Free The Dog Who Could Fly by Damien Lewis Page B

with those in the runaway part of the train fearing that they had been abandoned. How could the drivers know that the rear section had become uncoupled? Fortunately, the train’s conductor had been alerted, and once the runaway train came to a standstill the errant cars were reattached.
    But their onward progress was dogged by delays. An axle snapped, and they were forced to stop for repairs. There were frequent halts due to air-raid warnings—for a train steaming at speed would make an irresistible target for marauding German warplanes. They also seemed to stop at every station—not that the train was capable of accommodating any more of the desperate people who thronged the platforms. Finally they reached a section of track that had suffered such serious bomb damage as to make it impassable, and long hours were spent repairing it.
    In three days they covered just sixty miles. Progress was barely faster than walking pace, and all the while they feared being overtaken by the German forces at their rear. The nine airmen had been reduced to a starvation diet by now: all they had to feed themselves and their dog were a few tins of sardines and bars of chocolate. Ant was becoming listless due to the lack of proper food: his eyes had dulled, his nose had gone dry and flaky, and his coat was losing its customary luster.
    After a twenty-hour delay for no discernible reason in the midst of a town, it was almost a relief to come to a halt in open countryside due to yet another air-raid warning. Pushing the door open to let in some fresh air, Robert spotted a herd of cows grazing nearby. He seized the opportunity.
    “Come on, chaps,” he called. “Here’s our chance to get some milk. Ant, stay.”
    The airmen needed little encouragement, not least because their beloved canine companion looked to be in such a bad way. The Belgian woman fished around in her bags and pulled out a baby’s bottle, which she said would be ideal for feeding Ant the cow’s milk. But the herd was understandably wary at the sight of nine wild-eyed airmen dashing toward them, hunger burning in their eyes. Their attempt to corral the cattle only caused a stampede. Just one of the beasts failed to join the mad dash away from the direction of the train. She strolled over to the hedge, stood ruminating for a moment, and was cornered.
    But the question was, who would milk her? In Czechoslovakia, milking was considered woman’s work and none of the men knew what to do. Urged on by the others, Robert tried his hand. Four of his comrades held the cow, two at the head and two at the rear, as he positioned the bottle directly beneath the udder. But no matter how he might pull on her teats, he failed to coax a single drop of milk from them.
    Laughter came from behind a nearby hedge. Two elderly Frenchwomen were watching the performance in something close to astonishment.
    “She’s the grandmother of the herd,” announced one, stifling a giggle. “She’s dry! Her milking days are long gone.”
    Then her friend spotted the bottle and seemed to take pity on them. “Oh, is it for the baby you need the milk? Wait, we have plenty for a little one.”
    She held out her hand for the baby’s bottle, which Robert passed across to her wordlessly. She vanished into a nearby cottage and reappeared holding it aloft, brimful of milk. She had filled a wine bottle with some more and sealed it with a stopper. Back in the train car, Robert offered Ant the bottle, having first squeezed out a few drops onto the rubber nipple. The dog took one sniff, his eyesbrightened, and he began to suck greedily. Robert felt a flood of relief wash over him.
    So a pattern was established. Whenever the train stopped, Robert had only to show the baby’s bottle at the doorway of the cattle car for some kindly soul to fill it. Anyone who inquired after the infant’s welfare was left with the impression that “baby Antoine” was bearing up admirably under the circumstances.
    The milk proved a