Chapter Text
Withers did not particularly know why it was Bill Fraser he chose to follow. There were any number of humans in Egypt that could have lavished him with treats and attention until he was too fat and content to move. He very well could’ve shacked up with any army kitchen, only he’d just seen Johnny Cooper sneaking out of the one in this camp, which preluded the kind of trouble not conducive to Terriers.
Withers quite liked the army camp on the edge of the Suez, with all sorts of business happening at all sorts of hours. Here; a group of men jogged past, sweating and puffing. There; a fellow barked at a group of men unloading supplies from a truck. Over Here; the men of the SAS growled and spat at one another. But it was Bill he was after, who’d just given him a rubbish command that Withers did not feel like following.
He sighted Bill finally as he ducked into a tent. Withers rushed after him, barking to make his arrival known. Bill turned at the end of a row of chairs, looking sternly down at him.
“I asked you very politely to stay in the truck.”
Withers wagged his tail as he sat down at Bill’s feet, announcing with a stamp of his paw and a gentle huff that they both knew it was ridiculous. After all, he was far more useful here, keeping an eye on Bill, than snoring in some dusty truck. Bill sighed, gesturing to a chair. He knelt in the grass as Withers leapt up, so that they were eye to eye, and lay his hands gently on Withers’ shoulders.
“Withers, you’re going to have to get used to not being with me.”
Withers cocked his head at the sad tone of his voice, as Bill ran his hands through his fur and scratched behind his ears. He was well used to his man being stern, and quiet, but he was never sad when Withers was around.
“Okay,” Bill said sternly, “better tell it to you straight before the others get here. You can’t come with me to Europe. We’ve been given orders, and we are shipping out. I found a family that will take you in.”
Withers whined. He didn’t like being told he couldn’t do something. He was a Terrier! They could do anything.
“I have no choice,” Bill continued. And then, pointedly, “That’s an official secret, so don’t tell anyone. But we are shipping out tomorrow.” Bill shook his head sadly, “Destination unknown. It’s a big ship at first, then lots of small boats; tiny boats, 12 men each, no room for a dog.”
Withers snorted, which made Bill smile, exactly the kind of reaction he wanted to see.
“If you want the truth, I think it’s a suicide mission… will you stop looking at me like that?”
Withers whined, and continued his pleading look. He was very good at it. Growing up a street dog in Cairo had been a tough start, but he had been smart enough to learn what behaviours guaranteed food, and what behaviours guaranteed rocks or kicks thrown his way.
“Look, three days from now, I’ll probably be lying in a slick of my own blood, somewhere in the Mediterranean.”
He smoothed Withers’ ears back, and kissed the end of his nose. It was as good an invitation as any to launch into licking all over his face. Bill laughed, holding him in place on the chair before Withers could start climbing up his shoulders.
“If you stay here,” Bill said, laughing, “there's goats meat. Plus, they’ll let you eat all the lizards you can catch!”
“If it’s easier, I could shoot him for you,” said a rough, growling voice from his left.
Bill, looking over his shoulder, stonily replied, “Or I could shoot you.”
Though he wasn’t partial to those over the rank of lieutenant, Withers had a rather high opinion of Paddy Mayne, who himself was so doglike he was easier to read than most other men. Had he hackles, proper ears, and a tail, they probably would’ve gotten on famously. Perhaps that was why he liked Bill so much. He was as good at reading Paddy as he was Withers.
Paddy looked down at the dog and raised his lip, only slightly, the barest flash of his blunt white teeth. Though we share a common cause, the gesture said, I do not want to be your friend.
Bill stood up slowly, and expecting action, Withers leapt down after him. But the two men only stood shoulder to shoulder, looking at the roof of the tent for a moment.
“There’ll be dogs in Sicily,” Paddy said bluntly, handing Bill a stack of paper.
“Sicily?”
Paddy growled, and grumbled something about secrets that Withers didn’t listen to. He was more preoccupied with trying to take one of the bits of paper Bill had, in case it was interesting. Bill ordered Withers back up onto his chair.
“If you want me to talk to the dog,” Paddy said, “I talk dog.”
Bill scratched behind Withers’ ears.
“No, I have already explained everything to him, sir. The problem is, I think he thinks that he is in charge of us.”
Paddy laughed, the sound far more coarse and bitter than when Bill did. “Well pretty soon you will wish it was him in charge and not me.”
“I already do.”
Bill returned to stand by the chair Withers was sitting on, and the three of them looked around the quiet tent.
“Are we on time or early?” Paddy asked.
“On time.”
The Major made an incredulous noise, “So where the fuck is everybody?”
The men did eventually file in, as noisy and boisterous as a pack of dogs themselves. Bill took a seat next to Withers, and on his other side was a new chap that Withers had not made much of an acquaintance to. Mayne gave a long, sonorous speech that Withers didn’t listen to, too busy watching birds flit over the canal just a few yards away. It wasn’t until Paddy strode up and snapped at the young Englishman that Withers realised the goings on in the tent were probably more interesting than what was happening outside it. Moments later, the Englishman’s pipe went sailing out of the tent, buoyed by the hoots and jeers from within until it rolled to a stop in he grass.
“I told you not to smoke that camel-shite around me,” Paddy barked.
In the way of humans, or perhaps just the men of the SAS, the conversation soon devolved into them snarling and howling at one another. Withers joined in, though Bill tried to hush him.
Crack!
Bill’s fingers tightened around Withers’ chest. The whole tent quieted and looked up at Paddy, who holstered his pistol.
“One minute from now,” he said seriously, “a Lieutenant Colonel is going to walk into this tent, and brief you about tomorrow, which might well be your last day on earth. The nature of our role in this war has changed, and I have agreed to that change. That sign up there,” he pointed above the men’s heads, “‘Fuck off SAS’, could’ve been written by General Montgomery himself.”
“It was actually catering,” Bill muttered.
“Aye, well, the sentiment on high is the same.”
Paddy looked around the tent, saying something about dogs that Withers didn’t listen to. He could hear approaching footsteps from behind them.
“Sit up!” Snapped a new voice from the back of the tent, “Come to attention!”
Withers looked over the back of his chair to see a well dressed Lieutenant Colonel stepping into the shade. Commanding Officers did not rank as highly on the scale of things to guard Bill against as much as enemy planes or lizards did, but he still did not like them. The man continued to march down the aisle even as Withers barked at him. “Always trust the judgement of a dog,” muttered Bill, as the stranger got in front of them.
“What did you say?”
Bark!
“Nothing.”
Bark! Bark!
“It was my dog, saying hello to you.”
There was scattered laughter throughout the tent as the man joined Paddy at the table.
“Gentlemen,” Paddy said slowly, “this is Lieutenant Colonel William Stirling.”
Bark!
“The less famous brother to the brother we made famous.”
Bark!
Stirling looked around the men, his eyes falling on Withers. Withers growled at him.
“Please have the dog removed, Paddy,” Stirling said sourly, but not low enough for Withers to not overhear. It was remarkable how often humans forgot how good a dog's hearing was.
“Do you want all the dogs in here removed, sir?” Paddy asked, “Because there are 35 of us.”
Stirling nodded like he’d gotten a joke but didn’t find it at all funny. He wasn’t smiling. “Just quiet him down then.”
Bill pulled Withers onto his lap, hushing him while some of the other men let out a mocking “Woof, Woof!”
Withers heard Stirling sigh.
The men had barely settled down before Johnny Cooper was standing back up again, pointing outside the tent.
“There’s a fucking rat,” he said, disgusted.
Bill’s hand tightened on Wither’s collar, even as Kershaw stood up, saying “Mind yourself!”
With the loud crack! of his pistol, the rat flopped down dead. Kershaw ducked out of the tent and returned with the rat, showing it off just as proudly as Withers did when he caught vermin. The little dog was pleased to know that all his hunting demonstrations were finally paying off.
Stirling did not look as impressed as everyone else, waiting for them to finally quiet down before he continued. Withers found him very boring to listen to, and being cuddled up to Bill’s chest was very comfortable. Though the animosity coming from the other men was still present, Withers found he did much care. After all, Bill was right there, exactly where Withers could look after him. Despite the occasional jeering mutter or laugh from behind them, he found himself dozing. It was hard work, of course, looking after humans. They always seemed to be getting into trouble.
Withers was dreaming about rats when Bill roused him, picking him up and carrying him under his arm while Withers yawned. The tent was emptying, Stirling and Mayne gone, the rest of the men filing out into the afternoon sun.
“I wish I could get away with sleeping through these meetings,” Johnny said, ruffling Withers’ ears as he was carried past.
“Just tell ‘em you have fleas, Johnny,” Kershaw said, “they’ll let you off the hook.”
“That’s not how that works,” Johnny argued.
“He doesn’t have fleas,” Bill said stonily, and Withers huffed in agreement. Just last week, Bill had scrubbed him in the shallows of the canal with a bar of soap until Withers was certain there wouldn’t be a hair left on his body. Something to do with how he smelled, though Withers had no complaints. He had smelled of Egypt; the dirt, Cairo, the sand, a bit of dried and gristly dead goat. He’d smelled like the desert, as all desert dogs should, something Withers was certain Paddy Mayne would agree with.
Bill set him down outside the tent, where Withers yawned and stretched in the afternoon sun. There was a lazy air to the camp now that the heat of the day had settled in. Johnny was squinting at the sun and muttering as Bill and Withers set off back to where they were billeted. A few men had already devolved to formless sleeping masses in the shade of the low tent, and Withers could hear flies buzzing somewhere between himself and the canvas roof. A serious discussion about rugby was happening in what marginal patches of shade existed outside, as Bill sat Withers and himself in the back of the truck. Bill was mending a hole in his pack, not a particularly interesting job. Withers watched the rugby game, waiting for his opportunity to strike.
It came a few minutes later, when he was getting bored. The discussion turned into a lecture, and the demonstrations took on a new and more physical intensity. The ball lay forgotten at their feet. Withers leapt down from the truck, grabbed the ball, and took off as fast as his little legs could carry him. It was a well used, half-flattened piece of leather; a hand-me-down of regiments past each time someone shipped out of the camp, and easy for a small dog like himself to grab. He didn’t go a great distance; ducking and weaving and racing as the men chased after him. He looped around the tent, and then around the truck, racing back through the rabble of men as they tried to pen him in, before dashing underneath a different truck and out of reach, where he lay until someone tried to wiggle underneath with him. Then, he dashed back out into the sun. Around the crates the men had been using for shade, and into the home stretch back to Bill when he suddenly became weightless, hoisted off the ground.
“Got you! You little bugger!”
Withers hung in the Englishman’s hands for a moment before he began to twist and thrash, squirming like an eel.
“Oh lay off him Tonkin,” Kershaw said, puffing, “he’s only having fun.”
“You like it when he steals things?”
“He’s SAS, lad, we’d be disappointed if he didn’t steal things.”
“Fraser, can we have our ball back?” Johnny asked, trying to jam his fingers between Withers’ teeth. He thrashed the ball around for good measure, and then found himself hanging from his teeth as Tonkin let him go. Johnny hoisted him up and down in the air by the rugby ball while Withers twisted and growled playfully. When Bill appeared in his periphery, Withers gave the ball a final violent kill shake and let go. Dropping to the ground, he immediately leapt up at Bill, barking. He didn’t particularly know what rugby was, only that it was a fairly sorry method of play-hunting. How would they ever learn if he didn’t show them?
Despite the rather poor showing of hunting ability, humans were very good at having food available almost all the time. Withers had very quickly learnt the sound of the dinner bell, and led the way when it rang out over the quiet harbour air. Men streamed in and out of the mess tent, spilling out onto the short, baked grass when there were no more chairs. Above them, in the hazy dusk air, swallows flitted, the whirring of the wings like miniature engines, their chirping the rattle of miniature guns. Withers dashed around after them, weaving between boots, barking at the sky as the tiny fighters snatched up insects.
He found the SAS crammed around a section of tables with barely enough room to lift their arms. Bill was sitting at the end of the row, staring grimly at his plate. When Withers arrived, putting his paws on Bill’s knee and trying to sniff the bowl, Bill handed him two big chunks of gristly goat meat.
He had been told regularly how lucky it was that he was such a small dog, and didn’t need much feeding. Withers wasn’t totally sure what the complaint was, they clearly had enough for all these dozens and dozens of men. Given the chance he would’ve sat up at the table and been served a bowl amongst them. The few times he’d tried had garnered mostly complaints, so Withers had resorted to other, sometimes more effective methods.
He licked Kershaw’s shin, but apart from flinching in surprise, he didn’t drop anything. Once, he’d given a startled yelp and dropped a whole piece of chicken. Withers had not forgotten.
The few other men who he had marked as soft touches didn’t yield much of anything, so Withers picked out a new target. He didn’t know the big Scotsman they called McDairmid very well, being that he was a new addition, but had quickly discovered that McDairmid always had food with him. Withers didn’t know how, or why, but his nose had never let him down.
He trotted around to the end of the table where McDairmid was sitting, and put a paw on his boot. The Scotsman looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
“Can I help you?” he asked, as Withers wagged his tail.
McDairmid looked up and locked eyes with Bill for a handful of seconds. His big hand dropped down to scratch Withers behind the ears. A well practised pleading look also won him a hard, half-stale bit of bread, which he carried back to Bill with his tail held high.
“If you’d asked, I would’ve given you something else,” Bill said, stroking Withers’ back as he lay down over his boots. “No need to go begging.”
“He has a fine taste for company, is all,” McDairmid said with his mouth full.
“Sure,” Withers heard Bill say dryly under the clack of cutlery and tin cups.
Bill finished well before the others, and he and Withers excused themselves. Back in the tent, Bill read from his book while Withers stalked lizards. When he was tired of the game, he leapt up into Bill’s cot, immediately being displaced when Bill got up again to make himself ready for the night. Most humans, like dogs, liked their routines, and Bill was especially particular about his.
Waiting for him to come back, Withers dug about on the cot to make it comfortable. He was partial to sleeping wherever was available, but humans were very specific about where they lay down at night. When Bill reappeared, he had the cot worked out just about right, and waited for Bill to get comfortable before Withers tucked himself around the lieutenant’s head and neck, head over his heart.