Among the shadows of early morning, a small, darker shadow moved, sometimes crouching close to the ground as a shell burst overhead. A cold, mizzling rain matted his fur, dribbled into his eyes. He shook his head and kept going. A little further and he’d be at the general’s tent. He knew which tent was his, knew as surely as he knew the form of the young man who had sent him. His mission was a deadly matter. Many lives depended on the success of the dog’s mission.
The dog limped a little. The bullet which had felled his young master had gone through his foot. The dog hadn’t been able to get to him in time. As the boy lay on the ground, artillery screaming overhead and lighting the sky, he scribbled something on a dirty and torn piece of paper, pulled a broken shoe lace from his shoe, and tied the note onto the dog’s collar.
“Go,” the boy had whispered. “Find the general. Good luck, old boy.”
The dog, whimpering, nuzzled the boy’s face, and slipped into the night. The sounds of battle were fierce. Artillery, horses, cries, all filled his ears. The fighting was close, but that’s not where the real danger lay, the boy had told him.
Back at the base camp, the awful din was not as loud. A sentry stood outside the tent of the general. He didn’t see the small, dirty dog, crouching along the ground, scooting closer to the tent flap. Inside, a kerosene lantern glowed. A bearded man paced back and forth, back and forth, then squatted close to the light, a faded map in his hands.
The dog nosed his leg. The general jumped and looked down, his eyes widening in surprise. “Where’d you come from, fellow?”
His rough hand caressed the dog’s head and the dog whimpered a little.
“Why, you’ve been shot,” the general said, crouching beside him. “What happened, boy?” Then the general touched the note, wadded and tied under the dog’s collar.
“What’s this?” he said. Carefully, he untied the note, smoothed it out, and sat for a moment, his face growing hard and still.
He called to the sentry, “Private, rouse the men. That young scout, Jonathan, sent a message. The main enemy army is gathering behind us. They’e coming from the north. The southern battle is a ruse. The whole town is in danger. We’ve got to hurry.”
The sentry appeared. “Sir, the dog. How did he get through?”
“I don’t know,” the general answered. “He’s hurt and he needs help. Get him food. Take him to the hospital wagon. This dog has the courage of a soldier and he’s injured. Now run.”
The dog sighed. His mission was over.
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