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Page 39
"Bruce!" he whispered fiercely, tightening his precarious grip on
the wisp of fur his fingers had touched. "Bruce! Stand still,
boy! It's YOU who's got to get us clear of this! Nobody else,
short of the good Lord, can do it!"
Bruce had had a pleasantly lazy day with his friends in the
first-line trenches. There had been much good food and more
petting. And at last, comfortably tired of it all, he had gone to
sleep. He had awakened in a most friendly mood, and a little
hungry. Wherefore he had sallied forth in search of human
companionship. He found plenty of soldiers who were more than
willing to talk to him and make much of him. But, a little
farther ahead, he saw his good friend, Sergeant Mahan, and others
of his acquaintances, starting over the parapet on what promised
to be a jolly evening stroll.
All dogs find it hard to resist the mysterious lure of a walk in
human companionship. True, the night was not an ideal one for a
ramble, and the fog had a way of congealing wetly on Bruce's
shaggy coat. Still, a damp coat was not enough of a discomfort to
offset the joy of a stroll with his friends. So Bruce had
followed the twelve men quietly into No Man's Land, falling
decorously into step behind Mahan.
It had not been much of a walk, for speed or for fun. For the
humans went ridiculously slowly, and had an eccentric way of
bunching together, every now and again, and then of stringing out
into a shambling line. Still, it was a walk, and therefore better
than loafing behind in the trenches. And Bruce had kept his
noiseless place at the Sergeant's heels.
Then--long before Mahan heard the approaching tramp of feet--
Bruce caught not only the sound but the scent of the German
platoon. The scent at once told him that the strangers were not
of his own army. A German soldier and an American soldier--
because of their difference in diet as well as for certain other
and more cogent reasons--have by no means the same odor, to a
collie's trained scent, nor to that of other breeds of war-dogs.
Official records of dog-sentinels prove that.
Aliens were nearing Bruce's friends. And the dog's ruff began to
stand up. But Mahan and the rest seemed in no way concerned in
spirit thereby--though, to the dog's understanding, they must
surely be aware of the approach. So Bruce gave no further sign of
displeasure. He was out for a walk, as a guest. He was not on
sentry-duty.
But when the nearest German was almost upon them, and all twelve
Americans dropped to the ground, the collie became interested
once more. A German stepped on the hand of one of his newest
friends. And the friend yelled in pain. Whereat the German made
as if to strike the stepped-on man.
This was quite enough for loyal Bruce. Without so much as a growl
of warning, he jumped at the offender.
Dog and man tumbled earthward together. Then after an instant of
flurry and noise, Bruce felt Mahan's fingers on his shoulder and
heard the stark appeal of Mahan's whispered voice. Instantly the
dog was a professional soldier once more--alertly obedient and
resourceful.
"Catch hold my left arm, Lieutenant!" Mahan was exhorting. "Close
up, there, boys--every man's hand grabbing tight to the shoulder
of the man on his left! Pass the word. And you, Missouri, hang
onto the Lieutenant! Quick, there! And tread soft and tread fast,
and don't let go, whatever happens! Not a sound out of any one!
I'm leading the way. And Bruce is going to lead me."
There was a scurrying scramble as the men groped for one another.
Mahan tightened his hold on Bruce's mane.
"Bruce!" he said, very low, but with a strength of appeal that
was not lost on the listening dog. "Bruce! Camp! Back to CAMP!
And keep QUIET! Back to camp, boy! CAMP!"
He had no need to repeat his command so often and so strenuously.
Bruce was a trained courier. The one word "Camp!" was quite
enough to tell him what he was to do.
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