one of the pluckiest deeds i have ever seen done by any airman i witnessed in 1918 on the mericourt front. on a line two or three miles behind us, and stretching roughly from arras along vimy ridge to the souchez valley, we had our usual complement of observation balloons. these were held by long wire cables and contained two observers each.
one fine clear day five of these balloons were up, high in the air, watching movements behind the german lines. macpherson and i were tramping along through one of our deep communication trenches on some errand, when the sound of distant, anti-aircraft shells bursting in the air, reached our ears. we climbed out at the beehive dug-out to see what was up. far above the balloon nearest arras there was appearing, against the blue sky, many little white clouds of smoke caused by exploding shrapnel, while near the ground we saw two open parachutes descending, the observers had "jumped for it." from the smoke above there emerged an aeroplane darting straight down on the balloon. almost quicker than i can tell it, a volley of incendiary bullets from the plane had ignited the big bag, and it fell to the earth like a twisted torch in smoke and flame.
the german never swerved, but headed away for the next balloon. the observers from that one by this time were nearing the ground under their parachutes, and in a few minutes the observers of all five were either on the ground, or floating gracefully to the earth beneath their big "umbrellas," seeking safety from this nervy hun. by this time everything along the ridge that could reach him was turned loose. there was a perfect storm of shrapnel, machine-gun and rifle-fire. hundreds of shells exploded around him and thousands of bullets sped towards him, and it seemed impossible that he could continue. but he didn't even try to escape. he went right on through that deadly fusilade, courting death every second, until he had reached the souchez and had burned every one of our five balloons. then and not till then, did he turn towards hun-land.
in spite of our irritation at his complete success, we could not deny the pilot's great bravery. the recognition of his courage was heartier because he really put none of our men in actual jeopardy, although he offered himself and his machine-gunner as an absurdly easy target to our guns throughout the whole affair. no doubt his mate, he himself, and the plane were hit a good many times but not enough to bring them down or stop their work. in all probability the plane would have to go to the repair sheds and the men into hospital after they landed.
the whole show, which we had seen clearly from start to finish, was over in ten minutes, and we went down to tell the fellows in the dug-out what we had just seen. the description called up memories of other deeds of bravery, and some stirring stories were told. i offered one about my dog ben who, i claimed, had a place by right in the world's list of heroes.
* * * * *
it is hard to believe that dogs do not think along much the same lines as we do in the simpler relations of life. i find it impossible to disbelieve in affection existing between dogs and men, and in a marvellous readiness on the part of the dog to go the whole way in laying down its life for the man it loves. i do not know how to interpret their actions otherwise.
one winter, among my dogs i had a half-mastiff, half-wolf, that i had raised from a pup. he was my favorite, a big, awkward, good-natured fellow who wanted to follow me everywhere, and when i left him at home would cry, in his own way, with vexation. he would go wild with joy when i returned. he also seemed to take upon himself the guarding of the cabin. strangers might come and go for all the others cared, but ben would always stop every man he didn't know at the cabin door, not in an ugly or noisy way, but as a matter of duty, until i opened the door and welcomed the stranger in. he never interfered with those who had been once admitted to the cabin should they come again, noticing them only to give a friendly whine and wag of the tail. i suppose you can all match my story thus far, but let me go on.
one hard winter in the yukon, when the snow was very deep on the hills, and there had been a prolonged spell of unusually extreme frost, the wolves commenced to come down at night into the valleys close to the cabins to hunt and devour stray dogs, or anything else they could get. one night i was roused from sleep by the very unpleasant noise of a howling, snarling, wolf-pack fighting over something not far from my cabin. i wrapped my fur robe hastily about me, and opening the door peered out. they were gathered in a circle round what was apparently a crippled wolf, doing it to death. i shut the door and hurried into my clothes. i wanted to have a shot at them, for there was a bounty on wolves, and their furs were worth something.
as i slipped out of the door after dressing, it occurred to me to see if my dogs were secure under cover. they were whining and uneasy, but i found them wisely keeping safe in their stout log kennels, all but one of them. ben's kennel was empty.
instantly i knew what the brave young dog had done. here was a band of strangers, suspicious looking characters, coming towards the cabin. he went out to meet them alone. he must have known by instinct, as the others did, that savage death would meet him in those dim, gray, howling forms. maybe he trembled with fear, but he went out for my protection to engage in a hopeless fight against a pack of ravenous timber-wolves.
immediately i grasped the situation i fired at the edge of the pack. they commenced to run, disappearing like ghosts in the moonlight on the white mountain-side, but not before i got two of them. poor ben was badly torn. i carried him in my arms into the cabin, lit the fire, and in the candle-light dressed the great, tearing gashes. a few minutes more and they would have had him killed and eaten.
for two days i worked as best i knew to save his life. but he was suffering agony, and at last i decided it would be more merciful to put an end to his pain by having him shot. i went up to the n.w.m.p. post and got corp. "paddy" ryan to come and do it for me. we carried him a little distance from the cabin, and laid him at the side of the trail. i confess i turned my head away while ryan shot. ben rolled down the hill a few yards through the snow, until he stopped against a bush. we watched to see if there was any move. "he is dead," we said, but to be sure i gave my whistle. for a minute nothing happened, and then i saw his faithful, battered head moving up very slowly out of the snow, and swaying to and fro. ryan shot again. ben's head dropped and he died.
i think i did what was best in the circumstances, and maybe i'm imagining motives that weren't there, but all the same there comes an ache in my heart whenever i remember that last shot. in his death-throes, blind and broken, his controlling impulse was to come to me when i whistled. perhaps he thought i needed him. i believe there are dogs in heaven. because the bible says there are dogs kept out, it is not accurate exegesis to assume that there are none let in. and if i meet ben i feel as if i'll have to try to explain it all and ask forgiveness. but i don't think he will bear any grudge. he was too big-hearted for that. i gave him a good grave on the hillside near my cabin door. it was all i could do for him then.
