Legend's Pet

Chapter twelve: Greta

My first winter was dark, disorienting, and frigid. Every morning I was woken up by the cracking sound of the pilots scraping ice from the wings of their planes. This would go on for a long time, hours even. When Manfred went flying he left me locked in one of the airfield's small buildings where it was cold and dismal but out of the wind. When the pilots came back for the day, their faces would always be chapped and red from the cold. Sometimes lying by the one fireplace in the barracks, where they dried off their jackets and got warm, I would hear them talking in somber voices about what they saw from the ground -- soldiers in ragged uniforms, covered in frozen mud, staring up at the planes. Some of the Germans had tried to cheer, but many were too sick and weak.

Every day I longed for my summer life in Ostend -- when Manfred, Georg, Max, and I were together, when the trenches weren't just a few miles away, when I had a real home, not just one airfield after another. But Manfred never mentioned our time there.

While I was in it, it felt like winter wouldn't end. But it finally did, and I could play outside again, in the mud, woods, and wildflowers. I was usually all alone, but sometimes in the morning Manfred would come too. He'd find a stick to throw for me, and I'd bring it back. But right when he was about to take it from me, I ran off and hid behind a small tent where I knew he'd never find me. Then I'd act surprised when he chased after me, and I'd plop down on my side with a grin. It was almost like having Max to play with but it only lasted a few minutes until he put on his flying clothes and a serious face and left me by myself again.

. . .

Like a flock of migrating birds, we traveled to many places that spring and summer -- our groups separating, transferring, and in the end forming one big clump again. It was a bustling complicated year -- impossible to remember perfectly. One day I could be in Russia while Manfred flew on the eastern front; the next in northern France watching while the trenches were dug deeper and the sky filled with streaks of smoke.

Manfred grew in popularity at the camps. He made many new friends. Some of them I knew well too, like Erwin in particular. He was older than most of the pilots, in his late thirties, with dark hair and a weathered face. If Oswald Boelcke was around, they would stay close together. And Oswald always wanted to hear Erwin's stories. He would tell Oswald and his other friends stories of the adventures he had gone on, from climbing high mountains in the Alps to working in Africa. I always listened too and was sad that the war had dragged him back here -- to crowded barracks and dark train station platforms.

Manfred too, by this time had stories himself to tell. He had shot down a couple of planes in the summer, I knew. But much to his annoyance, he hadn't been officially credited for them because they'd crashed down in the wrong places. Unlike Manfred, these victories didn't really matter to me. At every camp I came to I looked around for Max and Georg, but never with any luck.

As the end of summer came, everything seemed to slow down like a train pulling into a station. Most of the days were sunny and good for flying, so I was left alone much of the time and always in need of friends. Max, Georg, someone new? Soon I would get some of my wishes.

. . .

The past few days had been grey and filled with a constant drizzle of raindrops. The ground was waterlogged and muddy and most pilots in our current squadron, or jasta, commanded by Oswald Boelcke, were inside tents or the buildings to stay out of the rain. But I liked the cool ground and played in the wet grass. That is when I noticed the new tents that had popped up about a half a mile in the distance. Maybe Max is there, I thought as I took off across the wet grass.

Standing, outside of one of the tents was a dog, but not Max. She was small and white-furred with a pointy snout and a plume of a tail that curled over her back -- a spitz. At first glance, she seemed the type of dainty dog that could be seen following at the heels of a noblewoman, but when she stalked closer I realized I was mistaken. Her white fur was covered in mud and stringy from the moist air. Her eyes were cold and almost expressionless. When she saw me coming she barked a shrill, fierce bark. She narrowed her eyes and charged off farther into her own camp. "Wait!" I called.
But she was gone. I was about to go run back the way I came when I heard a sound that I at first thought was an airplane landing. I glanced around but saw none. Instead I saw a motorcycle covered in flecks of mud, speeding up towards me. Riding the motorcycle was a teen boy. At least I guessed he was -- he looked younger than the others. He had messy brown hair and wore a peaked cap and a grimy, ragged coat. Standing precariously on one of his knees, a look of satisfaction in her eyes, was the dog from before.
"Greta!" the dog's master said. "How many times do you have to come running at me, barking for no good reason? What is it?"
The dog named Greta pointed her nose towards me.

"Just another dog?" he said. "From the way you were yapping I would have thought it was an English spy instead."

Greta jumped from the motorcycle as her master rode away again.

"Who are you anyway?" she asked. "What are you doing here in my territory?"

"I'm Moritz," I replied. "Manfred von Richthofen is my master."
"You're a fancy mutt, aren't you?" she said. "I'm Werner Voss's dog, Greta. Sorry for barking at you and all that. You just don't know who's a friend or an enemy these days."
"Yeah, I guess so," I said.

"Well," Greta barked, "I'm going to go find him again."

As Greta turned she looked back at me. "Hey, Moritz, do you want to be friends?"

"Okay," I said, wagging my tail a bit. In all my time traveling around that year I hadn't found another dog to be friends with and was happy for the chance.

"Good," Greta said. "It will be nice to know a dog for a change. Humans are fine, I guess, but they can't understand our language."

Greta strode away her head up and her tail wagging. I continued trying to look around for Max, but I didn't see him anywhere.