Featured Article » Fiction

Saint George's Dogs

Written by Kerryn Offord

October 1635, Zielona Góra

Sergeant John "Puss" Trelli was so intent on the men he was observing that he didn't hear the man sneak up behind him, and he was totally unaware of the cudgel being swung at his head. He was also totally unaware of the dog in the shadows until it growled. Instinct, born of a childhood terror of large dogs, especially when they produced that particular spine-chilling growl, caused him to stop and search for the threat. Suddenly the distance was shorter than the assailant had expected, and instead of the sweet spot of his cudgel smashing into Puss' skull, the shaft struck a glancing blow behind Puss' ear before hitting his shoulder.

Not that Puss was aware of anything after the glancing blow to the mastoid, as that had rendered him almost immediately unconscious.

****

"Just what the hell did you think you were doing, Trelli?" Captain Georg-Friedrich von Frankenberg demanded.

Puss tensed in reaction to the words being uttered so close to his ear and winced with pain when his body protested

"Something hurt? That does surprise me. They say where there's no sense there's no feeling, and you certainly haven't been displaying any sense lately, have you, Sergeant?"

Sarcasm dripped from every word Puss' commanding officer uttered, so he knew Captain von Frankenberg was in no mood for excuses. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Sorry? I tell you not to go near members of the Gray Adder on your own, and what happens? You get jumped while observing a group of them."

"It was an accident, sir," Puss protested. "I was just passing when I noticed some of them together, and I stopped to watch them for a moment."

"My information is that you were watching them for a lot longer than a moment." Captain von Frankenberg shook his head. "You were just lucky Private Amsinck wanted to thank you for saving his and Captain Havemann's lives. If it hadn't been for him it'd be you lying on a slab instead of Detlef Nebiger."

"Yes, sir." So Nebiger had been the man who attacked him. Well, that was one of the ringleaders down.

Lieutenant Heinrich Diefenthaler edged into Puss' line of sight. "I know you think we've been dragging our heels over investigating the survivors of the Gray Adder for war crimes, Trelli, but we haven't been idle. In fact, we've worked out a way to photograph the suspects without scaring them off."

"You have?" Puss had brainstormed that problem with his patrol, but they'd failed to come up with anything practical. "How?"

"It's quite simple," Heinrich said. "From tomorrow the Quartermaster Corp will be adding photographs to the files of every soldier in the army as a means of confirming their identity at pay parades."

Puss was quietly in awe of the thinking behind the plan. There had been a bit of a problem with some soldiers double-dipping by attending more than one pay parade using the identity of dead soldiers. Photo-ID would kill two birds with one stone. "I never would have thought of that."

Heinrich exhaled onto his finger nails and buffed them on his jacket while looking smugly at Puss. "That is why I am a lieutenant, and you are but a lowly sergeant."

"Forget the false modesty, Heinrich. It was your cousin's idea," Captain von Frankenberg said. "Johann Diefenthaler has his own camera-obscura equipage," he explained to Puss.

"Nothing like drumming up a little business for one's family," Puss muttered.

"That's what family is for," Heinrich said, quite unapologetically. "Now you just get better, and don't worry yourself about the Gray Adder. It'll take a couple of weeks to get all the photographs we need."

Puss lay in his bed and watched Captain von Frankenberg and Lieutenant Diefenthaler leave the infirmary. He was glad to know something was being done, but they could have told him before he nearly got his head caved in. For a while he lay there, thinking about how close he'd come to dying. Well, that was definitely not something he was going to include in his letters home.

****

"That could have been nasty," Captain Georg-Friedrich von Frankenberg told his companion. "Can you imagine the fuss if we'd lost Trelli?"

Lieutenant Heinrich Diefenthaler nodded. "The newspapers would demand to know why we weren't taking more care of the hero of Zielona Góra."

"And it would have been the silly fool's fault," Georg muttered.

"At least the concussion and broken collar bone are likely to keep him out of the fighting for a while."

"Yes, but that just means he'll be staying in Zielona Góra for the foreseeable future, and you know who else is staying behind."

"The Gray Adder. Still, having his right arm in a sling should stop him getting into trouble."

"This is Trelli we're talking about, Heinrich. Trouble has a way of finding him."

"Actually, I've noticed it's more the men in his patrol finding trouble, and Trelli trying to rescue them from their foolishness." Heinrich paused for a moment. "Why is it that an up-timer with a high school diploma isn't an officer?"

"Trelli?" Georg asked. "His training record says he lacked motivation, was immature, and failed to display leadership skills in training."

"Failed to display leadership skills? The fool successfully led Captain Havemann's company in a fighting withdrawal, with minimal casualties."

"I know. To be fair, I think it was mostly the lack of maturity and motivation that drove that analysis. He only volunteered for the army because he couldn't think of a career he wanted to do, and sort of drifted through training."

"Well, he's certainly matured and developed some motivation since then," Heinrich said. "First Wietze, then Zielona Góra."

Georg shook his head. "Wietze was an accident, and you're forgetting that before Zielona Góra there was Świebodzin. I think he grew up there."

Just thinking about Świebodzin left a foul taste in Georg's mouth. Soldiers of the Gray Adder had gone berserk, raping and murdering innocent civilians in the town, even though the town had surrendered without fighting. Their actions had gone against the code of war as Georg knew it, and he agreed with Sergeant Trelli that the men responsible should be brought to justice.

A few days later

Puss stood over the spot he'd fallen when Detlef Nebiger attacked him and contemplated the bloodstain in the dirt. "Nebiger took a while to die."

Beside him, Corporal Thomas Klein stared at the bloodstain. "What makes you say that, Sarge?"

"Once the heart stops beating, the blood stops flowing pretty quickly."

"You reckon he bled to death?" When Puss nodded, Thomas muttered sarcastically, "Couldn't have happened to a more deserving guy."

Puss ignored his companion, because he'd detected movement out of the corner of his eye, and he was remembering something from that fateful day. There had been a dog. "Klein, to your right, can you see a dog?"

"Jeez, he's a big one."

Puss wasn't sure they were looking at the same animal. Almost hidden in the rubble, the dog he was looking at was a scraggly, unkempt animal a little smaller than a German Shepherd. The animal had been tearing at something in the ruins, but now it was staring at Puss. It emitted a growl that the hairs on the back of his neck recognized. This was the dog that had inadvertently saved his life, and it looked hungry.

Puss felt amongst the pouches in his webbing for something to offer the animal. His fingers found a couple of sticks of home-made pemmican—perfect. He held a stick of pemmican in the fingers of his left hand and slowly walked toward the dog, the pemmican held well in front of him.

"What heck are you doing, Sarge? That animal could be dangerous."

Puss ignored Thomas. At the very least he was sure the dog wasn't rabid. He'd run into one of those before, and he wasn't likely to miss the signs of the disease. This dog just looked hungry, which was why he was barely holding the pemmican. If the dog snatched at it, he didn't want to be bitten.

The dog's growl intensified. It was a warning, so Puss stopped advancing. Instead, he crouched down and stretched out his hand. Then he waited.

"Just throw it at him, Sarge," Thomas called from the safety of twenty feet away.

"Stop worrying, Klein. The poor thing's starving."

"Yeah, and you're a couple of hundred pounds of meat on the hoof."

"He's not going to eat me," Puss assured Thomas. Certainly the dog's center of interest had moved from Puss to the food in his hand. "Come on boy, you know you want it," he whispered at the dog.

Slowly, the dog edged closer to Puss' outstretched hand, then, quick as lightning, it shot forward, snatched the food, and ran off a dozen feet before turning to look at Puss. Their eyes met, and Puss waved. The dog's tail twitched, almost as if it was trying to remember how to wag, then the dog turned and ran off.

Puss was quite proud of himself. He'd actually managed to keep a hold on the stick of pemmican until the dog pulled it from his fingers, rather than dropping it and jumping back when the dog shot forward. He'd certainly come a long way in controlling his fear of dogs.

"That was a damned fool stunt, Sarge," Thomas said when Puss walked back to join him. "I thought you were supposed to be scared of dogs?"

"Not scared. Effing terrified, but maybe I'm getting over it."

Thomas stared at Puss for a while then shook his head. "Now is not a good time to be getting over a fear of dogs, Sarge. You were lucky that animal didn't savage you."

Puss glanced in the direction the dog had taken. It hadn't appeared savage. Certainly it hadn't had the demented attitude of some of the dogs he'd met up-time. Mind, that was often the influence of the owners, which suggested that the dog had been well trained at some stage.

A few days later

"How's Sergeant Trelli coping with the wait for the photographs?" Lieutenant Heinrich Diefenthaler asked Corporal Klein.

"I don't think he's noticed any delay, sir. He's found himself a new hobby," Thomas said.

"Hobby? Doing what?"

"He's trying to tame a dog."

Heinrich raised his brows. "I thought he wasn't supposed to like dogs?"

"It wasn't a matter of like, sir. He assured us when he first took command that Wietze was an accident. He's actually absolutely terrified of dogs."

"So why is he feeding one?"

"He says he doesn't like to see an animal suffer. Heck, sir, you should see the way he spoils that mangy nag of his. He even gives it sugar lumps."

"Up-timers have no idea of how to treat animals," Heinrich agreed.

****

Corporal Michael Cleesattel considered babysitting Sergeant Trelli a complete waste of time that could be better spent in some tavern—with or without an accompanying wench. However, orders were orders. So he sat, bored out of his mind, watching Sergeant Trelli sit in the dirt down the same alley he'd been coming to for days. At his feet was a wood bowl of a stew he'd cooked up. Even from where he was standing—a safe distance away—Michael was salivating at the smell. And to think it was going to be wasted on a stray dog. Michael shook his head in disgust.

There was movement in the shadows, and by concentrating, Michael could make out the dog slowly making its way toward Puss. And what did the fool do? He held out his hand for the animal to sniff at. Well, you wouldn't catch Michael Cleesattel doing a damn fool thing like that, not with a strange dog.

Then the dog buried its head in the bowl and started eating, and Puss started to run his hand along its back. The dog tensed, and Michael laid a hand on his service revolver. The only thing stopping him from drawing it was the sure knowledge that Sarge would be angry if he scared off the dog. It was a tense few seconds for both him and the dog, until the dog relaxed and got on with eating.

Then Puss did something that dumbfounded Michael. He pulled a brush out of his sling and started to brush the animal's filthy coat.

Eventually Puss stopped grooming the dog, picked up the empty bowl, and rose to his feet. The dog bounded away a short distance when Puss moved, but it stopped and just watched him walk away.

"That's enough for today," Puss said as he approached Michael. "Let's drop over at the lieutenant's cousin's tent and see how he and his fellow photographers are doing."

Michael glanced toward the dog, which was still standing there, watching. "Sure, Sarge."

"Do you think they'll finish photographing the Gray Adder by the end of this week?"

"Even if they do your shoulder won't be healed enough for you to ride over to Świebodzin to question survivors that soon," Michael said.

"No problem, I have a patrol of four enthusiastic men only too willing to interview the survivors and see if they recognize any of the men in the photographs."

Michael snorted. "These four men, would I know any of them?"

Sarge stopped and looked down at Michael. "You don't recognize the description?"

Michael was happy to see a familiar grin lighting up Sergeant Trelli's face. "Nope. I can't think of anybody in the company that fits that description. Świebodzin's a good day's ride, so ...