One of the only three known photographs of the object, taken by lieutenant E████ Swift of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps, 1915.
Special Containment Procedures
Any reference to SCP-015-INT as a fact or historical mystery must be either systematically censored, or mythologised under a cover story based on an article written in 1919 by the Canadian veteran F. J. Newhouse, presented as a work of fiction. The various individuals mentioned in this article must also be presented as fictional (the origin that F. J. Newhouse attributes to the entity, namely a failed German biological experiment, is a complete fabrication on his part, and does not require any additional disinformation).
Description
SCP-015-INT was an anomalous entity witnessed by French, German, and ANZAC soldiers during and after the Battle of Mons. Eye witness reports vary wildly, although some imply credibility. Most witnesses reported sending scouts out to No Man's Land after hearing a canine howling. None returned, and autopsies revealed bite marks as the cause of death. The origin of the anomaly is currently unknown. Some believed it to be a creature of Belgian folklore, others believed it to be a loose war experiment from the enemy side.
Photograph taken by the artillery man G█████ Augustin of the French Fifth Army, 1915.
Descriptions of SCP-015-INT seemed to vary considerably from observer to observer, ranging from an anomalously large black wolf-like animal with red eyes to a smaller, more mundane-looking dog. The subjective appearance of the entity as perceived by a subject also extended to any photographs and recordings made by that same subject.
Due to the fact that sightings of SCP-015-INT approximately ceased at the end of World War I (1918) and no new reports have been made since, the object is currently considered neutralized.
Addendum 015-INT-1
- Postcard from G█████ Augustin (French soldier, artillery, Fifth Army) to his wife. Translated from French.
January 16, 1915
My dear Madeleine,
I am sending you this short little card today because I have nothing very interesting to tell you, but I am fine, I assure you. I will answer you at greater length when your next letter arrives. We have been doing absolutely nothing here for the last six days except playing cards to gamble on our wine rations. It is freezing, but the cold is not too bad. Soldiers from Australia have joined the Tommies1 a little while ago, imagine that. Maybe there will finally be some movement.
I send you a gentle kiss.
Your dedicated little man.
- Letter from K███ Fuchs (German soldier, infantry, IV Corps, 1st army) to his mother. This letter was censored in its entirety by the military censorship, and was never sent. Undated (estimated to have been written between January 18 and 25, 1915). Translated from German.
Dear Mother,
Thank you for your prayers. Your letter found me in good health. Here on the frontline, rumor has it that the war will end up soon. I, however, doubt it. We have been sitting in this hole for weeks now. Sometimes I wonder if this is all worth it.
You are probably wondering why I am sending you a letter this time instead of a postcard. Well, something has been bothering me for several days now, and it would never fit on something as small as a postcard. Here is my story: about a week ago, four of us were ordered to sneak into enemy territory in the middle of the night. Mother, your son is not a coward, and yet the only thought on my mind through that entire dreadful night was that it would be my very last one on this Earth.
You see, between our lines and the enemy lines lie a lawless strip of land, full of dead trees and craters opened by artillery shells. Going there by day already means immense danger, but at night, the place takes on an even more frightening aspect. No one knows if one's next step will be their last. It is in this state of mind that my comrades and I were advancing, one foot after the other, in the mud, when we found ourselves face to face with some enemy soldiers who must have received the same order as we had!
Total panic ensued, during which, on either side, no one seemed to know whether to attack or flee. A single shot was fired, I felt the wind of the bullet brushing my face, and one of my comrades fell to the ground beside me. I would rather not describe the condition of my friend, but I was as stunned as if I had received that bullet myself, and if a second one had gone off, I might have just stood right there, waiting to receive it.
At that moment, however, the unthinkable happened. Something huge jumped on me, and threw me into the mud, and I heard a terrified enemy yell something in French. I will spare you, Mother, the nightmarish sounds that followed. When I finally opened my eyes, still lying in the mud, there was movement at my side, but to my horror, it was not one of my comrades rescuing me. I swear to God and all that is holy in this world that a gigantic black wolf with glowing red eyes had grabbed my comrade whole, and was carrying him away in its jaws.
I ran. I am not even sure how I got back to the trench. I don't even know what happened to those Frenchmen back there. I was shaking like a leaf, and my commander refused to believe me when I described the dreadful wolf. But now, every time I close my eyes, I see that terrible beast again, and some of my comrades have confessed to me that they hear it prowling around at night. We are all very tired, and very scared.
I do not know if this letter will reach you, as I believe they are read before being passed on to you. I also imagine that it is not a comforting read. However, I had to tell you about it with an open heart, because what else can one do when one encounters Death itself so closely?
Despite my pessimism, I do hope that I will be back home soon. Until then, please keep me in your heart.
Your loving son
K.
- Letter from G█████ Augustin (French soldier, artillery, Fifth Army) to his wife. Translated from French.
February 18, 1915
My dear Madeleine,
What a delight to have finally received your letter! I am very pleased to learn that your brother Gilles has obtained his military discharge. I am afraid that here, combatants of the first hour are not as privileged and that we do not get out of the furnace with the same ease… Consider that our poor infantrymen, who are on the front line, do not see the enemy any more than I, the gunner, can, and I am two kilometers away from the Boches2; they are completely holed up, and sometimes they kill each other without even seeing each other. Strange war, this one. As for me, I have a bit of a cold but I'm doing quite well otherwise.
Do you remember my little card, the one where I mentioned Australians coming from the other side of the world to help the tommies? I don't know what's going through these boys' heads, and I don't understand a word they say, but I have to tell you about one of their latest whims. One of them has befriended some kind of deformed wolf that has been prowling the no-man's-land for months and terrorizing our infantrymen almost more than the kettles3 the Boches are sending our way. But those big Australian devils treat it like one of our dogs of war, the ones that bring urgent messages to the front line when all communication is cut. They sing songs to it, and they even give it some of their rations! I've been told that the animals they have over there on the other side of the world are quite dangerous compared to those we have in the countryside, but all the same, this is quite a strange battalion…
You know how much I love photography, and that I got a special authorization for my camera; I couldn't help but try to take a picture of the beast, one day when it was running to join its ANZAC comrades to support them during a charge. I don't know when I'll be able to develop it, though.
I pray to get back to you very soon, and I send you a gentle kiss.
Your dedicated little man.
- Letter from J█████ Meylan (ANZAC soldier, cavalry, II Corps, 5th army) to his two sons. February 20, 1915.
To Jacky and Mikey,
The sound of gunfire echoed in my ears as I trudged through the mud of the Western Front. I am just a simple soldier, a working-class man from Sydney's annals, far from our home in Australia.
One day, as I huddled in a trench, I heard a strange noise. At first, I feared it was the enemy, but then I saw a large, shaggy dog edging towards me. He was covered in mud and blood, and I could see the vigour in his crimson eyes.
Despite my initial fear, I reached out a hand to the dog and drew a breath to sing him a song from home:
My name is Joe the carrier’s lad, a merry chap am I,
I always am contented, be the weather wet or dry,
I snap my fingers at the frost, I whistle at the rain,
I've braved the storms for many a day and will do once again.
Oh, crack, crack, goes my whip, I whistle and I sing,
I sit upon my wagon I’m as happy as a king;
My horse is always willing, and I am never sad,
There's none can lead a jollier life than Joe the carrier’s lad.
I watched as his stance faltered, his form prowling towards me in a skittish teeter. At the end of Joe's hymn, the mutt closed his eyes and offered up his snout. After a period of patting under the Belgian sunset, he snuggled to sleep in my arms.
Over the next few days, I spent every empty moment with the dog, nursing him back to health. I named him Snugglepot, after a children's book I plan to buy you both when I return, and since he loves to snuggle.
The war seem to wind down a bit after that, and the boys got stuck into Snugglepot soon enough. Trench life just didnt feel complete when he was asleep. He would always be by our side, offering comfort and bravery when we needed it most.
I think I'll take him home to you both. You'd make a good trio.
- Letter from G█████ Augustin (French soldier, artillery, Fifth Army) to his wife. This letter was partly censored by the military censorship, and is restored here in its original form. Translated from French.
October 2, 1915
My dearest Madeleine,
I left the trenches last night, and now I find myself in the warm and dry safety of an hospital. I am in bad shape, I confess, but I can assure you that I will soon be nursed back to health by the doctors. Let me tell you what happened.
Yesterday, at about 6:00 p.m., our men and the tommies were ordered to launch an offensive on the enemy trench. To get there is like an obstacle course, they have to avoid kettles dropping from the sky, bullets, and barbed wire. Even from my firing post, I could hear some terrible screams.
I was blessing my luck that I was only a gunner when a large shell burst about ten yards behind me, almost directly on my battle station, and I was literally thrown into the air. I let out a loud cry and fell to the ground, only to realize that I was blinded.
All around me was panic. No help was coming for me, and as I tried to get up, I realized that a piece of the damn kettle was stuck in my leg.
That's when I felt a beast, yes, a terrible beast grab my arm and drag me toward the front lines!
Just think, Madeleine, that on each side of the lines, for a width of a kilometer, there is not a blade of grass left; there is only black and brown earth, ceaselessly pounded by the shells, dotted with shredded stumps, debris of walls that suggest that a few months ago there was a building there, and inhabitants… and think that I, the artilleryman, had never yet walked a single foot further than my firing post in that direction. In my blind fear, oh Madeleine dear, this beast seemed to me like Cerberus dragging me toward the mouth of hell.
Suddenly I heard someone whistling in the distance, and shouting some incomprehensible words. As if on cue from his master, the wolf let go of me, running to join those brave Australian devils who were leaving to attack. Despite this, I still could not see anything, my hands met only mud, and I heard another kettle explode nearby.
I don't think I have ever felt such visceral, total fear in my life. I write this without any shame.
In the distance, a hoarse voice was singing something between the whistles of the bullets, something I had heard once or twice before, but I had no idea what the lyrics were. I gathered up what little courage I had left, tried to ignore the condition of my leg, and began to crawl in the opposite direction, the one that would undoubtedly lead me to the back of the lines. And the whole time I was picking up that tune, and mumbling lyrics I was coming up with, lyrics about you, and our little house, and all those things I wished I could see again someday.
I don't know exactly when, but eventually I lost consciousness. Later, someone came to take me to the hospital, which was housed in an old bombed-out church, and it was there that I came to my senses. The hospital is overcrowded, and there are maybe twenty wounded soldiers for one doctor. Still, I was laid down on a bed, and since then I have been waiting for treatment.
I don't know what gives me this conviction, but I know, I feel, that I'm going to make it. And when I start to doubt it, I sing that tune that charms monsters, and my fear goes away, step by step, like that strange dog on the battlefield.
I will teach you that tune one day, be sure of it.
I will be with you soon, I hope. Until then, I send you a gentle kiss.
Your dedicated little man.
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