by Ann Bausum
German naval officers fumed as they watched this material steam past on non-military ships bound for Allied ports. In an effort to gain the advantage, military leaders convinced the Kaiser to let them begin attacking all Allied vessels, military and otherwise. Yes, the United States would likely enter the war, but it would take the nation many months to mobilize its fighting forces, they reasoned. Meanwhile the Germans could cut the Allies’ supply lifeline immediately and seize a strategic advantage. Additionally, Russia was growing weaker on the eastern front and German officers anticipated its impending defeat, an outcome that would allow soldiers from that battlefront to be redeployed in Western Europe to confront the fresh American troops. The result would be a race between a final flexing of the formidable German war machine and the mobilization of an untested American one.
The Kaiser announced on February 1, 1917, that his nation would soon resume open warfare on supply ships and other commercial steamers. Two days later, Wilson severed all ties with Germany. Did Conroy catch this news? If so, he would have known that the space between peace and war was narrowing. Even if he’d failed to notice this development, few in the country, from Conroy to the unknown person who had docked Stubby’s tail, was likely to have missed the next one: the Zimmerman telegram.
This document surfaced in late February, shortly before Germany renewed its attacks on commercial vessels. Arthur Zimmerman, the German foreign minister, had sent a coded message to his country’s ambassador in Mexico suggesting that he recruit that nation as Germany’s ally in a war against the United States. He promised Mexico a financial reward and the restoration (after a presumed victory) of Mexico’s former territory in Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas. Details of the covert plan surfaced after Great Britain intercepted Zimmerman’s telegram. Thus, U.S. involvement in the conflict became inevitable, even for the President who had “kept us out of war.”
On April 2, 1917, Wilson addressed members of Congress and proclaimed that “the world must be made safe for democracy.” The United States had to join the European fight, he said, to achieve “the ultimate peace of the world and for the liberation of its people.” Four days later, federal legislators declared war against Germany in a vote of 455 to 56. Those who supported the move had worn American flag pins on their jacket lapels on the night of Wilson’s call to arms. Opponents to the measure, such as Senator Robert “Fighting Bob” La Follette of Wisconsin, who wore no such symbol, were ridiculed as unpatriotic and disloyal. Home front tensions flared between patriots and pacifists, immigrants and native-born Americans, and beyond. They even infiltrated causes as diverse as the labor movement and the long-standing fight for woman suffrage.
As recruiters set about mustering an expanded U.S. Army, the secretary of war tapped Brig. Gen. John Joseph Pershing to lead the anticipated troops. General Pershing had become a household name the previous year during his pursuit of Mexican revolutionary Pancho Villa, but his military career included 19th-century service, too, ranging from participation in some of the government’s final battles with Native Americans, to leadership of a unit of African-American “buffalo soldiers,” to combat service alongside Theodore Roosevelt during the Spanish-American War. He had performed with distinction in the Philippines early in the 20th century, too.
Dogs and soldiers had a way of meeting up during the First World War, whether officially or more casually. In this image a dog seems to accompany U.S. First Division troops on the go during operations in the St. Mihiel salient, September 1918.
In late May 1917, Pershing met with Wilson as his commander in chief and assembled a staff of military advisers; soon after, he and his team set sail for Europe. Their job was to coordinate with Allied commanders on how best to integrate an as-yet-assembled American fighting force into the war effort. Among those who served under his command were officers who would become household names in their own right during the next world war: George C. Marshall, Douglas MacArthur, George Patton. Even the ranks of volunteers and enlisted men would yield future leaders, among them Harry S. Truman, the 34-year-old captain of an artillery battery.
While Pershing and his staff established working relationships and plotted strategy with their European counterparts, commanders back in the States began to assemble what would eventually become known as the American Expeditionary Forces, or A.E.F. Just over 300,000 soldiers served in the regular Army and the National Guard before Wilson’s call to arms. The nation would need to raise an Army of millions—an enormous logistical challenge—if it were to contribute a game-changing force to the war effort. (Eventually the United States mobilized more than four million men and sent some two million of its sons to Europe as the A.E.F.)
Pershing chose to organize his troops into military divisions of 28,000 members apiece. He designed the divisions to include multiple self-contained fighting units of infantry, artillery, and machine-gun strength. Initially these divisions and their internal battalions would fight alongside the Allied forces. Pershing’s eventual goal was for them to fight independently as one coordinated American force.
Divisions were to be constituted, trained, equipped, and transported to Europe in waves, with further training planned after reaching the continent. Regions of the country with a strong National Guard presence, such as New England, had a jump on training and recruitment. As Robert Conroy and Stubby drilled with National Guardsmen on the athletic fields of Yale University, military staffers began to knit Conroy’s unit into a larger fighting force made up of volunteers and conscripted men. They called it the 26th Division, and because it drew its corps from the New England states it became known as the Yankee Division, or YD for short.
Clarence Ransom Edwards, a 58-year-old major general who hailed from Ohio, became the commander of Conroy’s division in the summer of 1917. Although an outsider, he earned the respect of the New Englanders through his parentage (his father had come from Massachusetts), his colloquial style of command, and his personal attention to his men. He knew many of the soldiers by name and treated them like family. The men returned the compliment by calling him “Daddy,” and they became fiercely loyal.
Four infantry regiments made up the core of the Yankee Division, supplemented by an artillery brigade, a regiment of engineers, signal corps members, machine-gunners, and so on. For practical reasons, the various units mobilized and trained separately near their points of origin across New England. Conroy’s 102nd Infantry Regiment, based in New Haven, grew along with the other regiments to the prescribed size of 3,700 men. The doughboys were organized into companies of 250 soldiers each. Four companies made up a battalion, and three battalions constituted a regiment. Each regiment had its own support and specialty troops, too, from artillery batteries to supply companies to medical support. It even had its own military band.
A separate company of headquarters staff members was assembled to help the regimental commander with administration and specialty tasks. These men would gather military intelligence, carry messages, and process prisoners of war, among other responsibilities. Conroy, who had volunteered to serve as a mounted scout, was assigned to the support staff for the headquarters company of the 102nd Regiment. Off-duty he may have been teaching Stubby how to salute, but on duty he was learning the ropes of military command.
The nation’s fighting forces reflected its diversity as a land awash with immigrants. Conroy was one of some 3,000 residents from New Britain, Connecticut, who joined the war effort, voluntarily or otherwise. The rolls of soldiers from his hometown stretch from John Abate, born in Italy, to Joseph Zysek, a native of Russia. Others hailed from Poland, Persia (now known as Iran), Greece, Armenia, and countries that were then classified as enemy nations.
Overall almost a fifth of the members of the U.S. armed forces had been born overseas, and the overwhelming majority of those immigrant soldiers—70 percent—had spent fewer than ten years on American shores. Immigrants from Germany and Austria-Hungary who had not adopted United States citizenship were rejected from service. The r
olls from Conroy’s New Britain and elsewhere included African Americans, too; these troops were consigned to segregated units. Women served in the military, as well, but they worked in support roles, especially as nurses, in an era before females participated in combat.
The nature of combat during the Great War required a unique combination of manpower, animal power, and machinery. Yes, the fighting forces employed submarines, tanks, and airplanes. But they couldn’t have managed without horses, mules, and oxen, either. Harnessed animals were a part of everyday life at home, and so their presence in a war zone was taken for granted. They bore riders, pulled supply wagons, and conveyed mobile camp kitchens toward the front. They hauled ammunition, lugged rations to waiting soldiers, and transported troops by the wagon-load. Beasts of burden were everywhere during the inauguration of the modern age of weaponry.
And then there were the dogs. Although the United States was slow to embrace the role that these animals could play in a war zone, European nations were not. By the turn of the 20th century, innovative trainers in Germany, Great Britain, France, and other countries had begun preparing dogs for military and police work. When the war broke out, dogs were everywhere. Messenger dogs. Rescue dogs. Guard dogs. Dogs that delivered armaments. Dogs that delivered cigarettes to men in the trenches. Dogs that killed trench rats. Tens of thousands of dogs served during the war.
“Le chien sentinelle a son poste”—the guard dog, on duty—reads the handwritten caption added to this snapshot from the front lines of France during World War I.
Although some breeds were especially popular—Airedales among the British and, for Germans, their namesake shepherd—soldiers went to war with collies and huskies, bulldogs and sheepdogs, retrievers and dogs that, as in Stubby’s case, were of uncertain parentage. The U.S. military brought no corps of service dogs to the front, so it turned to its allies for canine aid.
Communication proved problematic during the Great War. Technologies such as radio transmission would be perfected in time for the Second World War. In theory, telephones proved useful during World War I, but enemy shelling often severed the hand-strung lines, making human runners, pigeons, and messenger dogs essential means of transmitting military orders and conveying reports from the field. Some dogs served as liaison messengers, trained to make round-trips between locations. Others acted as one-way couriers, carrying military orders or even containers of messenger pigeons to front-line outposts. Such duties put them at risk of injury, capture, and death as a matter of battlefield routine.
Rescue dogs cruised fresh battlefields in search of the wounded. They carried packs of self-serve supplies for use by conscious soldiers, including such items as bandages, water, painkillers, and whiskey. Medics relied on rescue dogs to help them bypass the corpses on a battlefield so that they could reach wounded men more efficiently: Dogs could sense with greater speed and accuracy than a human whether or not a lifeless form still remained alive. Rescue dogs were known, too, as Red Cross dogs (sometimes wearing the trademark symbol of medical assistance), sanitary dogs, and mercy dogs. In the latter role the animals offered comfort to the grievously wounded, serving as the final companions for dying soldiers.
Today people take it for granted that dogs and other animals contribute to the mental health of the troops both on and off the battlefield. No one had proven that connection at the time of World War I, but the anecdotal evidence was everywhere. Soldiers didn’t just put animals to work; they turned them into mascots, companions, and friends. Meanwhile, soldiers overseas adopted not just dogs but cats and donkeys, too. Sometimes they tamed birds, rats, and other captured animals, even a wild boar. A French air corps squadron of American expatriots sported an eye-catching pair of lion cubs as its mascots, nicknaming them Whiskey and Soda.
“People who haven’t been at the front don’t know what a little companionship means to a man on patrol duty, or in a dugout, or what a frisky pup means to a whole company,” explained British Lieutenant Ralph Kynoch during the First World War. “The pups know when a barrage is on where they can find safety, and they go there, unless the man they look to as master is going somewhere else. Trust the dog to stick hard by no matter whether it is in the danger zone or not,” he emphasized.
“If we can’t get a dog we’ll take a goat, or a cat, or a pig, a rabbit, a sheep, or, yes, even a wildcat,” Kynoch had said. “We’ll take anything for a trench companion—but give us a dog first.”
CHAPTER THREE
SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE
THOUGHTS OF DEPARTURE AND COMBAT INEVITABLY GREW among the men at Camp Yale during the summer of 1917, and Stubby may well have sensed that change was afoot. Partings between soldiers and their visitors became more emotionally charged. The marching band stopped performing. The troops consolidated their belongings. Then it happened. On a mid-September evening, members of Conroy’s regiment packed up their tents and loaded their backpacks. Next, under the cover of darkness, they began to march away from their temporary home on the Yale athletic fields.
Robert Conroy later wrote, “Stubby was sadly told it was useless to go any farther because dogs would not be permitted to board the ship.” He added, with his trademark wit, “Stubby naturally could not understand that.” But Stubby could see that his endless supply of free bones and table scraps was on the move, not to mention his best friend. So, in the dark of night, Stubby stepped into formation, marched with the men to the railway depot, and hopped aboard a train car bound for Newport News, Virginia.
No one tried to stop him.
The mobilization of the Yankee Division was one of the marvels of World War I. In a matter of months, Maj. Gen. Clarence R. Edwards and his staff had mustered and shipped to Europe a fighting force of 28,000 men. Just finding passage for that many individuals was a logistical nightmare, but the YD leadership had succeeded. Soldiers departed from Hoboken, New York City, Newport News, and Montreal. Some headed directly to France; others arrived by way of Great Britain. Some traveled on merchant ships that had been requisitioned for military transport; others shared rides on commercial liners alongside civilians. At journey’s end, the YD became the first newly formed division of American troops to reach France; only the Army regulars of the First Division (nicknamed the Big Red One because of its insignia) had arrived earlier.
When Conroy reached Newport News, he faced a serious problem: What should he do with Stubby? Officers might have looked the other way in New Haven, or not noticed, when a stray dog took part in the chaotic nighttime boarding of a troop train. But a ship? Fat chance. Soldiers would be marching up a narrow gangplank. Someone’s girlfriend would be easier to spirit on board than a cheerful dog.
Conroy, in a show of Yankee ingenuity, improvised. Rather than trying to smuggle the dog on board himself, he enlisted the aid of a crewmember from the Minnesota, the vessel designated for his passage to France. Prior to the ship’s departure, the seaman quietly secured his stowaway in an engine room coal bin, and Stubby remained there until the boat was well out to sea. Then the two friends were reunited, and, remarkably, the dog’s presence remained unchallenged. Their voyage lasted the better part of a month. Seasickness may have plagued other passengers on board the ship, but not Stubby. As one newspaper reporter later suggested, “Stubby’s life was one soup bone after another,” from then on.
Stubby acquired plenty of military training during the First World War, but he enjoyed just being a dog, too. This undated photograph catches him after a swim.
Typically the ships that departed from Newport News as part of the mobilization effort served as livestock transports, carrying the required military horses and mules to Europe. Plenty of these animals got seasick, just like the humans, making such passages noisy, messy, and filled with work. The Minnesota, however, was tasked with transporting troops instead of livestock, and that made for an easier passage.
A certain amount of military routine persisted throughout the trip—including guard duty, which Stubby reportedly shared—but the men had plenty
of free time, too. Those soldiers not leaning over the rails with seasickness passed the hours with card games, correspondence, reading, and conversation. Food varied in quality, but at least it came at predictable intervals. Some of these transport ships traveled alone, but more of them traveled in convoys and with military escorts as a protection against submarine attacks.
When the Minnesota reached France in early October, Conroy employed a more straightforward method for disembarking: He hoisted his pack, concealed Stubby in his overcoat, and carried him off the ship. His buddies, according to Conroy, provided “good interference,” and the dog again escaped detection.
By this time Stubby’s friends had made him a set of military ID tags. The idea of affixing a pair of durable identification tags on soldiers gained widespread use during the First World War as a way of naming and accounting for the dead. U.S. soldiers hung pairs of metal discs from their necks. Naturally, Stubby’s tags hung from his leather collar. His tags read:
STUBBY
102nd INF
26th DIV
Ringing the central text was the name “J.R. Conroy” and the number “63254,” Conroy’s official service number. Even in that era such discs were nicknamed dog tags, and Conroy, with his rich sense of humor, must have enjoyed the joke.
The arriving Americans experienced the first of many instances of culture shock when they encountered the local form of military ground transportation. Doughboys quickly learned that the French moved combat troops not by passenger coach but by boxcar. They called their carriages “40 & 8s” because they could carry 40 hommes et 8 cheveaux, that is, 40 men or, alternatively, 8 horses. The Americans nicknamed the boxcars “side-door Pullmans,” a tongue-in-cheek reference to the luxurious railway cars from back home. If the occupants were lucky, their boxcar included some straw to cushion the floor. Weather permitting, soldiers traveled with the doors pushed back, seated in turns with their legs hanging outside the openings.
