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3. Determination

3

determination

exceeding every expectation

The difference between the impossible and the possible lies in a man’s determination.

—Tommy Lasorda

It would be World War II before the United States military began to train dogs for active duty. During that era dogs drafted into service were almost always German shepherds. Reflecting the qualities of canine movie heroes Strongheart and Rin Tin Tin, the large, powerful, athletic, singular-minded, and determined breed was the poster boy of dog heroism. The connection with the military was so strong that in 1942 when Uncle Sam said, “I want you,” he was usually pointing to a German shepherd.

Yet, in World War I, long before the army or marines had even considered using dogs in combat, a fifteen-pound, stubby-tailed, black, brindle, and seal-colored Boston terrier charmed his way into the hearts of new recruits. He was nothing like the dogs used in later wars, but this fiery little mutt proved that it was not the size of the dog in the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog that mattered in life and in the army. He was an unlikely hero, but in military annals this diminutive mutt has no rivals.

Nothing is known of Stubby’s first months of life, but there is little doubt that he was lost or abandoned when still a very small pup. Pugnacious, cute, but in a very ugly sort of way, in his build and appearance he was very likely a purebred Boston terrier. As the breed was very popular on the east coast in the first few decades of the 1900s, it was not uncommon for those dogs that could not be sold to be dumped. And as the country was literally overrun with unwanted dogs, few ever found homes. But even though he was adrift and alone, this feisty creature found a way to beat the odds and survive. In fact, his will to live and ability to adapt would be the key to hundreds of Americans coming home after World War I.

When folks first started noticing the terrier he was making daily rounds digging through trash in New Haven, Connecticut. He was a loner who usually stuck to the alleys, watched cars, carriages, and people from a distance, and stayed away from other dogs. Those who began to observe the canine grew to admire his attitude. He was smart enough to avoid dogcatchers and quick enough to outrun housewives armed with brooms. His stride was strong and he carried his head high. Even though he was completely unwanted and had no human friends, the little creature most called a bulldog still acted as though he was king of the walk.

Stubby might have stayed on the streets if he hadn’t made a side trip to Yale University. It was late fall and he was looking for food under the stands of the football field when a group of army recruits assembled in the stadium to begin their marching exercises. Fascinated by what he observed, the dog walked out to the side of the gridiron, took a seat, and followed the action. He remained completely mesmerized for the next two hours.

Though no one knew why, watching the men training at Yale for the war in Europe became a part of Stubby’s daily routine. Sensing they had a fan, some of the men began to bring kitchen scraps to the little mutt. Within a week, due to his sawed-off tail, he had been given the name “Stubby.” The aloof dog even began to bond with several of the men. As he grew to trust them, the recruits played with the dog and even let him stay in their tents. Once Stubby was fully entrenched in the camp, Corporal Robert Conroy took over the care of the newest army recruit. Beyond feeding Stubby, Conroy’s primary job was making sure the commanding officers never caught sight of the little guy.

As it neared the time for 102nd to ship out, Stubby was no longer content to just watch the troopers drill. One day, to the horror of Conroy and his mates, the terrier joined them on the parade grounds. Marking perfectly square turns and holding his head high, the dog brought up the rear of the formation. When the drill sergeant called for the unit to halt and turn to face the observing officer, the dog did as well, holding his pose as if waiting for the command “at ease.” When that order finally came, the little dog sat down. As Conroy and his friends whispered, urging Stubby to run away, one of the commanding officers made his way toward the dog.

“What have we here?” he demanded.

“Just a stray dog,” Conroy explained. Then he quickly admitted, “He’s hanging around because we’ve been feeding him scraps.”

“That is against regulations,” the officer pointed out.

“Yes, sir,” the corporal acknowledged.

The officer leaned toward the terrier, shook his head, and yelled, “Someone get this dog out of here.”

The words had no more than left the man’s lips when Stubby sat up on his haunches and raised his right paw to his brow as if he were saluting. A few giggles were heard as the officer shook his head and frowned. But, when the dog continued to hold the salute, even the career military man grinned. Finally, not really knowing what else to do, he shrugged and barked, “At ease.” Stubby immediately dropped back to a standing position.

“Conroy,” the officer said, “come over here.” After the corporal joined him, the officer whispered, “You can keep the dog until we ship out. But don’t abandon it when you leave. Find this guy a good home.”

For the next two weeks Stubby was the unofficial mascot of the 102nd. He not only slept in a cot but ate in the mess hall. He also continued to salute all the company’s officers. But when it came time for the group to board a troop train south, heading for the ship that would take them overseas, Conroy had grown so fond of the dog he disobeyed orders. Rather than seek out a local family to adopt the dog, he hid Stubby in his gear. The dog remained hidden through the train trip to the coast. Once at the dock the corporal snuck the dog past the military police and onto the ship. At the time his motivation was only based on his love for the animal, he had no idea that his illegal and very unmilitary actions would result in saving the lives of countless men during some of the fiercest battles of the war.

The ship was miles out to sea before Conroy brought Stubby out on deck. As the men watched and laughed, the small dog went through a range of tricks including saluting one of the naval officers. The ship’s machinist mate was so impressed with the terrier he not only allowed him to stay in his quarters but also made the pooch a set of dog tags. When the ship finally arrived in Europe and the men departed for the battlefront, Stubby, who according to his tags had been promoted to sergeant, marched with them as the official mascot of the Yankee Division of the 102nd.

On February 5, 1918, Stubby and his company found themselves facing German fire for the first time at Chemin des Dames. The taste of real war was nothing like the glamorous adventures the men had been promised by army recruiters. The conditions were horrible. They lived, ate, slept, and fought in trenches. They were so close to the enemy they could hear them talking. Constant rain made the trenches foul mud pits. The front line went back and forth on a daily basis and just holding a piece of ground for twenty-four hours was considered a success.

Conroy and the others, who had been told this experience would be a short European vacation and when the Americans arrived the Germans would race back to Berlin, found that war really was hell. They watched men die ghastly deaths. They observed soldiers snap under the pressure and race out of the trenches into machine gunfire. But there was no turning back; no matter how many died or were wounded, each day both sides kept firing their weapons and prolonging a war that now seemed endless.

In the midst of this hell on earth, Stubby offered the men in the trenches unbridled love. Their mascot transformed himself into a morale officer. As such, Stubby was often more important than letters from home. The dog that barked encouragement during the battles sat in the soldiers’ laps during breaks. He shared their meals and listened to their fears. He never complained. The terrier’s gentle licks also soothed mental wounds that often ran deeper than physical injuries.

In April, the 102nd was given the task of taking the French town of Schieprey. As always, Stubby was at Conroy’s side. Early in the day, the Americans’ push rooted the Germans out of their position. As the enemy retreated they lobbed hand grenades back toward the rushing allied soldiers. A piece of shrapnel caught Stubby in the right foreleg and chest, knocking the terrier to the ground. Rolling over, the dog regained his footing and limped forward on three legs beside the advancing 102nd. Barking as he moved, he continued to stubbornly push forward until the battle ended. It was then Conroy got Stubby to the medics. They patched the dog up the best they could and shipped him back to a field hospital. There the pooch received the same care and attention as his human companions.

During his six weeks spent convalescing, Stubby entertained the men in the field hospital. He performed the series of tricks Conroy had taught him, always saluted visiting officers and became a favorite with the nurses. He posed for pictures, was the spotlighted subject of several of the letters to home and even crawled up and slept beside men who were deathly ill. In a few cases, Stubby’s small head was the last thing these men touched before they died. Doctors called him a hero for lifting spirits, but patients knew him more as an angel. His wet nose and gentle touch reminded them of their own dogs and home. In a sense, his daily rounds through the wards gave desperate men something to look forward to and live for.

Newspapers picked up on the exploits of the 102nd’s mascot and the little guy’s story found its ways across France and into publications in England and the United States. Thanks to the press coverage, by the time Stubby was declared well enough to return to his unit he had become a minor celebrity. But the dog’s war role was about to dramatically change. Just like men such as Alvin York, Stubby was about to see needs and grow to fill them.

During the summer, while staying in the trenches with the men, Stubby and the Americans were exposed to a killer that silently snuck behind the lines to strangle its victims. Sulfur mustards, more commonly known as mustard gas, were delivered in a wide variety of methods. Often men were completely unaware they had been exposed to the substance. If enough of the gas was ingested, a victim would die, but, even in small doses, the weapon had long-term effects on the body and mind. Once absorbed, the gas caused a wide variety of issues from lesions on the lungs to open body wounds. A nurse who worked in a field hospital described the way the victims suffered, “They cannot be bandaged or touched. We cover them with a tent of propped-up sheets. Gas burns must be agonizing because usually the other cases do not complain, even with the worst wounds, but gas cases are invariably beyond endurance and they cannot help crying out.” Those who survived the attacks often begged to die and those who died spent their last days in unbearable agony.

The gas that rolled into the trench where Stubby and the 102nd were fighting was a silent invader. The dog was the first to show the signs, as he began coughing and rolling in the dirt. Soon the men began itching and complaining their skin was on fire. Medics could do nothing and the victims were hurriedly shipped back to a hospital. Some of those exposed that day would die and many more would be unable to return to active duty. Even the men who managed to shake the effects would later have a myriad of health issues often including cancer.

Stubby was one of the lucky ones. Perhaps because he was low to the ground, he experienced only mild reactions to the gas. Within a couple of weeks he was back at Conroy’s side. Yet what happened on that day when the cloud of gas first found its way into the dog’s lungs would forever change the terrier and his role.

Even though Conroy and others ordered him to stay in the trenches, now Stubby refused to obey them. No longer did he bark to encourage his companions, instead, he perched on the top of trenches, remaining silent, his eyes forward and his ears cocked. And only when he heard the sound of gas being released or smelled the odor accompanying that sound did he move. Suddenly, with no warning, he became a barking bundle of energy racing from trench to trench, an energized ball of fur seemingly intent on reaching every soldier in the area.

At first the men thought Stubby had finally succumbed to what they called battle fatigue. They assumed his injuries and the gassing had resulted in his going crazy. Thus they figured his days on the front were over. But soon Conroy understood. The dog recognized the gas before the men did. Through his nose and sharp ears, he sensed it. Suddenly the men had a warning system. Because of the dog they would have the time to slip on their gas masks and cover their exposed skin.

No longer was Stubby ordered back in the bottom on the trenches; the dog was now their sentry and leader. The men followed the canine’s lead even more closely than they did their officer’s commands. And why not? The dog was saving countless lives every day. Thanks to their canine advanced warning system, the 102nd’s gas casualties were significantly reduced, and the company’s ability to wage war on the enemy was much more effective.

In the quiet moments, when the battle was not raging, men began to seek out the little dog. They held him in their arms and whispered thanks into his ears. Some had tears in their eyes. Stubby received treats along with praise and thanks. Some of the company’s officers even began to salute the dog. If all he had done was to serve as an advance gas warning system, Stubby would have had more value than a hundred men. Yet, as the army would soon discover, this dog’s battlefront education was about to open the door to his saving even more lives.

Perhaps because of his stays in field hospitals, Stubby also learned to listen for men in distress. Though no one ever understood how he distinguished between the enemy and members of his own military, the dog charged through fire and into no man’s land when one of his own went down. He stayed by the wounded man’s side until a medical team arrived. Sometimes that meant spending more than an hour in the midst of horrific fire from both sides. But his work as a medical spotter didn’t stop there.

In the noise of fearsome battles, he somehow picked up on men who had been injured and fallen into trenches. He would jump into the trench with an injured man, bark nonstop until help arrived, and then race to the next victim. He even developed the ability to sense when a man was dead or alive. If there was no hope, he moved on to a soldier who was in need of aid and had a chance to survive. The medical core grew so amazed by the dog’s instinct they tried to adopt him into their unit, but the 102nd would not give him up.

Stubby next developed the ability to hear the whine of artillery shells well before they could be picked up by human ears. More than that, he seemed to understand where the shells would land. Racing to that area, jumping up and down, and snarling, Stubby warned men to race from their positions and seek cover. As they did, the dog leaped into the bunkers with them. After the explosion he quickly emerged from the safety of the shelter and took up a post, sitting stone still, waiting until he heard the next shell coming.

Over the course of several months hundreds of men felt they owed their lives to the dog’s warnings. Soon Stubby’s companions held him in greater awe than they did General Pershing. As word filtered back to the States, families and even churches set aside time to pray for the little dog’s continued service in the field.

One of the next skills that Stubby gained was first noticed by Conroy during a lull in a battle. The dog was unceasingly barking even though there were no signs of enemy action. No one could get him to quiet down. Frustrated, Conroy told the company commander about the dog’s strange behavior. A few moments later sentries noted a group of Germans sneaking toward their lines for a night attack. Stubby’s warning positioned the 102nd to be ready to confront the enemy and drive them back with no loss of life. After that, Conroy was told to report when the terrier seemingly went crazy for no reason. Each time it happened, it proved to be a warning of an approaching enemy.

Americans were engaged in almost hand-to-hand combat in the Argonne when Stubby stepped forward in a new capacity. Conroy was catching a nap in a foxhole when the dog jumped on his chest and began barking. Leaping to his feet, the soldier followed the dog through a maze of trenches to discover a German sniper who had infiltrated the American lines. Before Conroy could react, the dog sunk its teeth into the enemy’s leg and clamped down. He didn’t let go until the German threw down his gun and surrendered.

Frenchmen came to marvel at the dog that, in their minds, defined courage, determination, and grit. As he proudly strolled through villages, men, women, and children clapped and cheered for the canine. Some even rushed forward with treats.

After retaking the town of Chateau-Thierry, the 102nd was given the chance to rest for a few days. During their stay in the city, a group of French women turned an army blanket into a small uniform. They presented this specially made jacket to the terrier. Conroy accepted the gift and put it on the dog. Stubby seemed genuinely proud to finally be wearing the colors of his company. Several of the men showed their great admiration by taking off their medals and pinning them on the new jacket.

In a year and a half of combat duty, Stubby participated in seventeen major battles including Chateau-Thierry, the Marne, and Saint-Mihiel. He also took part in four different offenses with his group, the 26th Yankee Division of the 102nd Infantry. As the days of the war wound down, officers ordered an official sergeant’s jacket made for the canine hero, complete with his name. Pinned to that jacket were a Purple Heart, the Republic of France Grande War Medal, the Medal of Verdun, and ribbons and medals for every battle in which he participated. The wire services, which had briefly written about the dog a year before, now gave him the full hero treatment. Stubby’s story of bravery found its way into almost every newspaper in the free world. By the time the armistice was signed, the once unwanted Boston terrier had become the most celebrated dog in American history.

Stubby had been smuggled to France and now, with the war over, an army rule stated that no dog, even if that canine was a decorated hero, could accompany the soldiers back home. Conroy went to several officers and all of them pointed to regulations and suggested the G.I. find a home for Stubby in France. Just like he had done when he left the United States for Europe, Conroy opted to smuggle the terrier back home. And this time the military police turned a blind eye allowing the dog and master to bend the rules.

Once back home, Stubby was greeted as a genuine war hero. The dog that had saved hundreds of American men was honored at scores of banquets and headed up many victory parades. The American Legion inducted him as a full, voting member. The YMCA offered him food for life. New York City’s finest hotels welcomed him with free food and lodging.

Though the Army had cited rules as the reason he could not return to the States on a troop ship, with Stubby back on American soil they made an abrupt about-face and used the dog to recruit new men, sell victory bonds, and even lobby for funding from Congress. Stubby was invited to the White House and General “Black Jack” Pershing saluted the dog and pinned a medal on the canine’s army jacket. The dog also found himself representing the Humane Society’s goal for better treatment of animals and advocating for the Red Cross’s blood drives.

When Conroy finally grew tired of the road, he and Stubby returned to Washington not as guests of the president, but so the man could attend Georgetown University Law School. As Conroy studied, Stubby hung out on the football field, getting to know the players, coaches, and cheerleaders and, because of his antics and tricks, was quickly adopted as the school’s mascot. At halftime he entertained crowds by pushing a football all over the field. When the team raced back into gridiron for the second half, Stubby would stand and salute the men.

In 1926, Stubby’s age, combined with the effects of his war injuries, caught up with him. He no longer had energy in his step and it became an effort to stand and salute. He spent most of his time sleeping. One day he crawled up into Conroy’s lap, and as the man petted his now graying head, the dog died.

Unlike many who fought in World War I, Stubby’s death did not go unnoticed. Newspapers all around the country ran news of his passing. The nation’s leading daily, The New York Times, cited an often-dismissed element of the dog’s personality. The story the paper ran noted he was a cheerleader. He didn’t just save lives; he lifted spirits, inspired courage, and led a charge to victory. In his obituary the Times closed with these thoughts, “The noise and strain that shattered the nerves of many of his comrades did not impair Stubby’s spirits. Not because he was unconscious of danger. His angry howl while a battle raged and his mad canter from one part of the lines to another indicated realization.” What the obituary writers missed was the dog’s amazing determination to adapt and change. In every situation he was always looking to become more than what he had been and, over time, grew to become more than anyone could imagine.

America’s devotion to Stubby was so great that the nation would not allow the war hero to simply be buried. They had this symbol of freedom and courage mounted and placed in an exhibit at the Smithsonian’s Museum of American History. Yet the real monument to this dog’s courage is not found at the Smithsonian; it can only be realized when imagining the hundreds of men who came home from World War I who otherwise would have—without this dog’s actions—died on battlefields in France. Not a bad legacy for an unwanted pup that had once been turned out onto the streets to die.