P.S. NOLF - HARK, HARK, THE DOGS OF WAR DO BARK

P.S. Nolf is currently working on a narrative non-fiction book titled Raising Rough Riders in the White House: Theodore Roosevelt and His Sons Archie and Quentin and Their Pony Algonquin. While researching the death of Quentin during WW I, she discovered serio-comic maps as both art form and propaganda devices. Examining the 1917 map Hark, Hark, the Dogs Do Bark, she wondered what would happen if the characters could talk.

The author writes both fiction and non-fiction.  Her  pieces have been published in Funny Pearls and Equus magazine. Check out the author's blog spot at:
http://pamelanolfwriting.blogspot.com/

Hark, Hark, The Dogs of War Do Bark
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1914: The Barking Great War by Satire Maps
The Great War breaks out.  Artists from around the world begin to battle by maps--known as serio-comic maps. Purportedly satire, this form of cartography is designed to stir up nationalistic fervor by using stereotypes—figures in folk costumes, dogs, bears, octopuses.  The home country is brave and honorable. Enemies are ugly, barbaric monsters. But what if all the national caricatures went to war with each other on the same map? Let's listen in.
“Here’s your Collar of Oak Leaves scented with Germanic pride.  Go and sic the rest of Europe,” commands Kaiser Wilheim II to the Good Dachshund Michel.  “The smelly Serbian and Bosnian curs started it with their guns and their dirty bombs. The double headed Eagle of Austria-Hungary caught Serbia by the ears—justifiable so.”
“Serbian ears are always a tasty snack,” says Good Dog Michel as he licks his snout. “Can we?  Can we? Can we finally neuter that poofy French Poodle?”
“The Dachshund is bloomin’ mad,” retorts the British Tommy. “He’s leashed himself to the Austrian Mutt to bully the little Balkan bitches. Bad, bad, big dogs who pick on little dogs. It’s against the Fair Rules of Dogdom.”
“How witty you Brits think you are.  Dachs is badger and hund is dog. We get it. We speak German you know. Let’s all make fun of the Hun.”
“Hark, hark, the funny looking dogs can only yip.”
“It’s business as usual for you, Fussballindianer. You just want to keep your colonies. Your Irish Setter is growling from the island at your back. The Chippiparais, Combais, and Rajapalayams in India are chewing through your leashes.”
In a sneak attack, the Dachshund surprises the small Belgian Griffon. He rips her guts out. Though she rolls over, she won’t give up. The overly groomed French poodle, with its pom pom tail and tricolor cockade cap, joins the brave Griffon to fight back. Soon the British Bulldog leaps the Channel to help stare down the Hunds. Let the battle begin.
The Good German Dog Michel savages the French poodle by its throat. The Gallic rooster is still crowing about its victories in 1870. On the eastern side of Germany, the Hund uses his short but mighty rear legs to push back against the monstrous, gap-toothed, poison-fanged Russian Ovcharka.
Burdened with the powder keg of revolution, the Ovcharka, accompanied by the Russian Bear, wields his vodka bottle in one paw and a whip against the Bolsheviks in the other. “Too bad for you, the Russian Bear is part of the Serbian pack. Or is it pact? The imperial steam roller, driven by the Tsar himself, is coming out of the East. He’s already flattened the German Dog’s tail.”
“Oh no,” snarls the Japanese Akita. “Russia is really an octopus spreading its sucking tentacles over Eurasia. It’s trying to rip apart the Chinese Chow Chow. But we reserve first bite in Manchuria. Let’s have Nama-tako with fresh octopus.”
Struggling to protect his shrinking Ottoman Empire, the Turkish Akbask has chained himself to the Dachshund. Everyone admits Good German Dog Michel looks as good in a red fez as in a shiny black, spiked pickelhaube.
The Italian Greyhound shakes in his boot in a futile attempt to remain neutral. Saint Bernard of Switzerland is successfully hiding out in the Alps. The Spanish and Portuguese Waterdogs try to ignore the dogfight by turning their backs to pee on the news reports. The Danish Broholmer is pulling a cart to sell its butter to Europe. From the north, the Swedish Vallhund is armed to the teeth. The Norwegian Elk Hound is a friend of Russia. The Finnish Spitz is Russia’s pet.
Expecting a short war in 1914, countries could still see view the war with some humor. But humor and honor began to fade as the deaths mount up.
1917: Barking In the Trenches, a Propaganda Film
In newly created government offices, both sides use propaganda as a weapon. The hate mongering is delivered by posters, by pamphlets, by newspaper items, by films, even by children’s books. The Allies excel at enraging their populaces about atrocities, sometimes fabricated, by the German, Austrian, and Ottoman dogs. The Germans defend themselves against these accusations. They portray themselves as an industrious, peace-loving nation, called to defend the superior Teutonic—that is white—way of life.
The Allies produce increasingly effective propaganda films. Here’s an excerpt from an American film. It starts with a map of Europe showing current alliances.  The narrator speaks:
As the years go by, the Dogs of War slip their leashes. The Italian Greyhound raced to switch sides twice. He is now allied with the Bulldogs and Poodles in anticipation of getting territory at the end of the war. The Portuguese Waterdog, Brazilian Fila Brasilerio, Greek Molosser who wants a slice of Turkey, and other lesser known breeds have joined the Allied Pack. Even the Siamese cats have spat their way into the melee. 
The American mutts in their millions have finally been lured “Over There.” The Allied Pack and Central Powers Pack have been mired in desperate, dirty trench warfare for years. Millions, tens of millions, have been blown up, shot apart, torn to shreds on the barb wire, gassed, or died from diseases. The Teutonic breed has gone feral in their barbarity.
The movie scene goes like this: Somewhere in Flanders, the Germans and Americans face off in their trenches, separated by multiple lines of barb wire and exploded trees. No man’s land is covered with decomposed and dismembered bodies. Both sides are so ragged and covered in mud they are almost indistinguishable. All an observer can tell is that they are all dogs.
“Hey Sarge! Are we going to have a Christmas Truce this year? I heard they did in 1914?” yipped the young Pvt. Alsatian Shepherd. “I sure could use a game of ball and a bone exchange.”
“Ya stupid pup. No more Christmas truces,” snipped Sgt. Mutt. “Didn’t ya hear about the Canadian Newfie the Huns crucified? They drove bayonets through his four legs to nail him to a barn door.”
A loud howl comes from the opposing trench.
“Nein, we didn’t do that. You have no proof," yelps a young Deutscher Schäferhund, not more much more than a puppy.
“Yeah, I saw it on a Liberty Bond Poster,” barks Sgt. Mutt.
“We are honorable Germans.”
“Honorable Huns in that U-boat that sunk the RMS Lusitania, huh?” snips a Beagle-Spitz cross. “Over a thousand died.”
“That ship was carrying ammunition for the war. Das made it a fair target,” snaps a Dachshund
“Not according to the Fair Rules of Dogdom.”
“The Tommies are machine gunning our U-Boat packs after they surrender. Is das part of the Fair Rules of Dogdom?”
“Narrator.  Hey Narrator.”
“Er, excuse me. Please disengage your teeth from my sleeve. I am not scheduled to appear in this satire.”
“Don’t forget us.”
“What do you mean?”
“You overlooked us again. I’m part of the American Africanus pack. Mostly we performed shit support during the war. The Marines didn’t even want us. But we showed them.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m with the 369th Infantry, the Harlem Hell Fighters. We made it to the front as part of the Aise Marne counter offensive. Army assigned us to Poodle Commanders.  We fought with brave teeth and sharp nails. All of us survivors got those Croix de Guerre tags on our collars.”
“Thank you for the reminder. We can now return to the action.”
“You bastards started flinging the poison gas,” snarls Sgt. Mutt.
“Nein, nein, nein. That was the French Poodles. They flung grenades with tear gas in 1914,” cries the Dachshund.
“And you Huns didn’t develop mustard gas? Hun stuff?” groused the grizzled mutt. “How do you think I lost this eye and got this melted skin on my snout? I watched many a comrade suffer for weeks as their lungs turned to yellow pus.”
“The Tommies used mustard gas at Cambrai. You American mutts threw phosphine gas and mustard gas at Meuse Argonne. Bite my balls.”
“Look lively, mutts. I see a yellow cloud floating our way," howled Sgt. Mutt. "Put on your gas masks. If you can’t find ‘em, piss on your collar and hold it over your snout. “
The wind, fickle as ever, changes direction blowing the gas back toward the German lines. Yelps of “Achtung gas” and “Setzen Sie Ihre Gasmasken auf” can be heard. 
Darkness settles over the trenches.  Their Lieutenant, an aristocratic retriever from Chesapeake Bay, is sidling through the trench.  “We need a volunteer to go over the top on a raid. Sniff out the enemy lines.”
“I’ll go, I’ll go,” yelps young Pvt. Alsatian Shepherd. 
“Ya still smell like your mother’s milk,” sniffs Sgt. Mutt.  “And yur not even paper trained.”  
“I can do it.  No problem. No problem.”  The young dog’s entire hindquarters shake in his eagerness. 
“God Bless you, pup,” says the Sergeant with watery eyes not attributable to the gas. 
The rest of his pack sniff the private’s butt for good luck.  He crawls up the ladder into no dog’s land. He forces his way through mud, thick with pulverized remains.  He wants to cry out to his mother at the awful smell. Tracers of machine gun fire rat-a-tat through the night.  To the west, bombs are falling with red blasts of earth shaking thunder. He can’t tell on which side of the line.  
He crawls under a stretch of barbwire to find himself nose to nose with another dog.  It’s the young Deutscher Schäferhund from earlier in the day. Instinctively their front legs fold into a play bow.  Tails start to wag. They stare into each other’s eyes, Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, they freeze in place. With their erect ears, tan coloring, black saddles, and black muzzles, they could be from the same litter.
As the sun rises, both sides begin scanning the battlefield looking for their lost pack members.  One by one, binoculars focus on the same position—a fresh mound in this landscape of hell. Both bodies are so ragged and covered in mud they are indistinguishable. All an observer can tell is that they are dogs. 
 
1918: The Chewed Up Treaty of Versailles Map
This is the narrator again. I’m disgusted.  I’m angry. I’m fuming.
Go ahead. Sign the peace treaty on June 28th. Redraw the shape of nations on the map. Move territory from one country to another according to secret European agreements signed during the war. Fail to consider historic boundaries and centuries long enmities leaving large ethnic groups in foreign territory.
Punish the Germans.  Charge unpayable reparations, reduce their land, and minimize their armed forces.  Fail to consider the consequences. Watch while Turkey pardons those involved in the genocide of 1.5 million Armenians and the mass killings of hundreds of thousands of Greeks in Anatolia and Assyrians across the Ottoman Empire. Scatter the Kurds across five nations despite promises made to them for their own country.
Establish the League of Nations. Fail to prosecute France, Germany, United States, or Britain for the use of poison gas despite the European nations signing the 1899 Hague Declaration Concerning Asphyxiating Gas and the 1907 Hague Convention on Land Warfare. Do not prosecute German war crimes during the rape of Belgium. Let the winners of the war control most of Africa and Asia.
Draw a map, a map that guarantees another world war in about twenty years.

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