Robert made his way back into the living room, only to discover that the wounded Pierre, despairing of a helping hand, had made his own way toward the house and was now clinging grimly to the doorway. His pale face betrayed the strain he had endured as he hauled himself across the icy earth, the blood from his injured leg forming a trail of spots and smears in the snow behind him.
He looked reproachfully at Robert. “You were so long I thought you had run into trouble.”
Robert reached inside his jacket and presented the puppy. “Here’s the trouble. I almost mistook him for the enemy and shot him!”
Pierre eyed the puppy suspiciously. “Looks like a German shepherd.” He had stressed the word German. “But the house is deserted, yes? We’re safe here?”
Robert nodded. “As safe as we’ll ever be marooned in no-man’s-land and with a burning aircraft nearby. We need to get a look at that leg of yours and get on the move.”
Robert set the puppy down on the floor. Throwing an arm around Pierre’s shoulder, he helped him across the living room to where they should be hidden from any passing patrols. He eased the wounded Frenchman to the floor. Dreading what he might find, he slit Pierre’s pants with the pocketknife that he carried. Luckily, the wound was nowhere near as bad as he had feared. The bullet had passed clean through the calf muscle without so much as breaking a sliver of bone. In short it was a nasty flesh wound, but if he could stop the bleeding Pierre would live. Robert bathed the wound in a handkerchief dipped in some melted snow before binding it tight with a bandage.
Pierre leaned back against the wall, exhausted. “Mon Dieu, but it is good to be alive.”
He had uttered not a single word of complaint as Robert had treated him, and there was no doubting the toughness or courage of the Frenchman.
Robert forced a smile. “Let’s hope we stay that way. We’re not out of this one yet. In fact, we’ve got one hell of a long way still to go . . .”
While Pierre had been captain in the air, Robert had far more battle experience on the ground, and he sensed it was up to him to take command now and come up with a plan to save both their skins. He spread out a map on the table and frowned: there was no easy way out of here, that was for sure. As he studied the details of their surroundings, he felt a warm wetness nuzzling into his hand. Almost without thinking he reached down and lifted the puppy by his belly and sat him on his lap.
With Robert busying himself over the map, Pierre fished around in his pants pocket and pulled out a bar of flying-ration chocolate. His hands shaking visibly, he fed a fistful into his mouth, then broke off a sliver to offer to the puppy.
“Poor devil,” Pierre muttered. “Even though he is a German shepherd he was living in a French house, so perhaps we should show some solidarity . . . He looks half starved.”
Pierre held the morsel closer to the puppy’s mouth. He was expecting a grateful lick, but all he got for his trouble was a baring of needle-sharp fangs and as menacing a growl as a four-week-old puppy could muster in the face of a mean-looking predator many times his size.
Pierre tossed down the chocolate in disgust. “Mon Dieu! That’s not a dog. That’s a bloody wolf in disguise!”
Robert smiled inwardly. It was as if the tiny ball of fluff had expressed his own feelings toward the Frenchman, whose impulsive, some might argue reckless flying had landed them in their present, desperate predicament.
Robert pored over every minute detail of the map, picturing the terrain in his mind’s eye and scrutinizing it for whatever hazards it might present. Even as he balked at the prospect of the perilous journey that lay ahead, he felt heartened by the way the little dog flattened his ears but made no attempt to resist his caresses.
“So, my friend, what is the plan?” Pierre ventured.
The Frenchman sounded about as finished as he looked. Robert knew full well that having the injured pilot with him limited his escape options considerably, but come what may, he was determined that the two of them would make it out of there.
“It’s over one hundred kilometers to the nearest airfield at Nancy,” Robert explained, “but first we’ve got to get out of this damned valley. As we crossed the Rhine I noticed a wood over on the west side where our boys are.”
“Yes, but the Boche have their machine guns on the ridge overlooking the entire valley.”
Robert hardly needed reminding. They were smack in the middle of a two-mile gap between the Maginot and Siegfried lines. The holes blasted in the farmhouse bore witness to the ferocity of the fighting between the two opposing sides here. There was no safe place in this entire expanse of terrain, not even in the spot where they had sought temporary shelter.
“How’s the leg?” Robert asked.
“Aching like hell.”
“The wood’s about a mile away, practically due west. Do you think you can make it?”
Pierre raised his head defiantly. “When do we start?”
Robert considered the question. A light breeze had lifted the mist from the valley, leaving little more than vapor trails across the snow. If they tried to make a move they’d be seen, shot or captured. The only option was to wait until darkness, giving them the cover they needed to move unseen by the German gunners. Robert told Pierre they’d set out at last light, three hours from now. He watched anxiously as the wounded Frenchman limped to a nearby chair, settled himself into it, and closed his eyes. In an instant he was sleeping like a baby.
How different the two of them were, Robert reflected as he drew the puppy closer to him. Both were twenty-six years old and fighting for the same cause, but there the similarity pretty much ended. Pierre was short, stocky, and swarthy—a muscular little powerhouse of a man. His French Air Force comrades seemed to love his wild, carefree humor, while his dark eyes and delight in the pleasures of life had thrilled many a woman.
Robert, on the other hand, was a rangy six-footer whose air of driven intensity had settled upon him the day he had been forced into exile by the enemy. His iron will had spurred him to escape from the Nazis, transforming him into a war machine with a single purpose: to hit back hard and hammer those who had overrun his native Czechoslovakia and despoiled his country. He burned to be in action, taking the fight to the enemy, and that meant getting out of here intact and alive.
Something instinctive drew his attention back to the puppy, and his mood softened. The animal was standing in his lap now, unsteady on his little legs, but studying Robert warily. The tiny dog glanced briefly at the sleeping Pierre and seemed to shudder visibly before turning his gaze back to Robert. He sensed that the four-week-old animal had made up his mind about the two strangers who had broken into his home—about who was his potential protector and who might do him harm.
Robert spoke softly and fondled the sleek black head. It was so tiny he could enclose it in the palm of his hand. A quiver of pleasure ran through the puppy’s taut little body and he rewarded Robert with a nuzzle. The little dog would have bitten the hand that fed him if it belonged to Pierre, but Robert seemed to have earned his trust completely.
German shepherds were hugely popular in Robert’s native Czechoslovakia, and he knew the breed well. Running his fingers along the brown back, he brushed away a thin layer of plaster dust to reveal a narrow black streak that ran the length of the dog’s spine. Robert recognized this thin black line as signifying a thoroughbred, an aristocrat of the breed. No wonder the puppy had shown such pluck when he first laid eyes on these two intruders.
The puppy’s body was so emaciated that the ears and legs seemed almost comically large, yet Robert detected a dignity in the animal that was striking. He had barely the strength to stand, yet he had guarded the miserable heap of straw and rags that had been his bed with the courage of a lion. The pitifully neglected puppy of today would surely grow up to be the most spirited and dependable of dogs if ever he survived the war.
As Robert worked his fingers deeper into the animal’s coat, his mind drifted to a memory from childhood. He was ten years old and enchanted by everything the wild countryside of his homeland had to offer him and his gang of friends. One day they had penetrated deeper than normal into the remote mountains and woodlands. They’d come across a cave where, huddled together at the back, they had found three small wolf cubs.
Terrified by the thought that the mother might return, Robert and his friends had run from the scene as fast as their legs would carry them, fearing they would be savaged at any moment. Through such experiences Robert had learned to fear, love, and respect nature, and he had developed a close affinity with animals of all kinds. The physical resemblance between those wolf cubs and this German shepherd puppy was remarkable, doubtless explaining why the little pup had conjured up fond memories of far more innocent times.
Robert pictured his mother, whom he had left behind in Czechoslovakia, and wondered if he would ever see her again. His parents had doted on their only son, giving a warm welcome to all his friends in the Czech Air Force. But when the Nazis had rolled into Robert’s homeland in 1938, the family had been torn apart. Relatives had been shot and tortured for daring to resist their Nazi “masters.” Making a break for it alone, Robert had sneaked across the border to Poland, knowing that at any moment he might take a bullet from a German patrol.
From Poland he had enlisted in the French Foreign Legion with the aim of transferring swiftly to the French Air Force. There had been rough times with the Legion in North Africa, before the Air Force finally accepted him—at which stage he’d achieved what he hungered for most, which was to fight the Boche. But now disaster had struck and if he didn’t make it out of here he was as good as dead, which would mean his battle against the invaders was over.
Thank God for an abandoned puppy with attitude, Robert told himself. Their companionship lightened his mood and put added steel in his soul. He heard a whimper from the little fellow. He was gazing up at Robert with dewy eyes, pleading for something.
“What is it this time?” Robert murmured. “What d’you want?”
He guessed the animal had to be hungry. Groping in his pocket, he found some chocolate and a few cookies. He offered a piece of each and the pup sniffed delicately, but would take neither. Suddenly Robert understood why: the poor wretch had very likely never been weaned. He held a piece of chocolate over a lighted hurricane lantern—one that he’d scavenged among the wreckage of the farmhouse—and rubbed the melt along his forefinger. This time the pup could not resist. After a few cautious sniffs and a tentative lick, he suckled Robert’s finger hungrily until no trace of chocolate remained.
Robert repeated the process over and over again, and he was filled with affection for his new charge. He felt almost ridiculous entertaining the thought—especially in their present predicament—but in his heart he felt the two of them had a lot in common: they were both bereft of family, they were both fighting to exist, and they were both in deep trouble . . . but neither had given up the struggle.
“All right, boy, let’s see what you make of something more solid.”
Robert warmed some more chocolate, but this time he offered the hungry puppy a half-melted piece. The tiny tilted head and the confused gaze revealed the puppy’s puzzlement. He didn’t know what to make of the strange, sweet-smelling solid he was being offered. But finally his pink tongue flicked out and covered it in puppy drool, and seconds later tiny jaws closed over the morsel and it was gone.
The only problem now was that there was nothing with which to wash down the meal. Robert crossed the room, moving toward the doorway, watched at every step by a pair of tiny, shining eyes—as if the puppy feared being deserted again. After a few seconds he reappeared carrying a battered frying pan filled with snow. He warmed it over the lamp, after which he dipped his finger in the meltwater for the puppy to lick. Soon the tiny dog was lapping happily from the pan, having the first real drink of his short life.
“God only knows what we’re going to do with you,” Robert muttered.
Even as he said it, he could not escape the thought that there was something terrible he might have to do before they left—the kindest yet the most dreadful thing possible. Already he was wondering if he would have the heart for the job.
• • •
At six o’clock he woke Pierre. “Ready?” he whispered. “It’s time.”
Pierre spent a second or two rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He looked reasonably well rested—which was a bonus, thought Robert. Pierre glanced around him, realized where he was, and a focus and determination came into his gaze.
The Frenchman gestured at his bloodied and bandaged leg. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” He glanced over at the puppy. He was curled up and sleeping soundly after his meal. “What are we going to do with him? We can’t exactly take him with us and if we leave him behind he’ll starve.”
Robert shrugged. “I’ve taught him to eat and drink. We can’t do more than that. We’ll leave him asleep and close and lock the door so that he can’t follow. We’ll give him some of our rations and a pan of water. He’ll have to take his chances along with the rest of us. Now, d’you think you can make it to the woods?”
While Pierre readied himself Robert stared out of the doorway, trying to fix in his mind some landmarks to aim for along their route. He prayed for an overcast night, one bereft of moon or stars, to light their way. It would make navigation more difficult, but at least it would render them invisible to the enemy on the ridge. The faintest illumination might prove fatal, leaving the two men silhouetted against the white of the snowfields.
Before setting out Robert filled the frying pan with melted snow, heaping up a pile of broken cookies beside it. He opened the door, helped Pierre outside, then softly closed and bolted it. With a last look at the darkened room and a silent and regretful farewell to the slumbering puppy, they began the trek to what Robert hoped would be freedom and safety.
They had barely left the farmhouse when a series of vivid orange flashes tore through the night sky from the direction of the German lines. They were followed immediately by a barrage of equal intensity from the French lines to the west. The evening ritual of battery duels had begun. To make matters worse the heavy gunfire was accompanied by flares, which were fired high into the sky to be left hanging beneath mini-parachutes as they drifted lazily earthward. Each side was using them in an effort to reveal the location of any night patrols that might have been sent out by the enemy, so they could be picked off by snipers.
Pierre and Robert took cover in the outskirts of the orchard. The hot glare of the burning magnesium flares cast a skeletal pattern of black and white across the snow to either side of them. The entire area the airmen had to cross before they reached the sanctuary of the distant woodland was bathed in blinding light—the very thing that Robert had prayed they might avoid.
Pierre uttered a string of muffled curses. “Mon Dieu, but we’ll never get through that lot!”
“We’ll make it,” Robert replied firmly. “The snow’s deep and we can find some cover in the shadows of the steeper slopes.”
There was no question anymore of Pierre being able to hobble with the aid of Robert’s supporting arm. The only way to continue their desperate journey would be to crawl. They slithered forward on hands and knees, working their way slowly and painfully over the frozen snow.
Just as they reached the ditch that marked the boundary of the farm a flare burst directly overhead, blinding them. Both men lay flat on their faces in the cover of the snow-filled depression, sweating fear and mouthing silent prayers. The flashes of the German big guns intensified as they hurled their high-explosive shells at the French lines, and their rumbling shook the ground.
The flare went out like a snuffed candle, and in the momentary darkness that followed the big guns seemed to fall silent. Robert was just about to signal to Pierre that the time had come to move again, when a new sound filled the air. It was one that Robert had been dreading. The long-drawn-out howl of a puppy rent the night—a puppy who had just discovered that his newfound source of food, water, warmth, and love had deserted him, just as his mother had.
There was a second howl even more anguished than the first. It was as if the puppy understood that his chances of survival were diminishing with each step that his protector took away from him. He seemed determined not to be left to his fate, as if somehow he knew that his cries for help would force Robert to turn back.
Robert glanced at Pierre. “Wait there,” he whispered. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Pierre sensed the grim resolve in Robert’s words. “I am sorry, my friend,” he muttered, “but you know we have no choice.”
Robert began to crawl back the way he had come. He was under no illusions as to what he must do, and he cursed himself for having been so soft. He felt for the knife he carried on his belt. To use a revolver would be easier, but far too dangerous now that the hour had come for night patrols to leave their posts and lie out listening in the snow—which was what the Germans did every evening as they tried to catch the French off guard.
As he neared the house Robert felt queasy, the nausea rising from the pit of his stomach. Pierre was right, of course—they simply had no choice—but Robert was unsure whether he could summon the courage to do what he had to do, even if their lives depended upon it.
He heard excited yapping as the puppy sensed his approach. He emerged into the open space between the orchard and the house, rising to his feet and blundering forward. He had to silence that dog, or it would bring every German patrol down on their heads. Another flare burst overhead. He threw himself down in the snow barely feet from the doorway, wondering if the howls and yaps had been heard.
The desperate yelping was replaced by a new sound now—that of a dull thudding as a tiny body hurled itself against the door. Small and starved though he was, the puppy was trying again and again to batter down the door so he could be reunited with his erstwhile protector. For a split second Robert glimpsed a pointed nose pitching upward as the puppy tried to leap through one of the broken door panels, only to disappear again. The puppy was fighting as if for his very life, and if there was one thing that Robert admired it was a fighter.
Berating himself for his crazy sentimentality, Robert began to search for a log or a rock. Butchering the pup with his knife would feel far too much like savagery and murder. A sharp crack to the skull would spell instant oblivion, and was the most humane way. But as he felt around under the thick snow nothing came to hand.
Robert was growing desperate. Pierre lay injured in a ditch on the far side of the orchard, totally dependent upon him. He had to get this done before the puppy started to howl again. But how could he kill the little guy with his knife, especially when he had taught him to eat and to drink at his own hand?
Robert paused to consider his options. He had been in a few tight corners in the past couple of years, and he had never once given up the fight. The puppy was so close to death but still he was battling all the way. Robert recognized in him the pugnacious spirit he saw in himself. Hearing a desperate, pleading whine from the other side of the door, Robert felt his heart melt. He knew from this distance the puppy would be able to smell him—and Robert’s was the smell he now recognized as that of his savior. Behind him the flare that had been hanging stubbornly in the night sky finally hit earth and fizzled out.
Robert rose to his feet in the darkness, scuttled forward, unbolted the door, and reached inside.