A Dog With A Destiny: Smoky. Isabel George

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      Dedication

      To my parents who showed, by example, that courage, loyalty and love really can conquer all

      Epigraph

      ‘Smoky was a diversion from the demoralizing reality of the Pacific War. She made us laugh and forget. The thought that it could all end suddenly was all too sobering. So, as we flew together on combat missions, I was ready for the worst but remained determined, within all my power to keep her safe. We were a team.’

      (William A. Wynne – from his memoir, Yorkie Doodle Dandy, published by Wynnsome Press)

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      Dedication

      Epigraph

      Chapter 1: Smoky – A Dog with a Destiny

      Afterword

      Bibliography

      About the Author

      Copyright

       About the Publisher

      Chapter 1

       Smoky –

       A Dog with a Destiny

      Miracles probably happen every day but few are witnessed and many more go unrecorded. Why? Because they just ‘happen’. But in a theatre of war where miracles are rare, they shine bright. Here, in the fearful darkness of hostility, where good stands out so clearly from bad, a miracle, however small, is something to treasure in memory – forever.

      When Bill Wynne first laid eyes on Smoky he wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking at. Standing a little closer, the tall, dark, handsome GI from Ohio could just about make out that the baseball-size mass of brown fur in front of him had four short legs, two beady black eyes, and a leathery little nose but beyond that, its true identity was a mystery.

      ‘What kind of beast is this?’ Bill asked, turning to an oil-soaked Sergeant Dare. Blinking in the sunlight as he emerged from under the chassis of a Jeep, Dare confessed that he hadn’t a clue. All he knew was that Ed Downey had found the little thing in a foxhole in the jungle and then dropped it back with him at the 5212th Photographic Wing motor pool along with his vehicle. After giving Dare the lowdown on the unreliable Jeep that had been assigned, Downey offloaded his jungle ‘find’.

      ‘Hey, Dare, I found this in a foxhole,’ he said, thrusting the mass of brown fuzz into the sergeant’s greasy hands. ‘This damn thing broke down,’ he said banging his fist against the olive metal, ‘and in the sudden quiet I heard a yelping sound and at the end of it – this. I don’t know what it is but I know I don’t want it.’ Downey walked away towards his tent, frustrated by the day, the unreliable vehicle and the overpowering, wet heat of the New Guinea jungle.

      Sergeant Dare already had enough to do in the motor pool. He didn’t see himself adopting this animal but he knew a man who just could be this creature’s salvation. In the meantime, he offered the animal water and food and, to help it cool down, he grabbed the hand shears and hacked away some of its excess hair. Frightened, near-scalped but still smiling and hopeful, the strange sweet thing fixed its gaze on the man standing in front of him who was wearing the puzzled expression.

      Bill Wynne had been told about Dare’s new house guest and had wandered over to take a look. He squatted down for a closer inspection and got more than he bargained for – a big, wet, lick on his face. ‘Well it’s a dog,’ said Wynne, ‘but it looks kind of weird thanks to the haircut and I’m not sure it’s healthy. Where did you say you found it?’

      The sergeant repeated the story and said that three Australian dollars would clinch the deal. Money wasn’t the problem. In US terms, that was around $9.66. What Bill didn’t want to do was become emotionally attached to this crazy-looking dog and then have it die on him a short time later. Bill’s twenty-one years of life had already been filled with more than his fair share of sadness. He had become accustomed to losing those he loved and he wasn’t in a rush to go through anything like that again. He had a feeling that nature might take its course with this fragile little life and made up his mind to wait until morning before parting with the three dollars.

      Bill prayed that the little dog would make it through the night. They had only met briefly but there was a part of him that admired her spirit. Dare’s story had tugged on his heartstrings and there was an immediate empathy with a fellow creature that was also caught up in the uncertainty of the war and all its horrors. One thing puzzled Bill more than anything he had heard so far: how on earth had she ended up in the jungle in the first place? He marvelled at the miracle that caused Ed Downey’s Jeep to break down at that exact moment and in that precise location where the dog’s cries could be heard. But the string of miracles didn’t stop there. The biggest of all the dog’s lucky breaks was that Downey picked her up at all. He didn’t like dogs and didn’t mind admitting it, but he still followed the sound of the cries, rescued her and took the lost pup back to base. If none of that had happened, the animal’s life would probably have been snuffed out by heat exhaustion, starvation or one of a variety of predators which included the native tribes. But her life wasn’t taken and she seemed determined to live. Thanks to a series of fortunate events and happy coincidences, the small creature’s life was just about to begin.

      The next morning Bill’s prayers were answered. Smoky was no longer a sickly looking beast peeping through the stumpy chunks of a bad haircut. The dog that Dare had called Smokums was a real survivor. Less than twenty-four hours earlier she had been pacing and weaving with anxiety and looked as though the trauma of it all might break her. But no. Thanks to Dare feeding her up and giving her a comfortable bed for the night, Smoky had defied the odds stacked against her and could now relax into her good-natured, loveable self. Bill handed Dare the new asking price of two Australian dollars. As the Sergeant pocketed the money and dashed back to his card game, Bill tucked Smoky under his arm and headed for his tent.

      It was lucky for everyone that Smoky was only seven inches tall at the shoulder and four pounds in weight. A larger animal companion would have stretched the mini-malist accommodation way beyond the possibility of comfort. The tent had room for the bare essentials only: a cot bed to sit, sleep and eat on and stacking space for storing regulation-issue kitbags and contents. The old expression, ‘Not enough room to swing a cat’ could have been adapted to, ‘Not enough room to swing a tiny Terrier’. Pitched row upon row on cut grass the tents made up the Wing camp area. Each tent had its own foxhole directly outside so the men could dive for cover during raids and beyond the tents was the high grass leading to jungle and the mountains beyond. The view from Wynne and Downey’s tent was jungle. Dense, green and totally alien to the СКАЧАТЬ