dog had limped his way back to the main gates of the camp. His coat spattered in the soapy mixture released in the explosion, the dog was badly burnt and half his tail was missing.
Once more the dog had endured the same horrors as his soldier friends. His desire to run with the men on duty had earned him their respect. Over and over he proved that he was not afraid. That day, the soldiers nearly lost a comrade and their faithful little mascot dog lost half his tail. But it was not the beginning or the end of this dog’s relationship with the British soldiers. It was one more chapter in the story of a remarkable dog called Rats, Army number Delta 777, the ‘soldier dog’ of Northern Ireland.
Mystery surrounds the real date that Rats joined the British Army. The sectarian ‘Troubles’ (as history has labelled them) in Northern Ireland attracted the presence of the British Army from 1969 onwards. Regiments arrived and then left four or five months later, each soldier spending their tour of duty constantly on the front line defending the territory and protecting the people who came under Sovereign rule. For the soldiers who served in Northern Ireland it was, in their words, the worst kind of guerrilla warfare, fought against a politically feverish terrorist group, the IRA, fuelled by Protestant and Catholic differences. During the height of the unrest in the 1970s the province was a part of the United Kingdom where even hardened soldiers knew they were wise to feel fear when they walked the streets. It was not a safe place for a soldier or a dog.
Rats grew up in Crossmaglen. On the surface, this small Ulster town was nothing more than a collection of houses, a church, a primary and a secondary school and 13 public houses, serving a population of just over a thousand people. Lying on the River Fane, this seemingly tranquil place boasted a castle, a heritage of finelace making and a typically large market square where local farmers brought produce and where the townsfolk met to trade and talk. The place was no stranger to the bustle and chatter of an active community but the memorials in the square were testament to a darker facet of this community’s identity. A memorial ‘to those who have suffered for Irish freedom’ stood a stone’s throw away from a statue erected in memory of a British paratrooper killed by an IRA bomb. Blood ran on the streets of Crossmaglen and bullet holes peppered its walls and walkways. Republican and Catholic, the town was a strange dichotomy: it was both peaceful Irish community and a war zone.
It was the location of Crossmaglen that controlled and maintained the air of simmering hostility and the reason why its inhabitants kept a self-protecting silence. Crossmaglen was a frontier town. It lay just one and a half miles from the border between Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland to the south, across which the terrorists slipped at will. No one knew if it was safe to speak to anyone, so they chose caution and said nothing at all. The natural warmth of the Irish had to bestalled as anyone showing any friendly behaviour towards the soldiers could risk reprisals.
Of course talking to a dog was quite different and it was here, in an environment of fear and hostility, that Rats came into contact with British soldiers for the first time. Like them he often patrolled the Ardross estate on the outskirts of Crossmaglen. It was his territory and where he ate and slept, although there was nothing visible to eat or to sleep on. The grim grey houses looked in on each other as if they were ganging up on anyone who dared step too close. Certainly the soldiers experienced a palpable sense of intimidation from each net-curtained window. There was rare comfort to be found there for a stray dog either, although Rats never gave up hope and never deviated from his daily routine: first an early morning tour of the houses, paying particular attention to the odd one or two where he had found or scrounged
Once more the dog had endured the same horrors as his soldier friends. His desire to run with the men on duty had earned him their respect. Over and over he proved that he was not afraid. That day, the soldiers nearly lost a comrade and their faithful little mascot dog lost half his tail. But it was not the beginning or the end of this dog’s relationship with the British soldiers. It was one more chapter in the story of a remarkable dog called Rats, Army number Delta 777, the ‘soldier dog’ of Northern Ireland.
Mystery surrounds the real date that Rats joined the British Army. The sectarian ‘Troubles’ (as history has labelled them) in Northern Ireland attracted the presence of the British Army from 1969 onwards. Regiments arrived and then left four or five months later, each soldier spending their tour of duty constantly on the front line defending the territory and protecting the people who came under Sovereign rule. For the soldiers who served in Northern Ireland it was, in their words, the worst kind of guerrilla warfare, fought against a politically feverish terrorist group, the IRA, fuelled by Protestant and Catholic differences. During the height of the unrest in the 1970s the province was a part of the United Kingdom where even hardened soldiers knew they were wise to feel fear when they walked the streets. It was not a safe place for a soldier or a dog.
Rats grew up in Crossmaglen. On the surface, this small Ulster town was nothing more than a collection of houses, a church, a primary and a secondary school and 13 public houses, serving a population of just over a thousand people. Lying on the River Fane, this seemingly tranquil place boasted a castle, a heritage of finelace making and a typically large market square where local farmers brought produce and where the townsfolk met to trade and talk. The place was no stranger to the bustle and chatter of an active community but the memorials in the square were testament to a darker facet of this community’s identity. A memorial ‘to those who have suffered for Irish freedom’ stood a stone’s throw away from a statue erected in memory of a British paratrooper killed by an IRA bomb. Blood ran on the streets of Crossmaglen and bullet holes peppered its walls and walkways. Republican and Catholic, the town was a strange dichotomy: it was both peaceful Irish community and a war zone.
It was the location of Crossmaglen that controlled and maintained the air of simmering hostility and the reason why its inhabitants kept a self-protecting silence. Crossmaglen was a frontier town. It lay just one and a half miles from the border between Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland to the south, across which the terrorists slipped at will. No one knew if it was safe to speak to anyone, so they chose caution and said nothing at all. The natural warmth of the Irish had to bestalled as anyone showing any friendly behaviour towards the soldiers could risk reprisals.
Of course talking to a dog was quite different and it was here, in an environment of fear and hostility, that Rats came into contact with British soldiers for the first time. Like them he often patrolled the Ardross estate on the outskirts of Crossmaglen. It was his territory and where he ate and slept, although there was nothing visible to eat or to sleep on. The grim grey houses looked in on each other as if they were ganging up on anyone who dared step too close. Certainly the soldiers experienced a palpable sense of intimidation from each net-curtained window. There was rare comfort to be found there for a stray dog either, although Rats never gave up hope and never deviated from his daily routine: first an early morning tour of the houses, paying particular attention to the odd one or two where he had found or scrounged
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