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.
IX.
A Trail Sermon
In October, 1917, orders came to join in the big push on the Flanders front in what proved a vain attempt to cut the enemy lines of communication with the Belgian coast held by the Germans and used as a resort for submarines. The Canadians were asked to take Passchendaele Ridge which rose abruptly about 300 feet above the miles of mud flats its guns dominated. These muddy fields had been captured by Australians and New Zealanders after desperate fighting, but it was almost impossible to hold them without terrible punishment from the concentrated German artillery fire, bombing, and machine-gunning because of the enemy's position on the Ridge. No trenches could be made in the mud for the sides would slip back in, and there was practically no protection for our men outside the few small concrete blockhouses or "pill boxes" the Huns had built. So we had either to withdraw or go on and chase the enemy off the Ridge.
The 9th brigade of the famous Third Canadian division was chosen for the post of honour. This was the task of capturing the almost unassailable German positions on Bellevue Spur which was a part of the Passchendaele heights lying immediately in front of us. Of the brigade, the 43rd battalion (the "Camerons" of Winnipeg) and 58th were to make the attack, with the 52nd in close support. The 116th, junior battalion of the brigade, was employed as a labour battalion, and a dirty, dangerous job they had, "packing" ammunition and "duck-walks" at night through the mud up to the attack area, doing pick-and-shovel work, and afterwards carrying back wounded men under shell-fire.
Friday, October 26th, was the fateful day. Someone suggested that Friday was unlucky and 26 was twice 13, but this was countered by the seven letters in October and the lucky number at the end of 1917! It wasn't luck in sevens or thirteens that won the battle, but simply that we had men and officers with an unyielding determination to carry on in spite of all obstacles, unless wounded or killed, until their objective was gained. Contributing causes there were in training, equipment, and leadership that helped our men to do the impossible, but the deciding factor, the real cause of victory, lay in the brave hearts of the soldiers who faced the Spur that chill October morning.
The ground had been reconnoitred by Lt.-Col. Grassie, our O.C., who had to leave for Canada before the attack took place. Our operations were carried out under the skilful direction of Major Chandler.