Sergeant Stubby, Hero Pup of World War I Page 2

  Whenever I had a close call and saw him worrying, I looked right into his eyes.

  No one is going to separate us—not ever.

  It took about a month to sail all the way to Saint-Nazaire, France. And I didn’t get caught. It was October when we spotted land in the distance.

  The men and I gathered on deck for our first look at France.

  “It looks so peaceful,” Bob said. “No sign of war from here.”

  One of the other doughboys slapped him on the back. “We’ll bring peace back,” he said. “Just give us a couple of months, and we’ll have those Germans on the run.”

  On our last day at sea, I made the rounds saying goodbye to the cooks and my favorite sailors on the SS Minnesota before we disembarked.

  Watch out for U-boats, and thanks for all the soup bones, I told them. I hope the food is just as good in France.

  When it was time, Bob wrapped me in his coat and asked his buddies to create a distraction. They joked and laughed in really loud voices while they jostled each other around on the gangplank. All eyes turned to them, and Bob and I made it to land unseen.

  Let me tell you, walking on land after being on the ocean for almost four weeks was very strange. It felt like the ground was rising and falling like the ocean waves, even though it really wasn’t. It took me a while to get my land legs.

  I was still working on that when one of the 26th Division’s top brass spotted us, and I guess he recognized me from Connecticut. Before we knew it, he had marched up behind us.

  “Soldier,” he demanded. “Want to explain why you brought a dog to war?”

  Everyone around us got quiet, waiting to see what the officer was going to do. Was he going to report us to Major General Clarence “Daddy” Edwards, the head of the whole division?

  Don’t even think about trying to send me home, I thought.

  I could tell by the look on Bob’s face that he was scared. He spun on his heels and saluted.

  I knew what that meant. I sat down, leaned back, and raised my right paw to my forehead. I held it there for a long time.

  C’mon, Officer, you’re supposed to salute back. Don’t you know the rules?

  The officer looked surprised, and then finally did his job and saluted the two of us back.

  I dropped down to all fours again, but Bob stayed at attention. “He followed us onto the ship, sir. Stubby wants to fight the Germans, too.”

  The officer shook his head and sighed. “The dog can stay on as a mascot,” he barked, “but make sure he never gets in the way of the work of this army.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bob told him. “Stubby’s a good dog, sir.”

  The officer stomped away, and Bob breathed a big sigh of relief.

  “Hear that, Stubby? You’re our official mascot. No one can make you go away now.”

  The 102nd Infantry, part of the 26th Yankee Division, was among the first troops to reach France. The French people were happy to see us, but we had to wait for more US doughboys to arrive before we could enter the fight.

  We didn’t stay in Saint-Nazaire for long. Almost as soon as the commanding officer said I could stick around, we were on the march to another train station. We piled onto trains and spent a few days traveling inland in cramped, uncomfortable railroad cars designed for freight, not people.

  We finally arrived at a place called Neufchâteau and were able to stretch our legs. The town didn’t have enough room for all of us. Officers had real beds in a hotel, but the rest of us had to make do. Bob and I were lucky enough to be assigned to a drafty barn on the outskirts of town. It was cold at night, but we had each other to snuggle up with. That made it cozy.

  The army hadn’t figured out how to set up kitchens and feed us all yet, so we headed to nearby storehouses for supplies, and my small group of guys took turns cooking in the barnyard. A lot of them complained about the food, but that just meant more for me. Sometimes we bought food at local farms and restaurants, and I often got to play with the children who gathered around whenever they spotted the American doughboys.

  At night, when training ended, the guys would tell one another stories. Some asked what the others thought we’d face in battle, but mostly they talked about home. Some had wives and girlfriends and they’d show their pictures around, and all the other guys would whistle and say they were beauties and that the guys were lucky men.

  Bob didn’t have a sweetheart, but he did have sisters. He told stories about growing up with them. He even promised to introduce one of the other guys to his sisters when we all got home again.

  By late October 1917, all of the Yankee Division had reached France, but we still needed more American soldiers before we could join the fight. While we waited, we did more training. Most of the fighting in France was done from trenches dug into the earth, and the men needed to practice fighting in them. They also learned how to fire machine guns and throw grenades. Let me tell you—that was LOUD. But I got used to it. And, of course, there was marching and marching and more marching.

  French people, especially children, lined up to wave and cheer as the doughboys tramped by. I quickly became a favorite, of course. The children especially loved to run along beside me. I liked to stop and play with them, but I always ran after Bob again before he got too far away. I didn’t know my way around France yet, and I didn’t want to lose him.

  The doughboys trained with one another, with the English—whom the men called Tommies—and with the French, known as poilus. I’m told that means “hairy,” but the French men didn’t seem to me to be any more hairy than the Americans. None of them had as much hair as a dog. I felt sorry for them about that. It meant they got cold a lot faster than I did.

  Cold or not, furry or not, we all got ready to face our German enemies.

  Bob was assigned to the 102nd’s headquarters, and that meant I got assigned to headquarters, too. When he carried messages from one outfit to another, I trotted along next to his horse. We got to visit lots of towns, including one that made me a special medal in honor of Joan of Arc, a famous French heroine who led an army in another war a long, long time ago. I also stayed at Bob’s side when he was on guard duty, keeping an eye out for enemy soldiers. But of course my favorite place to go with him, when it was finally set up, was the mess tent.

  One thing we all hated was the mud. That fall, it rained almost every day, and the thick mud stuck to everything. It was almost a relief when the temperature dropped and the mud froze, but then we were marching in snow and sleet—even once in a blizzard. Our barn, which seemed so cozy when we first arrived, turned into one big icy draft. The men’s boots fell apart. I started sleeping on top of Bob’s feet to keep him from getting frostbite. The best gift he got that winter was a pair of woolen socks knitted by his sister.

  We celebrated our first Christmas away from home. The cooks made a special meal, and the men all told one another that the war would be won and they’d be back home by the next Christmas.

  I hope that’s true, I thought. I like home, especially now that I have a human. Where Bob goes, I go.

  In January 1918, the 102nd got a new commander. Major General “Daddy” Edwards was still in charge of the whole division, but Colonel John Henry “Gatling Gun” Parker took over the regiment. I made sure to win him over with my salute, and the men said I was the only member of the regiment who could talk back to him without being court-martialed or kicked out of the army.

  It was Gatling Gun Parker who led us into the combat zone. On February 5, 1918, we took a position behind the French at a place called Chemin des Dames. The Germans were east of our position, and the French were just opposite them. Our job was to be ready if the Germans broke through the French front lines and to stop them from pushing on to Paris, the French capital. Everyone agreed it would be a disaster if the Germans reached Paris.

  The front lines were a complicated series of interconnected trenches dug into the ground. The men moved between the front-line trenches and the underground living areas farth
er back. The best bunkers had wooden planks covering the walls and floors, and some had wooden bunk beds built into them, too. In others, the men slept in the dirt and mud.

  In between the German and the Allied trenches was an open field called No Man’s Land. No one wanted to get caught out there without the trenches for protection, let me tell you. I learned pretty quickly that it was best to stay underground. Whenever anyone or anything popped up above the trenches, the Germans fired their guns. The same thing happened if we made too much noise. Someone would laugh or shout and then—boom!—a shell would come our way.

  Bob was assigned to the regiment’s intelligence unit. Our job was to figure out enemy troop movements and report back to the top brass. That meant we moved around a lot in the trenches, talking to soldiers who knew what was going on. It was so cold that moving was mostly a good thing, and along the way I got to know a lot of the soldiers in the regiment. But there were lots of times when Bob was too close to the fighting. I didn’t know how I’d keep him safe when that happened.

  Sometimes there were enemy raids and the men had to fight almost face-to-face, but mostly the fighting came in the form of artillery fire. Pretty soon we all learned to tell the difference between the big French guns and the German guns just by the sounds they made.

  I heard the shells coming long before the men did, and I tried to let them know when a shell was about to explode right in front of us. But the thing we all worried about the most was poison gas. All of the G.I.s had their own gas masks. Horses and dogs had them, too, and Bob got one for me. My French-made doggy mask didn’t fit right, and Bob didn’t think it would keep the bad air out. He and a French lieutenant worked together to make one that would keep me safe. Then Bob made me practice wearing it over and over again.

  In March, we experienced our first poison gas attack. I smelled something strange—something I had never smelled before. Then the bells rang to warn us, but it was too late. The gas shells were already filling the air with a smelly green haze. Bob and I didn’t get our gas masks on in time. Hours later, when the shelling finally stopped, my eyes still burned and it was hard to breathe. Without my gas mask, I would have died. It was a whole day before I felt better.

  You won’t get me twice, I thought.

  I learned my lesson. After that, I was on alert. I could smell that gas long before the humans did, so I created a warning system of my own. I ran through the trenches barking at the men until they put on their masks and rang the warning bells.

  Once, when the battle was particularly loud and Bob couldn’t hear me barking over the din, I nosed my mask into his hand and he got the message.

  Another time, one of the soldiers, John Curtin, was sound asleep.

  Wake up! I barked. There’s a gas shell coming.

  He didn’t move.

  I barked some more, but it had been days since he had gotten a decent rest and he didn’t hear a thing. Finally, I jumped right on top of him and nipped his nose. That got his attention.

  “Stubby, stop,” he groaned. “I was dreaming about my girl back home.”

  Dream or no dream, he had to put his mask on. There was no time to lose. I shoved my nose under his blanket and nudged him until he finally figured out that he’d better pay attention. Then I nosed his gas mask.

  You’re not going to get gassed on my watch, I barked. Put your mask on. And mine, too.

  Gas attack warnings weren’t my only job on the front lines. While Bob was moving through the trenches gathering intelligence, I got to know the men. I could smell the ones who were the most afraid and needed some dog time to feel better. I reminded the men of home, and petting me calmed them down. You need to keep your wits about you on the battlefield, and you can’t do that when you’re out of your mind with fear.

  It’s also hard to keep your wits about you when you’re covered in fleas and lice, and when rats are running all over and stealing your food. That was another job of mine—catching rats. I was a good hunter, but even I couldn’t keep up with them. They grew to be as big as cats and weren’t scared of humans at all. They ran over the men while they were sleeping and even tried to take food right out of their hands. Those rats were on a constant hunt for food. I guess that’s why they were so big.

  All of that great work I did made me popular—even with the French soldiers. One day, I decided it was time to check out French food. I was always hearing about how great it was supposed to be. So I wandered a bit farther away than usual to find a French mess tent.

  I was just starting to get to know the cook—a nice guy who wasn’t hairy at all—when one of those French soldiers decided he wanted to keep me around. First, he made sure the cook slipped me a generous sample of that night’s stew. While I was busy judging for myself whether French food was better than American food, that poilu slipped a leash around my neck!

  Hey, no fair! I barked. I need to be free.

  I had always been able to roam wherever I wanted, and let me tell you, I did not like that leash one bit. I tried to run, but when he didn’t have his hands on the leash, he tied me to the wall of his bunker.

  Let me go! Bob must be worried about me, and I need to get back to my guys, I barked. Read my dog tags!

  But the poilu didn’t listen. It wasn’t until a doughboy named Smitty spotted me and had a big argument with the French guy that I finally got away. Smitty walked me back to the 102nd’s headquarters. When we got close, he took off that horrible leash. I couldn’t wait to get back to Bob. As soon as I picked up his scent, I bounded in his direction.

  “Stubby!” Bob shouted. “Where’ve you been?”

  Smitty explained what had happened, and I snuggled up next to my guy while he scratched me in all my favorite places.

  No more leashes for me, I told him. I do not like being tied up. And by the way, French cooking isn’t any better than ours.

  That problem was solved, but we were about to face a much bigger one.

  During those early months on the front lines, we shadowed the French soldiers and learned what we could from them. We learned what it meant to live and fight in the trenches, but we hadn’t participated in any big battles.

  That was about to change.

  In the spring, the Germans put on a new offensive and our training came to an end. It was time to fight for real. The Yankee Division was moved to the town of Toul, where we had to defend our territory without the help of the French. Headquarters was set up in a small village just north of Toul called Beaumont, but Bob and I were practically on the front lines.

  We tried to take our new position quietly, but the Germans weren’t fooled. Across the shell-pocked stretch of No Man’s Land, the men could see German signs that read, Welcome, 26th Division.

  It wasn’t just signs that “welcomed” us, either. German gas and artillery shells rained down on us along with real rain, filling our trenches with puddles and mud. We answered with artillery shells of our own. The noise didn’t stop.

  In the early morning hours of April 20, 1918, the Germans attacked with more than just shells and bullets. Enemy storm troopers, soldiers specially trained in hand-to-hand combat, appeared out of nowhere and rushed our front line. Our men tried to hold them back, but we were outnumbered six to one.

  The storm troopers overran the first trench and then advanced to the next. All the American soldiers joined the battle. Radio communication had been cut off by German shells, but runners arrived at headquarters with news of the attack. Bob grabbed his gun, and we headed out to the trenches to help the doughboys while others prepared to retreat with any important papers that couldn’t fall into enemy hands. Even the company cook jumped into the trenches and started swinging his meat cleaver at the German soldiers!

  Many of our men were killed. Many others had been taken prisoner in the storm troopers’ first assault. Those of us who were left did all we could to make sure the Germans didn’t gain any more ground. The shelling and gunfire continued for hours.

  Finally, in late afternoon,
the storm troopers began to retreat back to their own lines. The battle quieted and then it seemed to be over. I jumped out of the trench to check things out. I thought there might be wounded men who needed my help.

  Big mistake.

  I had just started to nose around when a shell we all thought was a dud suddenly exploded, sending shrapnel flying in all directions.

  A piece of fiery metal hit me in the chest. It hurt so much that I couldn’t move. All I could do was howl.

  I picked out Bob’s voice under all the other battlefield noises. “Don’t move, Stubby,” he yelled. “I’m coming for you.”

  Don’t worry; I’m not going anywhere.

  Bob waited until things got quiet again. Then he crawled out of the trench and slithered toward me on his belly.

  Be careful, I whimpered. Keep your head down.

  Bob wrapped his arms around me and pressed against my wound. It hurt, but I knew he was trying to stop the flow of blood. Then he slithered back toward the trench with me in his arms. He handed me over to a pair of waiting hands, and then he fell back into the trench after me.

  Whew! We made it.

  But I still wasn’t out of danger. My wound was bad, even I could see that. Bob did his best to clean it up and stop me from losing too much blood, but I needed more help than he could give me.

  Bob made his way back toward headquarters with me in his arms and stopped at a first aid station.

  A medic checked me out. I tried not to whimper because I wanted to be brave for Bob and my other guys. But boy did that hurt!

  “How bad is it, Doc?” Bob asked. His forehead was creased with worry.

  “It’s a serious wound,” the doctor said, “but with rest, Stubby will recover.”

  Then he told Bob that I’d have to go to a field hospital for help. I needed stitches, and I needed to be away from the noise and the mud and the cold. Bob laid me down in an ambulance next to a wounded soldier.

  “You get well, Stubby,” he said. “I’ll come and visit you as soon as I can.”