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At the beginning of World War 2 my father, George Hackney, joined the air force and was sent, with seven other men to follow the eighth army across the Western Desert to force back Rommel and his men. They’d all been trained to make oxygen. At night they took turns sitting in the trailer with the equipment, the separator having to be controlled and the meter level observed. The noise from the compressor blocked out any sound of approaching aircraft. On moonlit nights, with no trees or buildings they were sitting targets, the jumping of the meter level their only clue that bombs were dropping close.

One night it was still baking hot and all the men tired when they stopped about forty miles from Mirsamatru. Digging out slit trenches and pitching tents they covered them with camouflage netting and sand to prevent casting shadows. A scuffling sound made them turn. It was a brown and white terrier, his tale wagging furiously. They’d seen him before, hanging around for scraps.
“Come and join us little fella,” George said and when he went to the truck for his camp bed, the dog trotted behind.
“Looks like you’ve made a friend,” Taffy mocked. But the truth was George needed such a friend. A young lad forced into manhood, he’d not long since enjoyed his first pint, now he lie awake at night in the desert, fearing for his life.

Snuggling into bed beside George the dog seemed placid at first, but later his howling woke them all. Up and down the length of the tents and trucks, wailing and groaning he ran, desperate to alert them of something.

Three men decided to jump in the trenches. Fifteen minutes later the Junkers started bombing. The rest joined them just in time. The dog knowing they were under attack trembled as the bombs fell. He’d obviously been trying earlier to warn them that planes were approaching.

Advancing up the desert towards Libya under orders from General Wavel, the dog, now christened Tops, carried on doing his job day and night. Always fifteen minutes before the Junkers arrived, howling to warn the men. Over the next two years he saved their lives many times and was lovingly made a kennel from old petrol crates but preferred instead to sleep along side George.

In the beginning being constantly alert and fearing for their lives had taken its toll on the men. But somehow Tops eased that pressure, boosted morale, helped them adjust to living on their wits. Signs of bravado came to the surface. So when the Junkers began flying low and the men saw the German pilots in their cockpits firing, they would come out from the trenches, shake their fists up and shout abuse.

Eventually, thanks to Tops, all eight men reached Tunisia alive. But knowing their friend and saviour would have to be left behind, they boarded the landing craft to join the invasion of Sicily with heavy hearts.

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