behind so we can have a few words.”
Robert and Ocelka chatted for a while as the Czech airman brought the CO up to speed on all the squadron’s news. Then Robert was dismissed, and he pedaled back to Manor Farm at top speed, a copy of the precious “dog permit” jammed in his pocket. The first thing he did when he got home was release Antis from the cellar, and thank old Colly profusely. Antis bounded up the steps, took one sniff of the afternoon air, and did a quickstep version of his war dance for joy.
• • •
A few days after Antis had gained the formal permit giving him the freedom of RAF East Wretham, the war in Europe shifted seismically. On June 22, 1941, Adolf Hitler launched 187 divisions of the Wehrmacht against Germany’s eastern neighbor Russia, and so opened a new front in the war to establish the thousand-year Reich.
In the 311 Squadron briefing room the mood was electric, just as soon as news of the invasion had filtered through to them. Russia lay directly to the east of the Czech airmen’s homeland, and with war opening in that direction Germany was now fighting on two major fronts, west and east—as long as the bombers from 311 Squadron and the other RAF aircrew could keep up the pressure of their nightly raids.
In answer to the new German aggression, 311 Squadron was tasked to bomb the railway yard in Hamm, in the west of Germany. Winston Churchill was eager to aid Britain’s new ally in the war by whatever means possible, and vast quantities of rolling stock were known to be passing through the terminus at Hamm, en route to the newly opened Eastern Front.
It was not the best of nights for such a mission. An impenetrable bank of clouds lay low over the base, and even at ground level visibility was poor. Regardless, the trusty Wellingtons—C for Cecilia included—were bombed up in preparation for the coming sortie. As dusk fell the aircraft trundled along the perimeter track, each waiting for clearance from the control tower to get airborne. As C for Cecilia followed the string of aircraft climbing into the low clouds, little did a German shepherd waiting on the dispersal area know what lay ahead of him.
“He’ll be back soon enough, old boy.” Adamek comforted the dog as he gazed into the now-empty sky. “Come on, into the shelter, and not to worry, eh?”
Antis trotted after Adamek and flopped down in the entrance to their tent. Now and again as the men played cards he wandered out into the open, his ears tuned to the night noises all around him. He’d gotten into the habit of chasing rabbits, to make the long hours of his vigil pass more quickly, but tonight nothing seemed able to tempt him from his watch.
It was approaching one o’clock, and the Wellingtons would be well on their way home, when Antis awoke from a long doze as if with a sudden shock. With head raised he moved outside the tent and stood, limbs quivering and muzzle thrust toward the south, the direction from which the squadron was expected to return.
“What’s up with him?” Kubicek, one of the ground crew, asked nervously. “Is Jerry paying us a visit, d’you think?”
Adamek moved over to the dog, who was standing statuelike in the same pose. He crouched down beside him. “What’s up, boy? What’s troubling you?”
In answer, the dog neither stirred nor growled, but remained stock-still and one hundred percent focused on the distant horizon.
Adamek turned to the others. “That’s not the way he warns of Jerry, and it’s too early for Cecilia to be back. I wonder what it is?”
“Well, come on in,” one of the others replied. “It’s your deal.”
Adamek shook his head. “You play on without me. There’s something up.” He tried to get the dog’s attention, but Antis seemed unreachable. “I tell you, boy, it’s too early yet. Too early. Come back inside and get warm.”
As Adamek watched him worriedly, he noticed Antis had begun to shiver. It was a June night and it wasn’t overly cold. Adamek knew instinctively that the dog was shivering out of fear. Then quite suddenly the big German shepherd threw his head back at the dark heavens and began to howl. It was a sound that the men had never heard him make before: it was hollow, full of loss, spine-chilling.
Instinctively, Adamek understood. “Cecilia’s in trouble!” he called to the others. “Antis can sense it! God knows how, but he can.”
There was a battered old alarm clock hanging in the tent. Its hands pointed exactly to one o’clock in the morning.