The Plague Dogs

  Saturday the 27th November

  It was about half past seven and the rain had ceased. On the open gravel in front of the Woolpack, Major John Awdry, M.C., stood briefing company and platoon commanders in the first light. It was a mild enough morning, though very wet underfoot, and at least one thrush could be heard from a mountain-ash down by the Esk, as well as two robins who were asserting themselves to one another from opposite ends of the Woolpack garden.

  "O.K., now just to recap," said Major Awdry. "The dogs were seen here, on these premises, hardly more than eight hours ago. They're almost certainly not far away, and if that's correct the nature of the area should enable us, with the help of the helicopters, first to surround them and then--well, to shoot them. B company will go three miles down the valley to Eskdale Green, where they'll deploy two platoons north of the Esk and two south; got the northern and southern extremities of the line of advance marked, haven't you?"

  Captain Cranmer-Byng, commanding B company, nodded.

  "Then at 08:30 hours you begin moving eastward up the Esk valley in an unbroken line, maintaining lateral communication by whistle, Very light, eyesight and anything else you like. You search any cover that might conceal the dogs; copses, of course, thoroughly, but also sheds, recesses in river banks, sheepfolds, bloody paper bags--the lot. And you do NOT repeat NOT on any account break the line of advance. You're a drag net, got it? Between 11:00 and 11:30 hours the company will halt on the line Boot-Eskdale Church and company commander reports to me, unless of course the operation's finished earlier. O.K.?"

  He glanced round. The B company platoon commanders, together with the C.S.M., who was commanding a platoon in substitution for a subaltern on leave, nodded.

  "Fine. Now meanwhile, C company will disperse its platoons to the four map references already given; at Gill Bank on Whillan Beck; Stony Tarn; Taw House; and the foot of Hard Knott Pass. There they'll deploy as widely as practicable and at 08:30 hours they'll start patrolling back down the lines of the Esk and the respective tributary streams, until they get here.

  "While everybody's doing that, operational H.Q. will remain here, in R/T contact with both company H.Q.s and in ground-to-air contact with the helicopters. The two helicopters are due over fifteen minutes from now, and they'll maintain a continuous watch on the northern and southern fells above the Esk valley, flying backwards and forwards along the 1,000-foot contour lines. If they spot the dogs anywhere along the tops, they'll inform this H.Q. and I shall issue further orders as appropriate.

  "Now one last thing, gentlemen, and this is of the greatest importance. No one, but no one, below the rank of platoon commander is to open fire. Is that quite clear?"

  "Excuse me, sir," said Captain Reidy, "but at that rate why are the blokes carrying live ammo?"

  "I'll tell you why," answered Major Awdry, "and this is not to go any further. Because this damn' Cabinet Minister, Secretary of State, whatever he is, won't let us alone; and unless I'm very much mistaken, he sees this operation primarily as a publicity stunt for his own benefit. So orders are to carry live ammo. Intrepid paratroops--yes, real live paratroops, gentlemen, think of that--are combing the fells for the wicked Plague Dogs, all armed to the balls. And he'll probably be here in a minute, along with the B.B.C. television, talking to private soldiers and grinning into cameras. And he knows as much about the blokes as I know about Esquimau Nell--less, I should think.

  "Yesterday afternoon, on the Grey Friar, some bloody man saw a perfectly harmless sheep-dog on a crag and popped off on his own initiative. He missed it, thank God. That dog was rounding up sheep and it belonged to a local farmer who quite rightly played merry hell. One more incident like that and we're all in the shit. The place is stiff with newspaper reporters. Apart from that, you realize that bullets can travel three miles and ricochet off stones and God knows what? Once we get blokes like Private Lawes and Corporal Matthews loosing off at their own sweet will--" He left the sentence unfinished.

  "What's the form then, Major, if someone spots the dogs?" asked Cranmer-Byng.

  "Keep them in sight and inform the section commander, who informs the platoon commander," replied Awdry. "Platoon commanders are authorized to fire in person only if they're absolutely certain that it's safe to do so and that the dogs are beyond doubt the ones we're looking for. Any questions?"

  "Will there be anything for the blokes to eat when they get back here, sir?" asked a platoon commander.

  "Yes, Admin, are laying on a meal for 12:00 hours, but you appreciate that that's dependent on whether some or all of us have got to go chasing from here to Ravenglass or something."

  "Sir."

  "No other questions? O.K., let's get cracking."

  The platoons embussed and departed up and down the valley. John Awdry sat down on the bench under the sycamore tree which stands in the middle of the gravel and accepted a cigarette from the R.S.M.

  "Well, sir, doesn't look like it'll be much longer now," said the R.S.M., "unless the dogs got out of the valley during the night, which 'ardly seems likely. I don't see how a rat could get through that lot. We ought to be back in Catterick by this evening."

  "You're probably right," answered the Major. "I only wish I felt a bit more enthusiasm for the business, that's all."

  "Well, it's not much, but at least it gets the lads out on a real job, sir. They've all been keen enough, in spite of the rain."

  "You feel sorry for the dogs, I expect, Major, don't you?" asked Travers, the H.Q. subaltern. "I know I do."

  "Frankly, yes," said Awdry. "I dislike the whole business of experiments on animals, unless there's some very good and altogether exceptional reason in a particular case. The thing that gets me is that it's not possible for the animals to understand why they're being called upon to suffer. They don't suffer for their own good or benefit at all, and I often wonder how far it's for anyone's. They're given no choice, and there's no central authority responsible for deciding whether what's done in this case or that is morally justifiable. These experimental animals are just sentient objects; they're useful because they're able to react; sometimes precisely because they're able to feel fear and pain. And they're used as if they were electric light bulbs or boots. What it comes to is that whereas there used to be human and animal slaves, now there are just animal slaves. They have no legal rights, and no choice in the matter."

  "Well, of course, those are big questions, sir," said the R.S.M. "But these 'ere two dogs 'ave consumed a dead man's body and goodness knows what."

  "They're animals and they were starving," said the Major, throwing his cigarette away and rising to his feet. "They can still suffer, can't they?"

  "Well, we don't know how much, sir, do we?" said the R.S.M. comfortably.

  "No, not really, but it just occurs to me that creatures living entirely in the immediate present, through their physical senses, may suffer more rather than less intensely than we do. Still, I suppose you may be right about the need to shoot them, sarnt-major--public concern and all that. What I don't like about this particular lark is what you might call the Spartacus set-up."

  "That was a film, wasn't it, sir? About ancient Rome?"

  "Well, the film was a lot of balls, really," said John Awdry. "The real Spartacus was a bloke who led a slave rising in ancient Italy and got away with it for a bit because there didn't happen to be an adequate Roman force in the country at the time. They had to bring an army back from Spain. But my point is that in the event these slaves, whose grouse was that most of them had been brought to Italy against their wills and made to exist entirely for other people's benefit and not their own, hadn't really got a chance. They were ignorant and disorganized. All that happened was that they went wandering about the country until they were smashed up, which is exactly what these dogs have done. Apparently one of them was being drowned in a tank of water every day, or something; so it didn't like it and acted accordingly. And now we're called in to shoot it at a public cost of thousands of pounds. I find that depress
ing. Still, you're right about one thing, Mr. Gibbs. It's bound to be over quite soon now. Where the hell have those R/T blokes got their feet under the table?"

  "In the front dining-room, sir, by invitation of the good lady. She's laid on char and wads for them."

  "Good for her. Well, let's go and see if they're in contact with B and C company signals yet. Look, here come the helicopters. Not long to go now. Let's hope it's over within the hour."

  "They're going to kill us, Rowf. As soon as it's light enough for them to see us."

  "How can you tell?"

  "I don't know, but I'm quite sure they mean to kill us. They're watching us."

  "How can they be? It's still dark."

  "No, I mean the flies. The flies out of my head. They've grown huge--they're circling round and round over the hills. They can talk to the whitecoats. I dreamt it all."

  "You're hungry and tired out. Why don't you go to sleep again?"

  "No, I got nearly half the chicken in spite of you, old Rowf; I'm all right. I wish they hadn't taken the guts out, though. Not half as good as those ones we killed for ourselves, was it? Rowf, it's the last one we'll ever steal. I know that."

  Rowf stood up and looked about him.

  "No, they're not here yet, Rowf. But d'you remember the tobacco man had a little window he used to open and look in at us? They can watch us. They're going to kill us."

  "They'll have their work cut out with me. Thought you said your master was out there?"

  "He is, only he can't--oh, Rowf, I don't know what I meant when I said that. I was dreaming. Don't make it worse!"

  "That's why it's bad for animals. We don't know anything, we don't understand anything. The men could do something for us if they wanted to, but they don't."

  "There are men all round us. It's the mouse--the mouse told me."

  Rowf was about to answer when Snitter threw up his head and howled--a long cry of anguish and fear. Two grouse got up and rocketed off into the darkness. Their rattling calls died away and the silence returned--a silence made up of wind in the ling and the rustling of the sedges covering half the surface of the little, lonely Eel Tarn on the edge of Burnmoor, five hundred feet above the Woolpack.

  "Snitter, where are those men you talk about? They'll hear you--"

  "I'm howling for my death--no, it's for yours, poor old Rowf; yours and the tod's. I can't remember any more what it was he asked me to say to you. I do so wish I could."

  " 'Gan on till the Dark.' Well, the tod's got no more to bother him now."

  "I remember one thing he said. He said, 'It's not the Dark that frightens me, it's their riving teeth.' That's how I feel, too. I hope it won't hurt."

  Snitter paused, nose in the wind. Suddenly he said, "We've finished being wild animals. That's all finished. So we'll go down now."

  "But it's lonely here--safer."

  "The flies would see us anyway, as soon as it's light. So we'll go down."

  "I won't go back in the tank! I won't go back in the tank! Rowf! Rowf!"

  The wind strengthened across the moor, driving the clouds eastward before it. Snitter began to move slowly away upwind, westward down the course of the little outfall from the Eel Tarn. Rowf followed reluctantly. Soon they came to the Brockshaw Beck, and thence to the big Whillan Beck pouring down off the moor to join the Esk below Boot. Stone walls and sheepfolds loomed up about them in the dark and a solitary light shone out from the village half a mile below. Snitter held on his way, following the Whillan Beck down into the valley.

  "Snitter, where on earth are we going?"

  "There's a gully that leads into a drain under the floor. The mouse says we've got to find it. It's that or nothing now."

  On they went, downward, down the course of the noisy beck in spate. Rowf could hear, somewhere beyond them in the dark waste, the rising, bubbling cry of a curlew and the whirring of a snipe disturbed from the bog.

  "You say we aren't wild animals any more?"

  "I don't think we were very good at it really, do you? Only when we had the poor tod."

  "I know. If I were really a wild animal, I'd leave you now, Snitter. Wherever are you taking us?"

  "We've got to be down the gully before daybreak."

  "But, Snitter, what gully?"

  "I don't know. Oh, look, Rowf, the stones are dancing! D'you remember the white stuff falling out of the sky?"

  They clicked and pattered their way through Boot, watched only by the cats on the walls. Once, when a rat ran across the road Rowf, fearful and subdued, let it escape unchased between the stones of the wall. First light was coming into the east and the crinkled summit of Harter Fell showed plainly against the dawn. When they reached the road that leads down the valley, Snitter broke into a run and Rowf followed him, the wound in his neck throbbing as his pulse beat faster with fear.

  "Snitter, this is a road, do you realize? Men, cars, lorries--"

  "It's very close," muttered Snitter. "The gully's very close now." As though following a scent, he laid his nose to the ground and ran on.

  And now the terrified Rowf could hear plainly the sound of a car approaching behind them. As it grew closer he dashed across to the wall on the opposite side of the road.

  "Quick, Snitter, over the wall!"

  Snitter jumped the wall after him, his short legs scrabbling at the top before he cleared it and dropped down on the other side. The car drove past. Rowf, lying in a clump of withered goose-grass, docks and dead sorrel, looked about him.

  A little way off, a broad strip of the ground was oddly black and granular, and along this some strange-looking metal lines went stretching away into the distance. On these was standing what looked like a row of small, painted carts--or at any rate, wheeled, wooden contraptions not unlike carts--some with roofs and others open to the sky. Beyond them, Rowf could make out a flat, concrete platform in front of what looked like sheds. But all was deserted. There were no men, there was no noise, no paper, no smell of tobacco: only, from somewhere in the distance, a hissing of steam and odour of coal-smoke.

  Rowf looked back at Snitter and was appalled to see him curled up under the wall, conspicuous as a plover, apparently in the act of falling asleep. He reached him in one bound.

  "Snitter, what in death's name d'you think you're doing? You can't stay there! Get up!"

  "I'm tired, Rowf--very tired. The mouse says go to sleep now."

  "To blazes with the mouse! Do you know where we are? We're in an open field, in full view--"

  "I'm tired, Rowf. I wish you and the tod hadn't pulled me out of my head that day. I might have found out--"

  Rowf bit him in the leg, and he stood up slowly and dazedly, as though roused not by pain but rather by hunger or some distant noise. Scarcely able to restrain himself from flight, Rowf urged and bullied him forward until, as they came up to the line of wooden carts-strange they seemed, on their metal wheels, like little rooms or pens, with benches inside--Snitter, of his own accord, made his way up on the concrete platform and there lay down once more. It was at this moment that Rowf heard the unmistakable sound, only a few yards away behind the sheds, of a man's boots on gravel, and caught a whiff of cigarette smoke.

  "Snitter, there's a man coming! Come on, get in there, quick! Yes, there, under the bench, seat, whatever it is--right to the back!"

  Agonizingly slowly, Snitter obeyed. Rowf, following, had just time to flatten his shaggy belly on the boards and crawl under the wooden seat as a man in blue overalls came round the corner of the shed and, with a scraping of nailed boots on the concrete, passed within three feet of them on his way up the platform.

  "Driver Orator."

  It was still dark. Digby Driver had a headache. He had not cleaned his teeth the night before, there was a foul taste in his mouth and he was busting for a pee.

  "It's Ted Springer here, Kevin, of the Meteor. Aren't you blessing me, eh? I can hear you are! Listen, boy, I'm doing you a good turn, that's what. The dogs turned up late last night in Eskdale."

/>   "Eskdale? Where the hell's that, Ted?"

  "North-west of Dunnerdale. The Paras have moved in already. They're going to start combing out the whole valley as soon as it's light this morning. Thought you'd like to know. Now aren't I a nice bloke? The things we do for England, eh? Don't forget me next time you run into something good, will you?"

  "You're a pal, Ted. Thanks a lot. I'm on my way. See you down there."

  Digby Driver crossed the landing and returned, rinsed out his mouth, put a Polo mint into it, huddled on his clothes and duffle-coat and made his way down into the hall. There was no one about. Thank Christ it wasn't freezing, anyway. As he was pulling on the muddy gum-boots which he had left in the umbrella-stand (wrought iron, circa 1890), the post came through the letter-box with a stuffing, a scuffling and a papery scraping, and flumped on the mat. From somewhere in the lower regions a warm, well-fed house-dog barked to hear it. Digby Driver had his hand on the Yale latch and was about to open the door when one of the letters caught his eye. It was addressed, in no hand-writing that he recognized, simply to Digby Driver, London Orator Reporter in the Lake District. He picked it up. The postmark was five days old. Someone had endorsed it Try Dunnerdale in violet ink, and below this someone else had written, in red ink, Try Coniston.

  He shook it and bent it. It was thin, light and entirely pliant. It was evidently not a bomb.

  Digby Driver sat down on the hall settle and split open the envelope.

  "Well, here we are in Eskdale and it's perfectly possible--indeed, it's more than likely--that we're going to be in on the last act of this tremendous drama of the Plague Dogs, who've had the whole Lake District by the ears--yes, I said by the ears, ha ha--for several weeks past. I'm William Williamson of the B.B.C., of course, as I expect you know, and with me here is Major Aubrey, of the Paratroops--oh, sorry, Awdry, is it? Little Audrey laughed and laughed, no relation, eh, oh well, we're all disappointed, I'm sure. And Major Awdry is in command of this very necessary and exciting operation to find and shoot these dogs, who've been putting on a sort of wild west cattle-rustling act up and down these beautiful Lake District hills ever since they escaped from their Coniston Research Station six weeks ago. Now what's it feel like, Major, to be in command of a show like this?"