Free The Dog Who Could Fly by Damien Lewis

darkness by the time seven Czechs, two Frenchmen, and a German shepherd joined the column of refugees heading south. Two men pulled on the cart’s shafts, and seven pushed from behind. As for Ant, he rode atop the heap of suitcases and gear, looking as proud as an Indian raja with his nine bearers around him.
    They had resolved to head not for Tours, as the adjutant had suggested, but for the smaller town of Blois, on the Loire, which was closer. There was precious little time if they were going to beat the Germans to it, but if they succeeded they should be able to take a train from there to the southern coast. The south of France had yet to be occupied by the enemy, and there were rumors of evacuations being organized from the Mediterranean ports. Allied soldiers fleeing the German advance were being urged to get there as quickly as possible.
    But the progress of the cart, first on crowded roads, then on rutted tracks, was anything but swift. Every time it tilted, Ant clawed furiously at the suitcases but rarely could he keep his balance. He tumbled off repeatedly and whined miserably when he was lifted back on. Not yet fully grown, the puppy didn’t have the energy or the endurance to make the journey on foot. He would have to ride the cart or be left behind. Nerves frayed with each delay and for the first time Ant became a source of division among the men.
    “This is no bloody good,” the hotheaded Ludva snorted as Ant fell yet again. “At this speed we’ll all see the firing squad before morning.”
    When Ant tumbled from the cart for the umpteenth time and howled out in pain, Vlasta’s composure deserted him. “He’s not hurt—he just wants to be carried! The enemy patrols will hear him. We’ve got to get rid of him.”
    Without a word Robert scooped up the gangly pup and tucked him protectively under one arm while continuing to push the trap with the other. He was determined to carry Ant all the way to England if necessary. The dog’s whining ceased, and after a few minutes Uncle Vlasta fell into step beside Robert.
    He glanced across at him, sheepishly, then down at the dog. “Sorry about that . . . I don’t know what got into me.”
    “Forget it,” Robert replied. As for Ant, he turned his soft eyes on Vlasta and nuzzled his arm. “See.” Robert smiled. “Ant’s forgiven you already, so there’s no harm done.”
    Without another word Vlasta took the puppy from his master, hoisted him onto his broad shoulders in a fireman’s lift, and carried him for the next hour or more, after which another of the airmen took his place carrying the dog.
    It was well after midnight when they heard the sound of a railway engine pulling out of a nearby station. It looked as if they’d just missed one of the last trains heading south. They roused the stationmaster by hurling stones at his shuttered window, only for him to confirm somewhat grumpily that there would be no more trains that night. He seemed deeply suspicious of their party. It was hardly surprising in a country that was rife with collaborators, turncoats, and quislings.
    Pierre explained that they were French airmen fleeing the Boche, and that the enemy was close on their tail. If they had to spend the remainder of the night waiting for a train, it might well prove the death of them. The stationmaster seemed finally to relent. He directed them to a short stretch of track two miles farther on, where he thought they might find one of the last trains preparing to steam south—that’s if their luck held.
    The airmen pressed on into the night, heaving the cart over muddy ruts and rough ground, their exhaustion temporarily forgotten in the chase after this elusive night train. Behind them they could hear the growls of heavy engines in the distance and the odd burst of gunfire as the German panzers ground onward. It was deeply ominous.
    They were on the verge of giving up hope when Ant’s hypersensitive hearing detected something. He leaped off the