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THE WAR DOG.

Never confuse the “War dog” with the “dog of War.”  The War dog is a direct product of the War, but you never yet met him collecting for a hospital, or succouring the wounded, or assisting the police, or hauling a mitrailleuse if he could help it.  Yet the War dog worships the Army; it represents a square meal and a “cushy” bed.  The new draft takes him for a mascot; but the old hand knows him better.  A shameless blend of petty larceny, mendacity, fleas, gourmandism, dirt and unequalled plausibility.

You meet the War dog on some endless road.  He will probably be wearing round his neck a piece of dirty card analogous to the eye patch and drooping Inverness cape of some mendicants nearer home—­a “property” in fact, and put there by himself, the writer is convinced, although he has not yet actually caught the War dog dressing for the part.  The War dog on the road has “spotted” you long before you have seen him, and he has marked you for his own.  You become conscious of a piteous whine just behind you and, turning, see the War dog, his eyes filled with tears of entreaty, crawling towards you on his stomach.  He advances inch by inch, and on being encouraged with comfortable words of invitation the parasite wriggles his lean body (it is trained to look lean—­actually it is well padded with stolen food from officers’ kitchens) up to your feet, and, selecting a puddle in token of his deep humility, rolls upon his back and smiles tearfully up at you from between his grimy fore-paws.  Then the game goes forward merrily as per schedule.

Of course you take him back to camp and give him your last piece of Blighty cake.  You introduce your protege—­always crawling on his stomach—­to the cook; swear to the dog’s immaculate conduct; beg a trifle of straw from the transport, and in short see him comfortably settled for the night.

The War dog has you now well beneath his paws.  He joins the Mess and listens with an ill-concealed grin as each in turn boasts of the rat-catching powers of his dog at home.  Then the War dog retreats hurriedly as a mouse appears; and you, his victim, apologise for him and explain how he has been shaken by adversity and what a noble creature a few days of good food and kind treatment will make of him.  The rest is simple.  The War dog (with his court) invades your bed and home parcels, and brings you into disrepute with all and sundry—­especially the Cook and Quarter.  He is fought and soundly thrashed by the regimental mascot (half his size), and the battalion wit composes limericks about you and your pet.

Then suddenly your War dog disappears.  You are just beginning to live him down—­having moved into another area—­when you espy him from the street, the centre of a noisy group in a not too reputable wine-shop.  But the War dog never recognises you.  He has finished with you—­grown tired of you, in fact (he rarely “works” the same victim for more than three weeks).  You and your battalion are to him as it were a bone picked clean; and you depart with a prayer that he may die a stray’s death at the hands of the Military Police.