HEROIC DOGS.

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 56, Issue 211, 19 June 1936, Page 6

HEROIC DOGS.

LOVE FOR MASTERS. G-ALLANT RESCUE WORK. ’ “Fire!” they: shouted in the Boston street. And out of the burning apart-ment-house there stumbled, halfdressed, the menz women and children who had awakened with the pungent smoke in'their nostrils and the dread crackle of the flames in their ears. Among them was a blind man, led to safety by his sheep dog, Bruce, who guided him by his trouser-leg. The incident passed almost unnoticed among the excited crowd gathered outside the house, writes R. N. Walling in 3. London journal. Then, as the firemen ran out their hoses, from the blazing inferno stumbled a woman, mother of an up—stairs family. Two small= children clung to her arms—yet, letting them go as soon as they were clear of the house, she made as if to turn back herself. Firemen stopped her. Struggling frantically, her face transfixed with terror and anguish, the woman screamed: “My baby!” Her youngest child, a mere infant, momentarily forgotten in the first terrified scramble, was trapped inside. There seemed no hope of saving the infant. But Bruce, the sheep—dog, urged on by his master, who was aware, like everyone else, of the child’s awful fate, dashed to the rescue. Saved frOm Inferno. .The Sheepdog emerged just two mlnutes later. His coat was aflame, he was suffering agonies fro burns, particularly round the right eye, which subsequently he lost—but the baby hung in its tiny nightgown from his teeth, miraculously alive and unhrut. . Another canine hero was Bouncer, a retriever attached to a battalion of the Royal Fusiliers during the Great War. He really merited the V.C. Out in No Man’s Land, Bouncer knew as he trotted beside a sentry one dark night, his master was “scouting.” The fusilier had told him so, and also murmured: “I won’t be long, old chap.” From the gloom appeared. a shadowy, . mud-spattered figure. The fusilier was‘ returning. Then suddenly the familiar? rattat—tat of a machine—gun broke the stillness. There was a groan, and the lfnsilier had fallen just fifteen yards i from his own line, but it might just as ‘ well have been half a mile, for the rattat—tat went on, rising to a crescendo. Death swept the air; death to anyone who ventured over the top just then. Bouncer gave one short, sharp bark. The sentry tightened his grip on the lead, but Bouncer pulled, broke free, and was gone. “Poor dog!” murmured the sentryn—and waited, hoping that the firing would cease and give him 0 I‘someone else a chance to help. But it did not relax. ...:ms Never Let Go, . Out there, the fallen fusili'er, gasp—ing painfully from his wounds, felt a hot tongue lick his cheek, strong teeth grip his collar. “Back sir—back!” he said fiercely, as he realised what was happening. But fo ronce Bouncer did not heed his master’s command. Instead, he tugged. . Maud and animal found themselves moving slowly, an inch or two at a time, over the torn-up ground. Now the fusilier dropped his protests and helped the dog in his brave task as much as he could. . _ _ A _

Ages paxsed, it seemed}. The firing went on. Two 01' three times the dog gave a chokmg sound, but never once 'eleubed hi.) grip. XVhen, later, the two fell in a heap into the British trenches. they found that Bouncer, too, had been hit—in three places. Happily both dog and master survived“.