I took a last look at Bob. Stay alive, my friend. I’m coming back, I wanted to tell him. We’ll be together again soon.
The first few days in the field hospital were a blur. A surgeon put me to sleep before cleaning my wound and stitching it up. Then someone else put bandages on me. They strapped me to a cot so I wouldn’t move around and damage their work.
Don’t worry, I thought. It hurts too much to move.
Every day, someone cleaned my wound and gave me new bandages. And each day, my wound hurt a little less. Pretty soon, I was awake more than I was asleep, and I was eating and drinking like I normally did. I knew my guys at the front would be really sad until I came back, but I took full advantage of the quiet and the rest at the hospital to get strong again.
As soon as I could, I started visiting the other wounded soldiers in their hospital beds. Some were in pain, some were scared, and some just needed a reminder of home. I made them all feel better.
If I can make it, you can, too, I told them. Get better.
I was glad to be doing such important work, but I could sometimes hear the big guns in the distance, and I knew my place was by Bob’s side. I needed to get back to him. I needed to protect him.
I had been at the hospital for almost six weeks when I realized I didn’t have any more pain—not even a little twinge where my stitches had been. I experimented by jumping up on one of the soldier’s beds, and I felt completely fine. I could run just like I could before my injury, too. I had a small scar, but otherwise I was back to normal.
I jumped around to show the doctors and nurses that I was completely healed.
Hey, Doc, I’m all better! I need to get back to Bob and to the war, I told my surgeon.
He understood. Just two days later, I hitched a ride with a couple of soldiers who were on their way back to the front. I was way more excited than they were. They didn’t have a Bob of their own to get back to.
It was early June when I returned to the front lines. What had come to be called the Battle of Seicheprey had been over for more than a month. The Yankee Division must have scared those Germans good—the cook waving his meat cleaver around was enough to give anyone nightmares—because they had been pretty quiet since I left for the hospital. There certainly weren’t any more visits from the storm troopers while I was away.
The men sure were glad to have me back, especially Bob. We had a good long visit with scratching and licking and hugging—and even a few delicious treats—when I arrived. Everyone was thrilled to see me in fighting shape again.
Even better, spring had given way to summer. Not only was it warm, the mud had mostly dried up. The trenches were still full of rats—I got on that job pretty quick, let me tell you—and the men were still covered in fleas and lice, but compared to March and April, life was good.
The war hadn’t disappeared completely, though. Shells still flew, and there were a few German raids across No Man’s Land, but nothing like the offensive in which I was injured. Our guys were able to defend against every single German attack. More and more American doughboys were arriving in France all the time, and slowly the Allies began to regain territory that had earlier been lost to the enemy.
During that time, Bob and I traveled through the trenches, delivering messages and collecting information about German troop movements. We kept our heads down and stayed underground as much as we could, but more than once, we had a close call with a bullet or a shell.
Rumors began to fly that our regiment was going to get a break. The men had been fighting for nearly five months, and they thought it was time for a rest. They were dreaming of visits to Paris, and some said we would march in a Fourth of July parade right past the Eiffel Tower.
We all thought that rumor was coming true when we were ordered out of the trenches. No one told us where we were going, as the army couldn’t risk men talking to one another about their plans in front of German spies by mistake. So we were full of hope as piled into the train cars. Every town we passed through was full of French people waving and cheering. I barked back at them and Bob and all the guys yelled. It was like a big party. We were pushing back the Germans. Everyone was hopeful that the war would end soon.
This is great! I thought. No more bullets flying at us and lots of happy people!
There was a huge cheer when the men spotted the Eiffel Tower in the distance.
“I told you we were going to Paris!” one of them shouted.
The men were still whistling and cheering when the train shifted to another set of railroad tracks and made a turn.
Suddenly, there was silence. We weren’t going to Paris.
We passed more towns after that, and the French people came out to wave and cheer for us like before. Only now the men didn’t cheer back.
We’re going back to war, I realized.
It turns out that the Germans were trying to push through Allied lines in another front-line sector of France: the Marne. There had been a big battle in that part of France early in the war, and now there would be the Second Battle of the Marne.
If the Germans made their way through the Allied defenses there, they’d be in Paris, France’s capital, in no time. The Allies were giving everything they had to make sure that didn’t happen, and they needed the help of the Yankee Division.
We had barely arrived and taken a position outside the town of Château-Thierry on July 15, when the Germans put on a big push. We fought hard, and by July 17, they gave up their assault, but the battle wasn’t over. Now it was our turn—the French and Americans fought together to regain territory from the enemy and send those Germans packing. The British and the Italians helped, too. It wasn’t long before the Germans were in retreat.
Bob and I did our best to keep track of the German retreat and get that information back to headquarters. Sometimes we went to headquarters ourselves. Other times we sent messengers. Things were changing all the time. It was hard to keep up.
The Allies left the trenches behind, fighting and chasing the Germans through wheat fields. Night and day, day and night, the Allies pushed on. Without the cover of the trenches, our casualties mounted. As men were hit, they were hidden by the waist-high wheat.
That’s when I took on a new job—finding wounded Americans and letting the medics know where they were. I could tell the difference between one of my guys and the enemy. They wore different uniforms and they talked differently. I had to pass the Germans right by. There were too many wounded Americans, and my guys came first—always.
I’d bark to let the medics know that I found someone who needed their help, and I’d stick around until they arrived.
Sometimes the doughboys were beyond saving. At first, I wanted to stop and give a proper goodbye to each one, but there were just too many. I learned to focus on the doughboys I could actually help.
The saddest were the ones who were still alive, but knew they wouldn’t make it. I’d snuggle up next to them for their final moments so that they wouldn’t be alone. Some of them thought I was their dog from back home, and it made me feel proud that I could bring them comfort in the end.
That’s the shape Smitty was in when I found him in the wheat. Smitty had saved me from the French soldier with the awful leash. Smitty helped me get back to my Bob. I wish I could have saved him from this. I wish I could have helped him get back to his own family. But I couldn’t.
At first look, I thought he might already be gone, but when I licked his cheek, his eyes fluttered and he focused on me just for a second. He tried to raise his arm to pet me, but he was too weak.
“Hey, Stubby,” he whispered.
I ignored the blood and snuggled up next to him. His eyes fluttered again when I rested my nose on his shoulder. One tear slipped down his cheek. And then he was gone.
Goodbye, friend, I thought. Thank you for saving me.
I would have liked to have stayed with him until someone came to collect him for burial, but there were medics who needed my help to find the men who could still b
e saved.
If only Smitty could have hung on for a little while longer. Everyone said the war would be over any day. Germany was vowing to fight on, but it seemed like most of the German soldiers couldn’t wait to surrender.
We collected lots of German prisoners. I was happy that they weren’t going to be able to shoot at us anymore, but I didn’t trust them. Bob used a translator to talk to some of them to learn more about German troop movements before they were marched to headquarters and then on to a prisoner of war camp.
I made sure to bark my meanest bark as they marched by. If anyone slipped out of line, I went after him. There would be no escaping when I was around.
Eyes straight ahead, prisoner, I’d bark. No one escapes on my watch!
By the time the Second Battle of the Marne was over in early August 1918, the Americans had lost fifty thousand men. We had taken eleven miles of territory back from the Germans, including woods, fields, and even a couple of towns. It was clear that Germany was losing the war. They knew it and we knew it. I just hoped they’d surrender fast before any more of my guys got hurt.
Bob and I were still in the small town of Château-Thierry when the battle ended. The people of the town were finally free of the Germans after years of occupation, and boy were they happy. We were all celebrating when I smelled a gas attack on the way.
I barked and barked. Gas is coming! Poison gas!
It was my special gas bark, and Bob knew exactly what to do. He made sure the army rang the alarm bells and we all—soldiers, citizens, and dogs—got our gas masks on in time.
If the people of Château-Thierry weren’t already grateful to us, they sure were now. They were so happy that they made me a uniform of my very own. It was a soft, tan leather and was even nicer than Bob’s. There was gold braid stitched onto it along with my name and unit. There were official Yankee Division patches and an embroidered wreath of flags from every Allied country.
I still say fur is better than clothes any day, but I was proud of my coat. It made me the most stylish dog in the army, and I got it just in time to go to Paris on leave with Bob.
Everyone said Paris was the fashion capital of the world. Now that I had my uniform, I was ready to show those Parisian dogs just how fashionable a Boston terrier could be.
I worried all the way to Paris that we would get close enough to smell it and then be called back to the war again. But that didn’t happen this time. Bob and I had ten whole days in the city—away from bombs, away from poison gas, away from war.
Ooh la la!
And let me tell you, the people of Paris love dogs! Bob had no trouble finding a hotel that would let me stay with him, and we had a swell time in all the outdoor cafés. Waiters made sure to bring me my very own water bowl, and Bob shared whatever food he ordered with me.
Wherever we went, I attracted a lot of attention. No one had ever seen a dog in uniform before, and Bob made sure to tell anyone who spoke English all about my work for the doughboys.
My special favorites were the youngest humans. Bob and I were checking out the Arc de Triomphe, a famous French monument, when two sisters came over to pet me instead of crossing the street like they intended. We didn’t speak the same language, but we had a good visit, anyway, with some very nice scratching.
Then the girls said au revoir, which I knew meant “goodbye.” They were just about to step off the curb when I heard a horse coming—fast.
Wait! Don’t go! I barked. A runaway horse!
I ran in front of the girls and kept them on the sidewalk. They thought I was trying to get some more pets and scratches in, but a split second later, a horse charged up the street with a crazy look in its eyes. Something must have spooked it, and it ran without seeing what was right in front of it. My new friends would have been trampled if it weren’t for me.
The younger sister dropped to her knees and gave me a huge hug, while the older sister kept saying “merci” over and over again. That means “thank you.”
“Je t’aime, Stubby,” the younger one added. “I love you.”
Happy to help, I barked. Be safe!
People who saw what happened called me a hero, and I guess maybe I was. But I sure was looking forward to a world where I didn’t have to keep my friends from being shot, or gassed, or trampled. Peace couldn’t come soon enough for me or for Bob. We had beaten the Germans at the Marne, but they still held other parts of France, and we had to go back to war and shake them loose.
When we got back to headquarters after our Paris vacation, Bob and I learned that the 102nd had another new commanding officer. Gatling Gun Parker was replaced by “Hiking Hiram” Bearss.
“Don’t forget to impress him, Stubby,” Bob whispered.
Don’t worry, I thought. I’ll charm the new guy in no time.
And I did. All it took was that salute Bob taught me back in Connecticut and I immediately won officers over. Hiking Hiram was no exception. I was irresistible.
Hiking Hiram led us on our next mission. We’d had the Germans on the run for weeks, and everyone knew they were going to lose the war, but they refused to give up. Our new mission was to regain territory in northeastern France that the Germans had won way back in 1914.
If we were going to win, we needed to have surprise on our side. The entire Yankee Division gathered in the dark of night in early September 1918 and began a ten-day march. Of course, most of the men didn’t know where we were going. The army couldn’t risk our plans getting back to German spies. We just knew we were on the march.
The men ate wild blackberries and cherries along the way. The cooks picked apples and fed us apple fritters. That helped make up for all the rain and the mud. If we weren’t marching into battle, I think the men might have enjoyed their journey across France.
The French people sure appreciated us. Every time we marched through a town or a village, no matter how small or how damaged by the war, the people came out to cheer us on and to wish us luck.
Not surprisingly, they loved me, especially when I was wearing my uniform. I trotted along beside Bob looking as fierce and soldierlike as I could, but that didn’t fool anyone. Children still ran beside me, laughing.
There were always cries of, “Le chien! Le chien!”—which means “dog” in French.
Things were pretty jolly until we were close to our objective, just south of the town of Verdun. The men got quieter and quieter, knowing what was in store. No one was looking forward to facing the German guns again.
Be safe everyone, I thought. At the same time, I knew that was impossible. Very soon I would have to say goodbye to more of my friends.
On the night of September 12, 1918, more than five hundred thousand American doughboys and one hundred thousand French poilus went on the attack. First, we hit the Germans with artillery fire, and in the morning, we advanced through fog and rain. We had the Germans on the run—they were giving up territory they had held for four years.
There were shells landing, bullets flying, and men screaming. Throughout it all, Bob was busy trying to figure out the path of the Germans’ retreat. We climbed hills whenever we could to try to spot them in the distance, and I worried every time that someone would send a shell in our direction, or a sniper would fire a bullet. We had a couple of close calls, but Bob and I stayed safe.
For four days, we seemed to be on the move almost constantly—marching through the night and taking territory during the day. The Germans had set a lot of fires on their retreat. The smoke burned our eyes and made the men cough as they raced forward. We captured prisoners and took possession of abandoned supplies and big guns along the way.
We were moving so quickly, our rolling kitchens couldn’t keep up. The men were tired, hungry, and thirsty, but they kept advancing. After four days of hard fighting, we had cleared our area of Germans and freed the city of Saint-Mihiel.
The people of Saint-Mihiel were thrilled to see the last of the Germans. They hugged and kissed the tired, dirty doughboys as we marched through town.
We were all so covered in mud that we were hardly recognizable, but I got my share of attention, too. I even got a nice bone for my troubles.
We didn’t have time to celebrate before we got a new mission. Now we had to march through the never-ending rain, sixty miles north, to help in another operation. This one was designed to force Germany to surrender once and for all.
Leave it to the doughboys, I thought. We’ll get the job done.
The top brass wanted us to take the Germans by surprise, but how could a force of more than half a million men, four thousand guns, and almost one hundred thousand horses on the march actually surprise anyone with ears—even inferior human ears? But soldiers have to follow orders, and so we did our best to be as quiet as half a million men could be. It took a couple of weeks of marching for us to take our new position.
The plan was to confuse the enemy with attacks on multiple fronts. The Yankee Division’s job was to take two towns that were in German hands—Marchéville and Riaville—while other divisions fought a much larger battle nearby. That way, the Germans couldn’t send all their soldiers to defend against the bigger battle.
On September 26, 1918, we were waiting for orders to begin our assault on Marchéville. I went on patrol to make sure all was well, and that’s when I saw him—a German soldier lurking around and making marks on paper. This was no prisoner. And this guy wasn’t here to surrender. He was a spy!
I barked to let my men know that something was wrong. I squared off in front of the guy and growled.
He tried to pretend he was a friend, but I knew better.
No spies on my watch, buddy!
When he saw that I meant business, he tried to run. But no soldier can run faster than me. I barked again to alert my guys to the danger and then leaped on the spy and sank my teeth into his pants. He fell facedown in the mud, and I held him there until help arrived.
That was when the guys promoted me to Sergeant Stubby, and it felt good. I even outranked Bob!
Whenever a German prisoner was captured, his belongings were given to the doughboy who caught him. That’s how I got the Iron Cross—one of the highest honors a German soldier can achieve.
Sergeant Stubby, Hero Pup of World War I Page 3
