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.
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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.