For Becky, with love and gratitude
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE: GERMAN SPY!
CHAPTER 1: YOU’RE IN THE ARMY NOW
CHAPTER 2: STOWAWAY
CHAPTER 3: GAS ATTACK
CHAPTER 4: WOUNDED
CHAPTER 5: THE MARNE
CHAPTER 6: THE FINAL PUSH
CHAPTER 7: VICTORY!
CHAPTER 8: PEACE
CHAPTER 9: HOME
HISTORICAL NOTE
FURTHER READING
PREVIEW OF G.I. DOGS: JUDY, PRISONER OF WAR
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CARD PAGE
COPYRIGHT
A dense fog covered the battlefield. This was the day my unit was supposed to recapture the French town of Marchéville from the Germans, but until the fog lifted the men rested. My human, Bob Conroy, was sleeping, so I left him to go on patrol.
I padded through my unit, making sure all was well. Shadowy figures moved through the fog. Even the sounds they made were hazy and muffled. As always, my ears listened for the screams of German bombs and my nose was on alert for a whiff of poison gas. If I had learned nothing else since I arrived on the battlefield in France with the US Army’s 26th Yankee Division in February 1918, it was to avoid poison gas. My nose smelled it long before the men’s did, so my guys counted on me to warn them when the gas was on its way.
This morning everything seemed fine. The men rested, getting ready for their big push as soon as the order to attack came from headquarters. A few of them needed me to remind them that everything was going to be all right, but most of them were calm and waiting.
The fog lifted just for a moment, and that’s when I saw a man wandering around. He was making marks on paper and checking everything out as if he had never seen it before.
Something’s wrong, I thought.
Then I noticed that he wasn’t wearing the khaki uniform of an American doughboy. I recognized that gray uniform. He was German, and Germans were the enemy.
A low growl rose in my throat as I moved toward him. He could only be trouble, and I wasn’t going to let him get near my guys.
The German soldier quickly shoved his papers in his jacket and reached out as if to pet me. He whispered what must have been German for, “C’mere, boy.”
I’m too smart to fall for your tricks. You’re not my friend.
I didn’t take my eyes off him. I barked to alert the guys that there was a problem. German enemy in our midst! Hurry!
The German’s eyes widened. He could see I meant business. He turned on his heel and started to run, but no soldier can run faster than me. With one last bark, I leaped and planted my teeth in his backside, getting a mouthful of gray serge material.
The German was facedown in the mud, struggling to get free. I kept my jaw clamped shut, and I heard his pants begin to rip as he tried to pull away. I growled a warning.
Don’t try it, buddy. You won’t make it. But really I was thinking, Help! I can’t hold on forever.
Luckily, my barking had done the trick. Three American G.I.s ran up to us, and I knew it was safe to let go. They pulled the man to his feet.
“Kamerad,” he said. “Kamerad.”
But of course he wasn’t a kamerad, which means “friend.” He was the enemy.
“Surrender,” he said in English. “Surrender.”
I growled again. Lots of German soldiers had surrendered, and none of them had snuck around making marks on paper.
One of my guys reached into the man’s jacket and pulled out the papers.
“You’re not here to surrender, kamerad,” the G.I. said. “You were drawing a map of our positions.”
The German looked scared.
“Hey, Stubby, you caught a spy,” one of the other G.I.s said.
“A spy? Stubby caught a spy!” another guy yelled. He was loud enough for the men nearby to hear, but not loud enough to draw German fire.
Then my human, Bob, ran over to find out what was going on, and everyone started making a huge fuss, which was kind of nice, even though I was just doing my job. By the rules of war, any valuables the prisoner had belonged to me, including the Iron Cross he wore on his uniform. The Iron Cross is one of the highest honors a German soldier can achieve, and now—while the other guys marched the prisoner to headquarters—Bob pinned that cross to the coat I wore.
Even better, the company cook threw me a juicy bone!
The capture of that German spy would get me unofficially promoted to sergeant, the only dog sergeant in the entire US Army.
But we didn’t celebrate my promotion for long. I had to hide the bone and hope the enormous rats that ran around in the trenches wouldn’t find it before I got back. The fog was lifting, and it was time to head into battle.
But before I can tell you about that, I have to tell you about how I was lost and alone on the streets of New Haven, Connecticut, joined the army, and found a special human. Then I traveled all the way to France to help win what people called the Great War.
This is my story, and I promise it’s amazing.
The first thing you have to know about me is that I don’t remember much from before I joined the army. I don’t remember my mom or how I came to live on the streets of New Haven. The first thing I remember is prowling around by myself looking for food.
I know I started out with a human owner because of my tail. I’m what most people call a Boston bull terrier or just a plain old Boston terrier. Or mostly, anyway. Like a lot of dogs, I’m more than one breed. But mostly, I’m a bull terrier. One of the things that makes Boston terriers stand out is our tails. Our tails are shortened a couple of days after we’re born to make sure we’re especially stylish. And I’m no exception, especially when it comes to style.
People used the words “brindle-patterned” to describe me. My face and paws were mostly white, but the rest of me was a kind of stripy brown. Like I said, stylish.
I was too young to remember my early days or what came next. I just know I landed on the streets of New Haven. I’m smart and strong and flat-out handsome (not to mention charming), so I did all right. Sometimes I palled around with other dogs, but mostly I was on my own. I quickly learned that the garbage cans in alleys behind restaurants were the best places to find food—second only to those behind butcher shops. One nice butcher used to save bones for me (did I mention that I’m charming?). When I was really lucky, some of those bones had meat on them.
I had a few favorite places where I curled up to sleep—places where I was well hidden. It was hard to stay warm and dry in the winter, though.
Life was okay, but I sometimes came across dogs that belonged to humans. They always had enough food to eat and a warm place to sleep. Plus, they got scratched in places that I couldn’t reach with my paws. As much as I loved my life, I knew it could be better if I had a human of my own.
Then the United States declared war, and I got my chance.
The world had been at war for three years by then. France, Great Britain, and Russia (known as the Allied powers) were fighting with Germany and Austria-Hungary (the Central powers).
Soon lots of other countries joined in on one side or another. Today people call this conflict World War I, but back then it was simply known as the Great War. Great not because it was awesome, but because it was so huge.
Three years after it all started, the two armies were still fighting it out in the trenches of France, and it didn’t seem like anyone was ever going to win.
That’s when Germany started attacking supply ships from other countries, including ours. And then they tried to talk Mexico into going to war again
st us in exchange for land in the American Southwest.
The United States had stayed out of the conflict for as long as possible, but that did it. President Woodrow Wilson was forced to declare war on Germany on April 6, 1917. The United States joined Great Britain, France, and Russia and became one of the Allies.
The only reason why I know all that is because the army came to New Haven a couple of months after President Wilson declared war. New England’s soldiers started showing up at Yale University to train on the athletic fields.
Now ask yourself—what do soldiers need more than anything?
You might think discipline. You might think gun training. Both of those things are true. But the first answer I came up with was food, and lots of it. No more back alleys and garbage cans for me! All I had to do was follow my nose. Not only did I find lots and lots of food, I found a bunch of humans that were away from home, lonely, and in need of good company.
What could be better at a time like that than the good company of a cheerful, friendly, handsome charmer like myself?
It wasn’t long before the men—or doughboys as the American soldiers were called—got to know me. Not only did the cooks save me bones and other scraps, the doughboys did, too. The men named me Stubby after my shortened tail, and I learned to run to whoever said my name. It usually meant food. Or a good scratch. Or both.
It also wasn’t long before I picked out my very favorite human. His name was James Robert Conroy, and everyone called him Bob. He was from Connecticut.
It happened like this: One day I was running through camp when I heard a whistle. I looked up to see a friendly face with a wide smile.
“Who do we have here?” he asked, reaching down to scratch me behind my ears—one of my three favorite places to be scratched (my belly and under my chin being the other two).
“That’s Stubby,” another soldier answered. “Haven’t you met him yet?”
“Hey, there, Stubby,” Bob said. “Pleased to meet’cha.” Now he scratched my second favorite place to be scratched, followed by my third.
I think you’re my favorite human, I thought.
It wasn’t just that Bob knew exactly where to scratch me, or that he started sharing every single meal with me. Or even that I slept next to him on his cot and he didn’t mind a bit. Bob smelled the way the very best humans smell—kind, friendly, and loving. I continued to visit my other friends in camp—especially the cooks—but Bob and I became best buddies. When his sisters came to visit at the end of the summer, I was the first friend he introduced them to.
I wasn’t just an eating machine, either. I was a soldier. When the soldiers marched, I marched alongside them, no matter how far they went. When they practiced digging trenches, I inspected their work. When they learned to shoot rifles, I barked encouragement. I even stood guard with Bob when it was his turn and kept my ears peeled for enemies.
There were bugle calls for everything. The day began with reveille at daybreak and ended with taps as the sun went down. In between, there were bugle calls to assemble on the field, bugle calls to start marching, to stop marching, and everything else you can think of. My favorites were the bugle calls that let the men know it was time to eat.
I learned all the bugle calls. I even paraded next to the men while they marched in formation.
Bob taught me one trick that was everyone’s favorite. The men spent a lot of time every day saluting. All that touching your hand to your forehead when you didn’t even have to scratch seemed silly to me, but I wanted to do anything Bob did.
He taught me to sit and then rise up on my back legs before I brought my right front paw to my forehead. The real trick was to wait until the other person saluted me back, and then I could drop down to all fours again.
I don’t know why the men made such a fuss over a silly little trick, but they had me do it over and over again.
So life was good. Lots and lots of food, any number of soldiers who’d let me hop on their bunks to sleep, and a special human who made me his.
There was just one problem. We were in Connecticut and the war was in France. At some point, my human was going to have to ship out, and dogs weren’t allowed.
Bob had to find a way to get me to France.
One day in the middle of September, Bob and his regiment started to take down their tents and pack up their gear.
That night, wearing heavy backpacks, the bugle called for the men to assemble near the football stadium’s gates. Then they began to march.
As always, I marched alongside them. I heard my name now and again, but the men weren’t talking to me. They were asking Bob what was going to happen.
“I don’t know,” he told them, over and over again. “I guess Stubby will stand by us for as long as he can.”
That’s exactly what I’ll do, I thought. No one’s going to separate Bob and me if I have anything to say about it.
When the soldiers boarded a railroad car at the train station, so did I. No one tried to stop me.
We rode all night. I curled up on Bob’s lap for a nap, and he and a couple of other men propped up their gear to hide me from the officers. In the morning, we stopped at Newport News, Virginia.
Bob looked right into my eyes before we got off the train. His were sadder than I had ever seen them, even when he said goodbye to his sisters in camp.
“I’m afraid this is the end of the line, Stubby,” he said. “They don’t let dogs on troopships.”
I looked right back at him and raised my chin. You’re going to have to find a way, because I’m not leaving you.
Bob didn’t say anything, but I guess he got the message. When the men marched toward the port, I marched right at their sides. People lined up, waving and cheering them on. Some of them pointed at me. It made them happy to see me heading to Europe with the soldiers. Couldn’t the army see how important I was, too?
We neared a giant ship—the SS Minnesota—and I gave Bob a quiet bark. Look at that huge ship. There’s plenty of room for a dog to hide.
Bob understood. While the doughboys were milling around on the dock waiting to board the ship, he and one of his friends introduced themselves to a sailor and shared the problem. It wasn’t long before they had a plan. While Bob and the other doughboys marched on board the Minnesota under the eyes of their officers, the sailor wrapped me in a blanket and carried me up the gangplank. No one noticed.
I hid out in a coal bin in the engine room. It was dark and dusty and noisy. I admit, I was a little scared, but I knew if I was going to be reunited with Bob, I’d have to be quiet. And so I was. The big ship swayed in the waves of the harbor as it pulled out of port and I thought I might be sick, but as the ship gained speed, my stomach settled down. Now it was just a matter of waiting—waiting until we were far enough out to sea that no one would try to put me in a lifeboat and send me back to shore. I spent two whole days in that coal bin. The sailor who hid me came by with food and water, but it felt long and lonely. Then, finally, it was safe to come out.
I was so happy to run again that I dashed up and down the length of the engine room a bunch of times. When I got that out of my system, I barked at the sailor.
Take me to my human. Take me to see Bob.
And he did.
Bob scratched me in all my favorite places while I licked his face. Even though my nose was full of coal dust, he smelled just like I remembered.
“Oh boy, are you dirty,” he said.
I couldn’t see myself, but when he pulled his hands away, they were covered in black dust. Personally, I don’t mind a little dirt, but even I could tell I needed a bath.
Bob carried me downstairs to what the sailors and soldiers called the head and gave me a good scrubbing. It wasn’t long before I was back to my regular old, handsome self.
When we finished, Bob took me to see the guys. “But if any officers come around, make yourself scarce,” he warned.
We trotted into a big room filled with bunk after bunk after bunk.
�
�Stubby’s back!” someone said.
“Yay, Stubby! You broke out of the brig,” another added.
“Brig” is the navy’s word for jail, and I guess I sort of was in jail for a while.
Boy am I glad to be free! I barked.
There were whistles and cheers. Everyone was as happy to see me as I was to see them. I made the rounds, sniffing and licking my favorites. More than one of my soldiers had a special treat stashed away for me, which I happily accepted.
Once I had greeted my old friends, Bob took me on a tour of the ship so I could make new ones. Up on deck, I got my first look at the ocean, and let me tell you, it was big. I barked a hello to the sentries who were searching the waters for German submarines, or U-boats, and to the guys down in the engine room.
You won’t be surprised to learn that my very favorite spot on the whole ship was the mess hall—the place where the guys gathered to eat—and the kitchen just behind it. I was at my most charming when I met the cooks. The guys complained about the way the food tasted sometimes, but I never did. Those cooks worked hard, and they saved the best scraps for me.
As long as I stayed away from the officers’ areas, I pretty much had the full run of the ship for the time it took to cross the Atlantic Ocean—almost a whole month. I visited the sentries, played ball games on deck, and when I needed a nap, there was always a soldier to snuggle up against while he read or wrote letters home. At night, I slept next to Bob, the most comfortable place in the world.
Some guys in the machine shop were nice enough to make me a set of dog tags for my collar that matched the ones the soldiers wore. Mine read:
STUBBY
102nd INF
26th DIV
The 102nd was Bob’s infantry regiment, which was just one regiment in the 26th Yankee Division. The tags also included the name J. R. Conroy and Bob’s service number to make sure everyone knew who I belonged to.
Like Bob said, whenever I saw an officer, I made myself scarce. It made no sense at all, but Bob seemed to think that the officers didn’t like dogs. He was convinced they would make him give me away if they found me.
Sergeant Stubby, Hero Pup of World War I Page 1
