The Witness: A World War II Canine Story

Dedication:

To William Patton, the dog of General George Patton, and to the dog that was indeed with General Patton on that fateful day, to whatever happened to him: Be at peace.

COPYRIGHT, ANNE HENDRICKS, DUNDEE SHORT STORIES, 2025

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My life was defined by duty, starch, and the smell of high-grade German wool. My name is Jäger. I am a liver-spotted pointer, bred for precision and patience. Before the collapse, I belonged to an Oberst who smelled of excellent cognac and absolute command. He was a tyrant, but he was clean.

I became American property months ago by design, not surrender. Major General Hobart R. Gay captured my Oberst. I remember that moment clearly.

Vividly: Gay stood over the defeated German, his uniform pristine, smelling of sharp cologne and quiet ruthlessness. He pointed to me and said, "That dog's pedigree is wasted on a prisoner. It's mine." The transaction was immediate and emotionless.

Since then, I have been assigned to Captain Miller, a jittery American officer who smelled mostly of nervous ambition and cheap tobacco, and who uses me primarily for miserable, cold-weather hunting expeditions. Miller’s fear was a constant, unpleasant tang on the air. I had served the collapsing Reich, and now I endured this weak successor.

General Gay snapped, "Make sure that damn dog is brought for hunting with the General, understand? We'll be ready to have you follow early!" Captain Miller agreed quickly. I knew I would go hunting today.

It was December, and the world was cold. We travelled in an open jeep—a rattling, metallic torture box. The wind was a solid, cruel thing that knifed through my coat, and I huddled against the spare tire, dreaming of the General’s warmth.

Miller was on edge. He took me out for the "Big General," the top American commander. Around the barracks, the air was tense with quick, hushed conversations. I recognized that feeling: high stakes, high anxiety.

We waited at a railway crossing. The air was a clean, frozen sheet. Then, I heard it: a deep, powerful engine rumble, far too smooth for a war machine. The black Cadillac appeared, enormous, gleaming like a polished obsidian statue against the grey sky. It smelled of fine leather, the sharp sting of military starch, and something else—a complex, unique scent that told me everything: Power, Authority, and Old Money. This was the scent of the General.

The black car slowed to cross the tracks. I was shivering violently, trying to burrow deeper into the jeep's canvas. The deep voice boomed, cutting through the cold like a cannon shot. It wasn't angry, not exactly, but it was commanding, demanding instant action.

“Goddammit, Hap, look at that poor devil. He’s freezing his ass off! Pull this damn thing over, Woodring! That’s an order!”

The driver, Woodring, who smelled like worry, slammed the brakes. Captain Miller snapped to attention, saluting the black monster.

The General, an imposing man whose skin smelled of sun and stiff leather, was in the back seat beside another general, Major General Hobart R. Gay, or “Hap.” Gay smelled like fine cologne and sharp calculation.

The General stared at me, his eyes bright and demanding. Then, his face softened—a crack in the granite.

“Get that dog in here, soldier! Don’t let him freeze on my watch.”

Miller, stammering with excitement, lifted me. The General shifted, moving from the front seat back to the rear, clearing the passenger space. His hand, heavy and scarred, but gentle as a field mouse, settled on my flank and lifted me into the glorious cabin.

“That’s better, isn’t it, fella?” His voice lowered, a soft, rumbling vibration in his chest. “You’ve got grit. You remind me of my Willie—tough old bull terrier. You’d like Willie, Pointer. He’s the finest comrade a man could ask for. Absolute loyalty. That’s what matters, damn it. Loyalty and courage. All this political shit after the war… that’s what makes a man sick. But Willie? He’s clean. He’s pure.”

He talked for a long time. I understood the feel of his words. There was deep frustration and exhaustion in his scent, mixed with a defiant, iron will. He spoke of his dog’s fierce snoring, his stubby tail, and how the end of the war felt like a betrayal. He needed to get home. He was tired of the brass and the politics. He was ready for Willie and the rest of his life.

I lay my head on the seat, watching the road, utterly protected. My world had narrowed to the simple joy of the General’s touch. I closed my eyes, comfortable, safe, and truly loved by the best man in Europe.

I also watched Gay, beside the General. He sat unmoving, his scent unchanged—always cologne with a faint, dry hint like powder. He did not speak or react.

The ride was a rhythm of smooth rolling and the General’s soft rumbling narrative. The General had just finished describing Willie’s technique for catching field mice when the rhythm broke.

I tensed, recognizing the smell of rubber and hot brakes. We were near a crossing. The car stopped. Then, the driver, Woodring, surged forward again.

I saw the flash of the Army truck first—a hulking, green beast that smelled of stale gasoline and cheap beer. It was turning, clumsily, right into our path. Woodring braked, but it was too late.

CRUNCH.

It wasn’t a bomb, not a massive detonation. It was a sideswipe, a glancing, tearing collision—metal on metal, followed by the crystalline, shocking shatter of the glass partition behind the driver’s seat. It felt slow, drawn out, and wrong.

I was pitched forward, hitting the thick dashboard with a muted thud. My paws scrambled for purchase as adrenaline flooded my body. The car was tilted, and the world was suddenly still.

The silence was the worst part.

I turned instantly to the back seat. Major General Gay, the other general, was already upright. He was utterly, immediately still. His coat was immaculate. His cap was straight. The dry powder scent was more pungent now. He looked not shocked, but calm. Too calm.

But the General... the good General who had saved me from the cold was slumped over, a piece of broken wood. I could smell the hot, coppery scent of his blood, fresh and terrible. He was struggling for air, making small, thin noises, a far cry from his excellent, bellowing command.

I licked his hand, frantic. The General was looking up at the ceiling, his eyes wide with a terrible, growing comprehension.

“My neck hurts, Hap,” he wheezed, the sounds small and tight. “I can’t move my damn fingers. Hap, work my fingers.”

Gay did as he was told, mechanically rubbing the General’s limp hand. But his attention was elsewhere.

He was scanning the scene, talking rapidly to the driver, his words clipped, focusing entirely on the truck driver and the logistics of the crash. He gave not one moment of proper, fearful attention to the man beside him.

The whole thing felt deliberate. Too clean. Too isolated.

They took the General away in a scream of ambulance sirens. Captain Miller, who had rushed over only to be pushed back by Gay's curt orders, dragged me back to the cold jeep. I whined, tasting the metallic fear, but the scent of the good General was gone, replaced by the smell of his own blood and the unsettling composure of the other man.

The next few days blurred into an anxious wait. We were back at the barracks, but the atmosphere had changed. The air was heavy with anticipation, like a storm waiting to break. I paced constantly, sniffing the air, looking for the impossible—the General’s return.

Captain Miller was different. He didn’t smell of nervous ambition anymore; he smelled of sudden, cold certainty, and something new—a faint, expensive cologne. He kept polishing his boots, a frantic, repetitive action that smelled of guilt he was trying to rub out. He didn’t look at me anymore. I was just a dog who happened to be present.

The human whispers continued. Spinal injury. Paralysis. Pneumonia. It felt like a slow, engineered clock counting down.

Then, on the twelfth day, the news arrived. It came first as a scent on the wind: the heavy, ceremonial scent of formal black cloth and finality. Later that afternoon, Miller was summoned by a machine on his desk—the telephone.

He closed the door, but dogs hear everything. I pressed my ear to the thin wood, listening to the terrible, rising crescendo of his whispered triumph.

“...Yes, a tragedy. The neck injury led to the embolism. A clean end.” His voice was low, conspiratorial, laced with a smug certainty that turned my stomach. “The body couldn’t fight it. The embolism. Very clean, very fast.”

He paused, clearly listening to the voice on the other end, a voice that smelled like the same dry powder I had smelled on Gay.

"No, no one will ever know what really happened. The driver panicked, saw only the truck... General Gay, you are the sole witness - and me, of course - yes, sir, absolutely. It is done!"

The sole witness. Jäger was right there. I felt the cold dread sink into my heart. The best man, the kindest man, hadn’t died by chance. He died because the other man, Major General Gay, who walked away untouched, had ensured he was isolated, and my own master, Miller, was complicit in burying the truth.

Then came the final, gut-wrenching betrayal, whispered with barely contained glee: “Yes, I accept the promotion! Thank you, sir. We’ll keep this whole goddamn thing quiet.”

The General was dead. The secret was sealed. Captain Miller had sold his loyalty for a better smell and a new rank.

I couldn’t stay. The barracks reeked of betrayal—General's and Miller's both. Miller's moral cowardice stank more than treason: he traded a life for a promotion. The Oberst, my old master, was brutal, but his authority was earned and absolute. This American treason felt soft, selfish, and dishonorable. I left not for justice, but for order.

I broke free at dawn, leaving the cold comfort of the barracks behind. I ran north and east, guided by the deep, internal compass that pointed to the lands and the life I knew—the rigid, disciplined world of the Oberst. I needed to find a command I could respect, a duty that wasn't bought with blood money.

The journey was long and desperate. I ran across fields where defeat had left a sour, metallic taste in the earth. My paws ached, but I was driven by the faint memory of my former master's clean, expensive cognac scent. I pictured him, standing tall, his errors vast but his ambition pure. I was an animal, but I was searching for moral high ground.

Finally, after a day of punishing travel, the path narrowed to the small, hidden farmhouse where the Oberst had retired before his capture. The familiar fields were fallow and grey. I picked up his scent, stronger now—but wrong.

I followed it to a shed. The Oberst was there, but he was no longer the man of starch and command. He was thinner, wrapped in peasant cloth, his hands shaking. He smelled only of cheap tobacco, old wine, and a crushing, broken spirit. His eyes were dull, empty, looking through me to the defeat he could not escape.

I approached him, pushing the memory of the General’s death, the Goddammit, the CRUNCH, and Miller’s whispered betrayal at him. I was offering the truth, the ultimate duty—the chance to condemn a dishonorable commander.

The Oberst looked down at me, his eyes dead. He did not smell the truth. He only smelled his own failure. He nudged me away with a weak foot, indifferent to my presence or my message. His old duty was broken, tainted by defeat and self-pity. There was nothing left to salute.

I retreated, sinking onto the cold earth. I had run to the last thing I respected, and it too was gone.

Then, in the cold, empty air, a different memory surfaced: the feeling of the General’s great hand on my back. The sense of absolute, unconditional warmth and safety. He had not cared if I was German or American; he only cared that I was freezing. He was the only true commander I had ever known.

My duty was not to the past or to a broken flag, but to the truth of the only man who had shown me pure kindness.

I turned sharply, abandoning the ghost of the Oberst's command. My new path was south and west, guided by the memory of the General's scent, an anchor in the chaotic world. I had to tell Willie.

I ran for another full day, my body bone-tired, fueled solely by the finality of my decision.

Willie was there. He was a low, solid, muscled mountain of sorrow, lying next to a pair of empty, polished riding boots. He was guarding them, a statue of loyalty. His eyes, the color of wet earth, looked up, heavy with the weight of the General’s absence.

I stood over him, my body heaving. We are dogs. Our language is not words, but the deep, shared current of instinct and feeling. I pushed the memories into his awareness: the General's kindness, the smell of Gay's dry powder, the sound of the slow, tearing CRUNCH, the General’s whispered demand, the failure of my German master, and the final, terrible sound of Captain Miller's promotion being accepted over the machine.

Willie took it all in. I watched his fierce eyes cloud over, the light of hope—which he must have been clinging to—snuffing out, replaced by a deep, powerful current of rage and sorrow. He understood perfectly. He knew instantly that the best man in the world had been removed deliberately.

We stayed there for a long time, two loyal hearts sharing a burden no human would ever carry. We both looked at the empty boots, the only tangible thing left of our General. The world had lost its best man, and only the dogs knew how.

As Willie nudged me back, a slow, solemn thank you, a new scent arrived. It was the General's scent, but clean, like cold mountain air and polished steel, without the terrible copper tang of blood. I lifted my head, panting. Standing just beyond Willie, next to the empty riding boots, was the General himself. He was whole, his uniform immaculate, his face resolved and calm. He wasn't solid; the light passed through him slightly, but his gaze—that fierce, demanding, kind gaze—was fixed on me.

He didn’t boom or swear. He brought his hand up—the hand I licked in the car—and gave a sharp, appreciative nod to me, then another to Willie. Thank you. The message was clear. He knew his comrades had kept the flame of truth alive.

The ghost faded, leaving only the warmth of his presence behind. Willie lowered his massive head back onto the floor, no longer just a guard, but a custodian of a sacred, dangerous secret.

I, Jäger the dog without a home and country or a master, turned and trotted away, enough for two dogs to hold the damn line.