The Dog Who Could Fly (19 page)

In the early hours of the morning Robert awoke to discover Antis asking in his normal way to be let out—by scratching at the door. The dog came back, went over to a fire bucket that was kept ready in case of a blaze in their hut, and almost in one gulp he drained it of its water. Come dawn he seemed to be back to his normal self, and it was as if the great Christmas drinking binge had never happened.

On New Year’s Day three aircrews, including Robert, Josef, and Stetka, flew into East Wretham. It was a fine, crisp morning. After all the snow and sleet the air seemed to have been scrubbed clean and clear. A light snow had fallen overnight, and from the air the
gently rolling landscape glittered with a dusting of silvery white, interspersed here and there with darker patches of woodland.

As they circled the airbase in preparation for landing, Robert could see tractors towing bomb trailers toward the runway. He spotted camouflaged Wellingtons dotted around the fringes of the airfield, and they were clearly getting bombed up ready for a coming mission. The last time he’d seen live ordnance being loaded aboard aircraft—ones that he might soon fly into combat—was back in northern France, almost a year earlier. As he gazed down on the familiar sight he felt the thrill in his stomach that always accompanied imminent combat.

Shortly after dusk, one by one, those Wellingtons would trundle from their dispersal points, taxi along the perimeter track, and take up their positions for takeoff. Then, one after the other, they would nose forward onto the grass, turn their heads into the wind, and weighed down with their heavy bomb load, they would bounce and thunder their way toward takeoff. With their throttles fully open they would gain momentum until each became airborne, leaving behind their ungainly earthbound existence and becoming things of agile poise and power in the air.

Robert couldn’t wait.

As soon as their aircraft had landed and come to a standstill, they were surrounded by a sea of familiar faces. First to greet Robert and Antis were Gustav, Uncle Vlasta, and Ludva—three of the Original Eight. Antis was going wild with excitement as he recognized his old comrades—the all-for-one-and-one-for-allers. He pranced and leaped about, then dashed in a complete circle around and around the group of airmen.

“Look!” cried Vlasta. “Look at Antis! He’s doing a war dance for joy!”

Once he was done dashing about, Antis went from familiar face to familiar face, seemingly checking that all were present and accounted for. He ended up gazing about forlornly and whimpering,
as if searching for someone he couldn’t see. He gazed at Robert, then turned his head to each man in turn, as if counting them:
One, two, three, four, and five with you, Dad. So where are the others?

He seemed to be asking for Karel and Joska, the two of the Original Eight who were missing.

“Sorry, Antis, they’re gone,” Robert told him softly. “We won’t be seeing them again.”

“They never came back,” Uncle Vlasta added. “Never mind, old boy. Plenty of rabbits to chase around this place to perk up your spirits.”

“We’ve booked you and Antis into a tent,” Ludva added, trying to lift everyone’s spirits. “It’s pretty basic after Honington, but we’ve coped fine and we’ve been here all through the winter! Anyhow, you’ll be too damn tired to care where you sleep when you start flying ops!”

As luck would have it, Robert and his dog were billeted in the tents only a matter of days. A local farmhouse had been requisitioned to house some of the Czech airmen, and Robert and his dog were relocated there. Manor Farm was still a working farm, so the yard was full of scratching chickens and gobbling turkeys. You’d have to go a long way from the farm to realize there was a war on. It was as peaceful and pleasant a place as they could have wished for, and Robert sensed that he and his dog were going to be very happy at Manor Farm.

He and Ludva took the top floor along with Antis, while Gustav and Josef took another. The farm lay at one end of the tiny village of East Wretham, with the church next to the farm and a scattering of cottages farther on. The airfield was a good mile away, and Robert managed to buy himself an ancient bicycle to make the daily journey to and from the base. It gave Antis great exercise as he trotted by his side.

The only trouble with their new existence was that the flying was almost nonexistent. The day after their arrival a thick fog descended
on the airbase. It lasted for three weeks during which time Robert only managed to get into the air once or twice. New airmen undertaking their first bombing missions were known as “freshmen,” and they were normally allocated a “soft” target in nearby France—one that involved minimal flying over hostile territory.

Such missions were a comparatively gentle baptism by fire, before longer-range missions over Germany herself, and the far more intense air defenses that they’d encounter. Thus all Robert flew that fogbound January were a couple of “easy” operational sorties, in the aircraft that he was to come to know and love well—a Wellington with the call sign “C for Cecilia.” He had yet to get a feel for the cut and thrust of a long-range bomber squadron at war, but at least he’d “broken the operational ice,” as Vlasta put it.

In their enforced inactivity the airmen used whatever means they had—bicycles, old motorcycles—to make the journey to nearby Thetford of an evening, where the bars of the Bell and Ark Royal hotels were the draw. As often as not they’d be joined by the RAF’s liaison officer to the Czech squadron, Squadron Leader “Pick” Pickard, a British pilot with a soaring reputation. Pickard would come on the invitation of Wing Commander Ocelka, the Czech pilot in command of 311 Squadron.

Both men liked nothing more than to mix it with “their boys,” and over time the British commander had warmed to the quiet determination and stoicism of the Czechs. Pickard had in turn won the Czech pilots’ undying affection and admiration for a recent stand he had taken against the enemy. The Germans had threatened to execute any Czech airman they captured. Pickard—who flew often on active operations—had reacted to this by sewing Czechoslovak shoulder flashes onto his flying tunic. There could have been no greater gesture of solidarity, no finer indication of how all were united against a common enemy.

Standing at the rear of the bar, half hidden in a cloud of aromatic smoke from his pipe, Pickard would laugh and joke with all and sundry
while keeping half an eye on the men. He understood the frustrations of being grounded by bad weather, and the incredible stress and tension of flying repeated combat sorties. He knew well the value of relaxation and letting off steam.

When he judged the time was right he’d get the party games going, and few could resist joining in. As for Antis, his Christmas booze binge seemed to have left him with a strong aversion to the evil brew. All he’d ever take was half a pint of Bass and no more, which was supplied to him free by the landlord.

During daylight hours Robert spent much of his time teaching Antis the golden rules of behavior on an active airbase. With the help of a friendly ground crew and pilot, he arranged to get his dog blown over a few times by the slipstream of a Wellington’s propellers. The first few times that the dog was bowled over by the invisible but immensely powerful blast, he couldn’t work out what had hit him. But he soon learned to give any warplanes a wide birth, at least until they had powered down.

Robert also taught Antis to avoid crossing the runway at East Wretham. He cycled the perimeter track with his dog, and whenever Antis tried to take a shortcut over the grass, Robert warned him off with a sharp “No!” He soon learned which parts were out of bounds and to stick to the track. Such lessons were vital, for soon Robert would be taking to the skies for hours on end, and his dog would have to behave impeccably in his absence.

•  •  •

January rolled by and February blew in, bringing with it a period of clearer weather. It was time to start flying the nightly bombing raids again. C for Cecilia was made ready by her ground crew—a group of hardworking and dedicated men led by a cheerful Czech named Adamek—and now all Robert and his fellow airmen needed was their mission.

On the night of February 5, six Wellingtons took off to bomb the Channel ports on the French coast. Robert’s wasn’t among them, and when dawn came only five aircraft had returned. Aircraft 7842-T had been shot down. The crew had managed to bail out. Among them was Robert’s great friend Gustav, a fellow gunner and one of the Original Eight. He had been captured by the Germans, and so the original fellowship was now reduced to five.

It was a sobering moment for Robert. No one knew Gustav’s fate, but the twenty-year-old had been captured by an enemy that had vowed to execute any Czech airmen who fell into their hands. It was also the first time that Robert had been part of an active combat squadron in which one of his close friends had—more than likely—been killed. Moreover, Robert, like Gustav, was a Wellington gunner, and he was painfully aware that if ever he failed to return from a mission he would be leaving behind one traumatized and orphaned dog.

The squadron’s targets for the next two nights called for real precision bombing, which was something close to the limits of the technology the Wellingtons possessed. Anchored at the French port of Brest, on the extreme west of that nation’s northern coastline, was the prize German battle cruiser, the
Prinz Eugen
. At some eighteen thousand tons displacement and with 1,382 officers and enlisted men aboard,
Prinz Eugen
was a prime target. Moreover, the battle cruiser’s presence at Brest menaced all shipping to and from Britain via the Atlantic and the English Channel.

It would be a real blow to the German war effort, not to mention a morale-boosting victory for the Allies, if 311 Squadron could sink or seriously disable her. 1958-C, to use the aircraft’s formal flight number—otherwise known as C for Cecilia—was one of eight aircraft selected to carry out the first raid. C for Cecilia’s crew consisted of six. The aircraft’s pilot and captain was a sergeant called Capka, with Sejbl as second pilot, Lancik as navigator/bomb aimer, Kacir as radio operator, and Gruden and Robert serving as gunners (in either the
nose or rear-gun position, as need dictated). Capka had served as a second pilot until recently, and with his extensive combat experience the crew had absolute confidence in his abilities.

The stocky Adamek—C for Cecilia’s ground-crew chief—was known as “Little Adam” to the men. During the coming sorties he was to become Antis’s greatest friend and companion. As Robert prepared to get airborne, his dog seemed to sense that his master was about to take to the skies on a life-or-death mission. The ground crew had its own tent pitched by some woodland on the far side of the perimeter track, and it was there that Robert took his dog as he and his crew began their final flight checks.

Robert had noticed how Antis was naturally drawn to Adamek. He asked the sturdy Czech to keep his dog safe for him, to shelter him in the tent, and to keep him warm and fed until his return. Adamek was more than happy to oblige. Ahead of him and his men lay hours of boredom as they played cards and chatted and waited for the aircraft to return.

During the long hours of darkness and uncertainty that lay ahead, Antis would be welcome extra company.

Thirteen

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.

H
aving 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.