The Dog Who Could Fly (33 page)

One of the spikes had penetrated the dog’s stomach, the MO explained, and it needed a veterinarian’s expertise. Robert couldn’t believe what had happened. His dog—faithful to the last—had come back to him, only to suffer an apparently life-threatening injury on a row of fencing that bordered their very base. It was the bitterest and most heartbreaking of ironies.

With the injured Antis cradled in his lap, Robert commandeered a friend’s car and they drove hell-for-leather to Inverness. The vet turned out to be a gray-haired and kindly looking fellow, but even he doubted whether he had the skills to save the dog.

“I’ll do all I can, of course,” he told Robert, “but it’ll be touch and go. His physical condition is in his favor. He’s strong and fit and young. But I don’t want to raise false hopes. Leave him with me and I’ll be able to tell you more in the morning.”

After a sleepless night Robert was back at the surgery early. But as soon as he laid eyes on Antis, he almost had a heart attack. He was a pitiful sight. Air had gotten into the dog’s stomach through the holes the railings had made, and he was puffed up like a balloon. As Robert bent to caress the dog’s head and whisper reassurances in his ear, he dreaded what the vet was going to tell him—but he needed to know.

“It’s too early to say,” the vet told Robert. “But don’t give up hope just yet. He looks bad, but I’ve seen—”

“Please, I’d far rather know the worst,” Robert cut in. “My dog means an awful lot to me, and I’d not like to be separated from him at the end, if this is the end.”

The vet paused, considering carefully what exactly he was going to tell Robert. “As I’ve said, he’s a healthy dog with a strong heart. At the very least I’d say he has a sporting chance. You can do no good by staying and I’ll phone the camp if he worsens.”

Robert had to settle for this, at least for now.

Two days later Robert got the call he’d been dying to hear. “You can come and get your dog,” the vet told him. “He’s weak and needs nursing, but he’ll do.”

•  •  •

Robert took Antis back to RAF Evanton, where a long convalescence ensued. With the help of the MO, Antis was gradually nursed back to full health. It was April by now and spring was in the air. Bit by bit
Robert started to allow Antis on some of their favorite walks around the base. Gentle exercise and fresh air would be vital to ensuring a full recovery. Every so often Robert allowed his dog to lie on the riverbank across from Darreuch Wood and bask in the spring sunshine.

As far as Robert could tell, Antis had satisfied his call to the wild and had no desire to return to those ancient forests and hills. But one day in June Robert surprised his dog on the far side of the river, nosing excitedly in the undergrowth. By now the ducklings were almost fully grown, and Antis wasn’t in the habit of crossing the water. He’d lie on the nearside, nose to the stream, and watch the birds dabbling about in the shallows.

Something must have drawn him across, Robert reasoned. He settled down to watch. Antis went down on his stomach at the fringe of the woodland, nose snuffling and rear haunches raised, as if to pounce. His ears were flicked forward, his head twisted slightly to one side, and his eyes fixed on a point just a few feet in front of his forepaws. Every now and then he’d shuffle forward on his belly, and Robert could only imagine he was trying to play with a hidden friend of some sort.

The question was, who or what? It could hardly be a duckling, in the dry brown bracken. It was unlikely to be a baby rabbit either. He tended to ignore the babies in his hunger to chase the adults. But every now and then Robert could see something rustling among the very fringes of the vegetation. It would almost poke through, Antis would make a play lunge, and it would dart back inside, only to emerge a little farther along. Antis was clearly playing with something, but what?

The dog repositioned himself and the mystery beast rustled the undergrowth, whereupon Antis let out an excited bark. Up and down the wall of bracken the game went, until Robert managed to get a better glimpse of just what was hiding in there. The tiny, moist black nose; the flopped-over V-shaped ears; the paws far too large for the
chubby body; the tiny, stubby bare finger of a tail. It was a carbon copy of how Antis had looked when Robert had first stumbled upon him, back in a shell-blasted French farmhouse in no-man’s-land.

Quietly and in wonder Robert watched the two at play. The dark streak along the puppy’s back was unmistakable, and Robert had no doubt he was watching father and son. Robert whistled softly to Antis, in an effort to coax the little bundle of fur to follow his father out of the bushes. But the wild ancestry of his mother clearly held sway. The puppy would not be tempted, and as the late afternoon sun dipped below Cnoc-Fyrish he slid back into the woodland and was gone.

That evening Antis and Robert relaxed outside their hut, Robert mentally congratulating his dog on his fatherhood. Antis was now pushing into his thirties in terms of human years, and it was about the right time for him to have become a dad.

The following morning the puppy was back. Over several days Robert was able to woo him with gentle words and tidbits of food left on a saucer at the edge of Darreuch Wood. After a week of such enticements, the tiny pup was coaxed to the edge of the doorway leading into Robert and Antis’s quarters, but he would come no farther. Antis stood there trying to urge his son to cross the threshold into his domain, but the wild within him wouldn’t let him pass.

As for Robert, he was watching with bated breath. The education officer on the base had long admired Antis, and if he could just tame the pup enough he knew the man would jump at the chance of having him. Robert felt certain that between him and Antis they would in time manage to woo him.

But a couple of days later a group of youths came along the edge of the woodlands hunting rabbits with a slingshot. Spotting a flash of fur waiting patiently for his father, they unleashed several shots, and with an anguished yelp the puppy was gone. In one fell swoop the puppy’s barely nascent faith in the human species was
destroyed, and he fled deep into the sanctuary of the wild. Robert and his dog searched many a day for the puppy, but Antis’s son was not to be found.

•  •  •

By autumn, Antis seemed to be one hundred percent recovered from his injuries. It was fortunate, for that October RAF Evanton was to close, and Robert and his dog were to leave the magical valley set at the foot of the wild hills. Their next destination was all that they had longed for. Robert—now a flight lieutenant—and Antis—still a dog fit to represent a fighting regiment—would be rejoining their original unit, 311 (Czech) Squadron.

Few of the Original Eight were left alive, and none were still with the squadron. But at least one of Robert’s old crew—those who had flown and cared for C for Cecilia so well—was around. Adamek, their chief ground crewman, was still with the squadron.

311 Squadron was now based at RAF Tain, to the north of the Moray Firth—just a few dozen miles farther up the coast from RAF Evanton. The squadron was no longer flying Wellingtons. Instead, they’d been equipped with the four-engine, long-range American heavy bombers, the aptly named Liberators. The squadron now formed part of RAF Coastal Command, and its mission was to fly out over the bleak expanse of the North Sea in search of enemy shipping, in particular the U-boats that menaced those waters.

Robert couldn’t wait: finally he and his dog had gotten a second combat tour. Once again they would be flying into battle against the enemy.

Twenty-three

B
efore being posted to RAF Tain, man and dog had to complete a training course, this one at the No. 1 Radio School in Cranwell, Lincolnshire. Flight Lieutenant Bozdech was scheduled to serve as a radio and radar operator on the Liberators, and he needed to be schooled in the use of such technology. Robert preferred the wild and knife-cut Scottish countryside to Cranwell’s rolling hills and bucolic charm, but the fellow airmen he met at the Radio School—mostly combat veterans like himself—more than compensated, their fine company rekindling his sense of adventure and fun.

He and Antis shared a room with Simpson, a Canadian flight lieutenant only recently arrived in Britain. The two non-Brits bonded quickly, especially since Simpson was a hopeless dog lover, one who shared with Antis a refined sense of tomfoolery and of being the joker. Post-fatherhood, Antis seemed to have gained in confidence and in his sense of mischief making—as if in siring his offspring on the Scottish hills he had somehow earned his spurs.

Simpson’s ideas for finding fun became ever more inventive, but they were fired by one event more than any other. On a sunny afternoon two of the women on the base chose to hang out their washing
just as Antis was passing. Seizing the opportunity, he grabbed an item of clothing from the basket and legged it. He dashed into the officers’ quarters hotly pursued by the girls, and with a brassiere gripped in his jaws. Simpson took one look at what Antis was carrying and hustled him into a side room, where they hid until the coast was clear.

The ladies made for Robert’s room, and failing to find the dog, they searched it high and low for the bra. Antis meanwhile was sent back by Simpson to pilfer yet more clothing from the basket. He returned triumphantly with a mouthful of assorted underwear, to hearty and enthusiastic praise from Simpson.

Two days later there was a party in the mess. Robert had invited a local girl for their first real date. She hailed from the nearby town of Sleaford, and Robert left around nine in the evening to pick her up at the railway station. Simpson offered to stay behind and babysit Antis, but his real intentions were very different. All was going well for Robert and his date when a fellow officer dragged the two of them outside.

“Come on, you two!” he exclaimed. “There’s a show outside you really shouldn’t miss.”

At the entrance to the mess a large crowd had gathered. People were pointing and laughing uproariously. Pushing their way to the front, Robert and his lady friend saw the cause of all the merriment. Antis was holding a one-dog dress show. Sporting bright blue silk panties and two brassieres stuffed with cotton, he strutted to and fro. Robert glanced at his partner, fearing the worst, but luckily she was laughing along with all the rest.

With a barely audible whistle and a flick of the wrist, Robert got the attention of his dog. Using hand signals, he sent him off toward their quarters, where he hoped Simpson—who he felt certain was behind all this—might have the decency to undress him. That done, Robert grabbed his girl by the arm and steered her as rapidly as possible
back toward the bar, before the comments from his fellow officers could become too ribald.

Fortunately, the girl didn’t know that Antis was his dog, and for tonight at least he intended to keep it that way. However, some of the senior officers clearly intended otherwise. He was stopped at the entrance to the mess by the wing commander, a man whose attentions he really felt he couldn’t afford to ignore.

“I must say, Flight Lieutenant, that was really quite a show,” the wing commander enthused. “I haven’t laughed so much in an age.”

“Yes, sir.” Robert muttered something under his breath and tried to move inside, but the wing commander held out a hand to stop him.

“Yes, indeed, a remarkably intelligent and witty animal, wouldn’t you agree? But one thing puzzles me, Flight Lieutenant. I hope you don’t mind me asking in front of this charming young lady, but where did you get those garments that your dog was wearing?”

As he’d made the remark, the wing commander had run an appraising eye over Robert’s guest. A moment later the penny dropped, and the lady on Robert’s arm went a beautiful shade of red.

She turned on Robert. “Do you mean to say that dog belongs to you?” she demanded.

Robert knew there was no point denying it. “That’s right. I’m afraid he’s mine. All mine. And don’t think there isn’t the odd occasion when I regret it.”

With an angry glare at the two men, Robert’s date made a beeline for the ladies’ cloakroom, and he was never to see her again.

“I say, Flight Lieutenant, did I say the wrong thing?” the wing commander asked, trying desperately to contain his laughter. “I’m awfully sorry if I offended anyone.”

“No harm done, sir,” Robert replied. “But you had the wrong sense of things, for they certainly weren’t hers . . .”

Later that night, back in his room, Robert tried to find it in himself
to scold Antis, but it wasn’t very easy. In spite of losing his date, Robert—like the wing commander and everyone else—had found Antis’s show so damn funny. And where they were now heading—RAF Tain, to fly with Coastal Command in the teeth of a bitter Scottish winter—he and his dog were sure to need all their sense of fun if they were to keep their spirits up and make it through.

•  •  •

November on the Moray Firth proved a far cry from even the harshest months they had spent on active operations at East Wretham. But there were compensating factors. After a long train ride the duo arrived at RAF Tain to the sight of tractors towing bomb trolleys, and ground crews loading up munitions onto the sleek, powerful-looking Liberators. Robert thrilled to the sight. These were state-of-the-art warplanes, and the sight of those munitions being loaded brought back all the old emotions.

He felt Antis stiffen at his side. For a long moment his dog held his head erect and watched. It was as if Antis appreciated that things had suddenly become serious again—returning perhaps to how they should be—one man and his dog preparing to wage deadly battle against the enemy. To Robert it felt as if a lighthearted interlude in their lives had come to an end—one that had been a diversion on the otherwise inescapable path of war.

He could feel Antis shivering with anticipation, as if all the old feelings associated with flying sorties in C for Cecilia had come back to him. Robert felt the same: a nervous thrill was knifing through his stomach, similar to that which he had felt when he’d first been deployed on active operations.

Robert was overjoyed to be reunited with Adamek. The bighearted Czech greeted Antis like a long-lost brother. He was also pleased to see that one of his cadets from RAF Evanton, Arnost Polak, had been posted to Tain. But otherwise, there were few if any
familiar faces. The losses suffered by 311 Squadron had been crippling. The squadron had taken part in some 145 bombing raids, but had lost 180 airmen and 20 aircraft in the process.