Watch (Notevember 2021, #8)

“Houndsley!” came the call from below.

“Sergeant?”

“Here, boy.”

The soldier made his way down into the trench, careful to not bump his rifle against the ladder. Once down, he stood at attention and saluted his superior officer, Sergeant Wagford, who responded in kind.

“Private Houndsley, the Lieutenant would like to see you.”

“But, sarge, I’m on first watch.”

“Never mind that, Houndsley. Private Barker will relieve you.” The sergeant turned to a nervous-looking terrier standing a few paces away. “Up you go, boy.”

“Yes, sir. I mean, yes, sergeant!” yapped Barker, setting off up the ladder at speed.

“Well, Houndsley?”

“What’s this about, sarge?”

“Can’t say. The lieutenant didn’t see fit to tell me. Now get to it.” And with that, the sergeant trudged off towards the dugout serving as a mess hall.

“Ah, Private Houndsley! Come in.” The officer seemed to be in a fairly good mood, his bushy tail swishing slowly to and fro.

“Thank you, sir.” Houndsley stood at attention, giving an even sharper salute this time. Lieutenant Colquhound just waved his paw hastily by his forehead. The disapproving look on his fellow officers suggested they mistook his informality for laxity.

“At ease, boy. So, they tell me you dug a quarter mile of trench on your own?”

“Not entirely on my own, sir, but I certainly enjoy digging.”

“Aye, so did I before this blasted arthritis started creeping up on me. Still, you’ve been a good boy, doing more than your fair share.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“They also tell me you were present for the skirmish two weeks ago. Judging from the reports, it was a bloody affair, to say the least.”

“Well, sir, I can’t say any of the boys enjoyed it. But the Sheppies’ barks are worse than their bites. Most of us made it through. I…”

Houndsley’s voice trailed off, and the lieutenant’s ear perked up as he noticed.

“Something the matter, private?”

“It’s just… I lost an old friend that day, sir. Corporal Coates. Knew him since we were pups.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Houndsley. And for the army’s too. Every time. You grew up together, then? Where are you from?”

“Wooferhampton, sir. Born and raised.”

“A Bull among the Staffies, then?”

“Yes, sir. Never been an issue, though. Only ones to give me trouble quickly learned I could hold my own.”

“If only the Sheppies could take that lesson to heart, we could all stop being at each other’s throats and bloody go home.”

“My sentiments exactly, sir. And I’m sure the rest of the boys would agree.”

Colquhound sighed. “Most, perhaps, though I have seen a few with more than a single helping of bloodthirst. Damned scary at times, but good to have by your side when you’re in the teeth of the enemy. Still, you seem like a more even-tempered sort of chap, eh, Houndsley?”

“I’d like to think so, sir.”

“The reports prove that you are. And that is the kind of soldier I need right now. Hence why we called you here.” He gave a brief nod towards a corgi standing at the far end of the table.

This individual was entirely unknown to Houndsley, but his insignia marked him as a collienel. The new dog took a deep breath and stretched to his full height – which wasn’t much, but seemed somehow to be more than it was. His personal scent may have been unfamiliar, but he reeked of authority.

“Good evening, private,” he said. “I am Collienel Harold Roverville, with military intelligence. Having said that, I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that the following conversation is strictly confidential, and none of its contents can leave this room. Say you understand.” This last was spoken deliberately, with a growling undertone – not quite a threat, but definitely a warning.

“I understand, sir,” the private managed.

“Good.” The intelligence officer immediately switched back to his jovial tone, as if his previous words had never been spoken. “Tell me – why did you enlist? Why join the fight of your own volition? Speak freely.”

Houndsley was surprised. No officer had bothered to ask before. “For King and country, sir,” he offered in earnest.

“Ah, Viva Rex and all that. It’s a rare pooch who still maintains that motto after having seen combat the likes of what you’ve experienced.”

“Well, sir… It’s not that I don’t fight for my brothers in arms, and my parents and littermates back home. I do, of course, but I was also taught that obedience is a most canine virtue.”

“Indeed. I’m sure The Sheps teach their pups the very same thing.”

“Which is why I can’t hold a grudge against them, sir. Don’t get me wrong – I know my duty. I’m not naïve to the reality of war. If I need to kill a stranger to prevent the death of a friend… Well, for a soldier, that’s no choice at all, is it, sir?”

“Suppose you could choose not to kill, and make a stranger a friend.”

“I’m not sure I understand, sir?”

Roverville chuckled. “When was the last time you played with a ball, private?”

The question caught Houndsley off guard – not a fitting reaction for a soldier supposed to be on watch. Still, he managed a rough estimate of “two years ago, perhaps”.

“Private, we are winning this war. I’m sure that’s what the propaganda has been saying all along, but it is actually true. And much as I would like to attribute this to our superior spirit and fighting capabilities, the truth is that morale among Shep ranks has been steadily declining. That, of course, works in our favor. Which is why our agents have been working tirelessly to speed up the process. That is where you come in.”

“Me, sir? I’m not exactly known for my guile.”

“No, private, you are not. According to your superiors, your fellow soldiers, and the dogs we asked back home –“

“You what?”

“– you are considered honest, diligent, level-headed and without an ounce of hatred in your body.”

“Umm… thank you, sir?” Houndsley wasn’t quite sure where this was going. As conversations with commanding officers went, this one was unique.

“No need to thank me. You’re not the only dog with those qualities, and I didn’t apprise of you of them to flatter you. Tomorrow morning, you will learn that our generals and Shep high command have agreed to a temporary ceasefire over the holidays.”

“That’s wonderful, sir!”

“It’s an opportunity, is what it is. At this very moment, our agents across enemy lines are convincing a few fellows in their Shep company – the one just on the other side of yonder shell-struck wasteland – that a friendly game of pawball would be just the thing to celebrate the holiday spirit.”

“And, if you don’t mind my asking, sir – what sort of thing do we see it as?”

“If it goes well? It could be the last straw for Shep morale, and thence their war effort. If their dogs can chase a ball with ours, as friends, they’ll find it very hard indeed to keep fighting us. They are on the brink, and we just need to push them over.”

“Don’t you think they’ll be ordered not to share the news of a friendly encounter?”

“We have that issue sorted, private, trust me on that. All we need is a few good boys who are willing to play the game, and hopefully save countless lives in the process.”

“Do you honestly believe this could end the war, sir?”

“I have to. I do. As does the King. So, soldier, what do you say? Do you want to get out of the trenches for a bit of fresh air?”

“Well, while I do enjoy digging, sir, what sort of dog would I be if I declined a chance to play?”