Posts Tagged ‘Sticks’

There were many dogs with the British in the Crimea, including this one with officers of the 57th Regiment of Foot.

[This is a fictional tale by Will Hutchison, based on a very real story]

The war had begun.  Britain and France, unlikely bedfellows, were joined, with the help of Sardinia, against Russia – ostensibly to protect “poor, invaded, Turkey.”  As the 1st Battalion, Scots Fusilier Guards marched to the ships, they were led by a proud, prancing Sticks, his black and brown coat shining in the sun.

The marching troops passed by the amazed butcher along the way.  Private Gorman, marching near the head of the column, noticed Sticks’ back stiffen, his head tilt slightly higher, and he could have sworn he heard Sticks sniff loudly as he marched past his former master.

The sea journey was uneventful, except in choppy waters – Sticks being one of the few who did not tear his insides out retching over the rail.  Varna, along the western coast of the Black Sea was the army’s staging area.  It was also where cholera hit the British and French forces – hard – sometimes killing a hundred men in a day.  Sticks watched over his brothers in arms, adding joy to the last few moments of their lives when the sickness consumed them.  He was saddened by the losses, which cut his new friends down within hours of showing the first signs of illness.

“I think I have it, Sticks, heaven help me,” Sean Gorman pronounced one morning, when a grey pallor appeared on his face.  Sticks whined, remained with his friend … but he seemed to know that Sean would not succumb … or perhaps he willed it.  By the third day, it was determined that Sean had serious diarrhea, but not the cholera.  In time he recovered and was back with the regiment.

The real Sticks, whose name was actually "Bob" - This wonderful sketch is courtesy of an unknown artist

The regiment finally moved across the Black Sea to the Crimea, and a confrontation with the Russians.  Sticks first saw action at the Alma River, where the Scots Fusilier Guards were in the thick of a frontal assault on a Russian position fortified with cannon.  While they waited to assault, solid shot and shell rained down upon them perilously.

“What the divil is he aboot, Private Gorman?” asked the Sergeant Major, looking behind his line of soldiers, who were hugging the ground as close as possible.  He was watching Sticks cavorting about the field to their rear like he was playing with toy balls on a London green.

“He’s…he’s chasin’ after them cannon balls, Sar’nt Major.  He’s been doin’ it fer the longest time.”  They had been under intense cannon fire for over an hour.  The men’s nerves were frayed, stretched to the limit.  Watching this tiny dog scampering about was giving them a calming hope of survival.

“Ach, he is a charmer, that one,” said the Sergeant Major, laughing.  “You lads take heed now,” he bellowed.  “If the wee Sticks can stand this hell, then I’m damned sure we kin stand it.”  There were shouts of “Aye, that’s the God’s truth!” and “Charge on, Sticks, lad!”

The attack soon began in earnest.  First they crossed the Alma … where Sticks found he could swim, and Private Gorman went flat on his face in the water.  As the regiment moved up a gradual slope toward the enemy, men began to fall from the ranks.

Sticks would run to each, sniffing, prodding.  If the man lay still, he’d go on to the next.  If the man moved, he’d bark loudly until other soldiers or one of the bandmen, who were used to carry wounded to the rear, came up to aid the fallen man.  Sticks was utterly fearless and relentless. There were times when he ran so fast he outstretched the moving line of guardsmen, and had to be called back – bullets kicking up ground around him.

An officer went down, hit once in the leg.  It was the young lieutenant who had been Officer of the Day when Sean found Sticks in the snow. The ground where he lay was exposed except for a pile of rocks nearby.  The officer was hit again in the arm while lying on the ground. Sticks ran to his side and began dancing around, barking.  Sean heard the bark and recognized the wounded officer.  He moved quickly, grabbing the officer by his shoulder belt and coatee collar, dragging him behind the rocks.

“Good work, Sticks, lad,” he said, “but ya better bide here behind these rocks.  It’s no a safe place out there.”

Two bandsmen with an improvised stretcher came up.  Sean ran on to catch the regimental line moving ever closer to the Russians.  He looked back over his shoulder. “Stay – boy!  Stay!”

There was, of course, little or no chance of Sticks “staying.”

[The Conclusion, Part VI, will be along tomorrow with more of the real story behind the fictional tale.]

{Photograph at top taken by Roger Fenton}

[This is a fictional tale by Will Hutchison, but based on a very real story.]

The butcher’s nose was broken in two places from the Sergeant Major’s blow.  After weeks in hospital, an indignant butcher appeared before the Scots Fusilier Guards Adjutant, demanding compensation and punishment for his assailants.  The Sergeant Major had already spoken to the Adjutant.  Sticks was already becoming a beloved mascot to the regiment, and indeed the entire Guards Brigade. He had taken to soldiering like it was a family tradition.

“Compensation and punishment yer askin’, is it?” the Adjutant inquired, politely.

The smug butcher nodded, saying, “It’s only right, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is, my man, and so you shall have it.” The butcher smiled, thinking he had won some great prize.

The Adjutant called in his clerk, then said to the butcher.  “Aye, well, sir, here it is.  The compensation will be that I don’t throw you behind bars, and the punishment will be that your contract with this barracks to supply beef has been cancelled.  Yer never ta come back ta this barracks again.  Yer dog’s a wee bit healthier now.  If yer seen here again, I’ll set the dog on ya and let ‘im chew ta his heart’s content.  Och, now, da ya kin that, sir?  Was I clear enough for ya?”

The butcher stood in shocked silence.  The Adjutant ordered, “Take this poor excuse for a man ta the gate, and boot him out.” The clerk dragged the bewildered butcher away.

Over the next months Sticks became stronger and more relaxed in the company of the men of the Scots Fusilier Guards.  He endeared himself to one and all.  He was fed and cared for primarily by Sean Gorman, and occasionally the Sergeant Major, but he visited the other soldiers at their toil each day, making them smile.  Each one felt he owned a small part of the dog named Sticks.  He didn’t belong to one; he belonged to everyone.

Sticks even learned to stand tall at formations, proudly viewing all his friends in their strange high bearskin caps as they prepared for the day’s guard duties.  He was ever punctual and always first on parade.  The rest of his time he spent prancing about Wellington Barracks like he owned it, which in a special way, he did.

[Part V, where Sticks goes to the Crimean War, will be along tomorrow.  Stay tuned.]

[This is a fictional tale, written by Will Hutchison, but based on a very real story.]

The Sergeant Major of the Scots Fusilier Guards became involved in the tale the very next day.  Alerted by the young lieutenant, he told Private Sean Gorman that he must search for the owner of Sticks, as he was now known, and return the dog if he could.  Word of the canine foundling spread like spilled wine across the Guards Brigade, and, unfortunately the tiny dog was recognized.  He belonged to a butcher, whose shop on Petty France Street provided beef to the barracks under contract.

A reluctant Private Gorman appeared at the butcher shop the next day, accompanied by the Scots Fusilier Guards Sergeant Major, who had taken a personal interest in the scruffy little creature.  The butcher, a huge, rotund, surly fellow with a jowly face and long scraggly black hair, was anything but glad to see his charge.

“So there be the little bastard,” he snarled as they entered the shop.  He grabbed the now shivering Sticks from Sean and abruptly threw him in a corner.

Sticks yelped and cowered as he watched both Sean and the Sergeant Major become very agitated.  The butcher said, “Ya shoulda left the pisser freeze out there.  More trouble than he’s worth. Caught ‘im eat’n beef I’d just cut. Kicked ‘im right out the door, I did.”

Sean’s face was turning red. He clenched and reclenched his fists.  The Sergeant Major laid a hand on Sean’s shoulder, stepped in, and said, quietly, “Perhaps he was hungry, da ya think?”

“Hungry, my achin’ arse.  He don’t deserve ta eat.  Plenty of rats around here for ‘im ta catch if he’s a mind.  Earn ‘is keep then, he would … earn ‘is keep.”

“Do I ‘ave this right, then?” the Sergeant Major asked.  “Ya kicked this dog out in the snow, on the worse night I kin recall in London, because he ate a few scraps a beef?”

“He’s my dog, I ‘ave the right, I do.  So bugger off.”  Sean lunged at the wide-eyed butcher, who was three times his size.  The Sergeant Major grabbed him by his collar.  Sean struggled a bit, but calmed down quickly.

The butcher had stepped back, picking up a cleaver, fear showing in his eyes until he saw the boy restrained.  He must have thought the Sergeant Major, a big man himself, was on his side.  “My dog … I’ve the right.  I’ll kill the little bastard if I want.”  He turned toward Sticks and raised the cleaver – a grave mistake.

The Sergeant Major let go of Sean, and grabbed the butcher by his unkempt hair.  In an even quieter voice the Sergeant Major said, “I donna think so, my fat friend.” He didn’t have to pull hard to take the man off balance and down on the floor of the shop.

He butcher wasn’t through yet.  He slowly rose, dazed, but determined, cleaver still in hand.  The Sergeant Major easily swatted the knife aside, and struck the man full in the nose with a blow that jarred the whole room.  The butcher’s eyes glazed over and he went down – for good this time.

The Sergeant Major turned his back to the fallen butcher and walked out of the shop.  As he reached the door, he said, simply,  “Pick up yer new dog, Private Gorman, and see he’s taken good care of.”

[Part IV will be along tomorrow.  Stay tuned.]

[This is a fictional tale by your humble servant, but based on a very real story.]

As Private Sean Gorman, Scots Fusilier Guards, leaned down and brushed the snow away from the mound, he saw two large eyes staring back at him from around a snowy, hairy face.  It was a tiny terrier, with a pug nose, not much bigger than a puppy, shivering in a pathetic bundle with sticks for legs popping out of the wet fur.  Now Sean recognized the cries for what they were, although he’d have sworn they were a baby.  He dropped to one knee, letting his musket fall in the snow.

“There, there, now me wee friend, who’d leave ya out here ta freeze like this?  Tak it easy wee one, you’ve a friend in me.”  He scooped up the small dog up in his arms, cradling it close for warmth. The dog seemed to know he was safe … looked up at Sean, then placed his head on the red coatee and feebly wagged his tail.

Sean was wrapped in thought, trying to figure something out.  ”That’s what I’ll call ya … ‘Sticks,’ fer yer legs are mere twigs, yer that fragile.”

“What’s all this, then!”  shouted the voice behind Sean, who turned quickly and saw with horror it was the Corporal of the Guard.  “Ye’ave left yer post Private Gorman.  Where’s yer damned weapon, Private Gorman?  Yer in deep trouble now, Private Gorman.”

Walking up to them out of the blizzard was a young officer, the Officer of the Day.

Sean was still holding the small dog, his weapon buried in the snow.  He was had, all right, well and truly.  Caught out and done in.  He turned to the corporal, stammered, “Corporal, I, I, I,” then turned toward the officer, said, “Well sir, I …”

“Have ye nothin’ ta say fer yerself, Gorman, nothin’ ta say,” bellowed the corporal.  Sean hung his head, but he refused to let go of the dog, who was just beginning to stop shivering.

“I’ll sort this out, sir,” the corporal said to the young officer.  “I’ll have this man relieved at once and on charges, quick as ya like.”

He turned back to Sean, “Now get rid of that damned mutt and pick up yer musket.”

The officer spoke for the first time.  “Yes, corporal, you do that. You have this man relieved at once, but he’ll be coming along with me.”  He said to Sean, “Pick up you’re weapon, lad, and come along.  Handle that poor dog with care as you go, he looks in need of some warmth.”

“But, sir,” the corporal said, in dismay, “this man left ‘is post!”

“Didn’t you hear the cries, corporal?  You might want to clean out those ears if you didn’t.  I heard them.  Was on my way out to investigate myself.”

“Yes, sir, but …”

“There are no but’s, corporal.  Understand me?  This could have been an attack on the castle gate.  What better time than Christmas eve.  Royal family could have been in grave danger.  The man did credit to the regiment.  I see it that it was the sentry’s duty to investigate.  You call for a relief to cover this post.  In the mean time, you cover it if you have to.”

“Aye, sir.”  The corporal was at attention now.  Sean, in amazement, retrieved his musket and hurried after the officer.

As the officer left he shouted over his shoulder, “Be thankful I don’t bring you on charges for not seeing a possible danger, corporal.”

The dog gave what sounded like a muted snuffing sound at the frustrated corporal, and snuggled closer in Sean’s arms.  The young officer was smiling.

[Part III in the continuing adventures of “Sticks” will be along tomorrow.]