Dog Diaries 07 - Stubby (5 page)

“Oh, right,” he said, tossing me a bit of dried beef. “You earned it.”

As it turned out, this particular trick would eventually save me from a watery grave.

—

One day after morning mess hall, the soldiers in the barracks stuffed all their gear into long canvas bags. Then they heaved the bags over their shoulders and headed for the door. I looked around as, one after another, they disappeared. What was up? I didn’t like the looks of this.

Conroy was the last to go. That was when I
started to worry. I made Sad Eyes at him.

“We’re shipping out today, Stubby, but don’t you worry. I’m not leaving you behind. I just have to hide you from the transport officers.”

Conroy held open his barracks bag. He’d crammed everything down deep inside of it so that there was just enough room in the top for me. I crawled in and turned around to face the opening. Conroy pulled the drawstring, leaving just enough of a hole for me to breathe through. I could peer out with one bug eye. Then—
ooof
—he heaved the bag over his shoulder and marched us out of the barracks.

We passed Sarge on our way to the truck.

“Glad you could make it, Private Conroy,” he said, rocking slowly on his heels. “And as far as I’m concerned, there is no dog in your barracks bag. Others in command might not be quite so willing
to turn such a blind eye. So watch yourself.”

“No, sir. Yes, sir,” said Conroy.

“Good luck over there, soldier,” Sarge said. “Take care of yourself, and watch out for the furry little guy.”

“Yes, sir.”

The truck ride was dark and bumpy and smelled like gasoline. “The furry little guy” was feeling sick to his furry stomach. I told my growling guts to settle down and quit beefing. It could have been worse. At least Conroy hadn’t left me behind with Sarge.

When we got to the train station, Conroy let me out long enough to lift my leg on the tracks. Then I got back into the bag. “We have to stow our gear in the baggage car, Stubby. You’re going to be alone for a while. Keep your head and lie low, okay?”

I licked him to let him know that I’d be a good dog. Wasn’t I always?

Conroy saw to it that my bag was on the top of the pile so I wasn’t squished. He loosened the top so I could come and go to do my business. I kept my head and lay low. But it was lonely in the baggage car. I fell asleep to the
clickety-clack
sound of the train on the rails. Every now and then, I would
scooch out of the bag and lift a leg in the corner. Then I scooched back in. There were cracks in the side of the baggage car, and the wind whistled through, making a low, lonesome sound. What with one thing or another, I was a miserable wreck.

Finally, someone shouted, “Newport News, Virginia—last stop!”

The train stopped with a long, loud chuff of steam. I smelled salty sea air and saw seagoing birds like we sometimes got in New Haven wheeling in the sky.

Conroy came for me. When he peered into the bag, I was shaking all over. He looked worried. He opened his coat. “Climb in here. I’ll keep you warm.”

Gratefully, I crawled out of the bag and under his coat. He buttoned me in tight. I peered out between the buttonholes, and what did I see? This
great, big, hulking thing bigger than a whole block of buildings floating in the water.

“That’s our ship,” said Conroy. “It’s going to be our home for the next few weeks.”

I wasn’t a big dog, but I was no teacup poodle, either. With me under his coat, Conroy waddled up the gangplank. Luckily, the ship’s officers were too busy to notice the bulge beneath Private Conroy’s coat. Either that, or they figured he was one fat soldier boy.

Conroy was waddling along a corridor when his friend caught up with him. I stuck my nose out to say howdy-do. The buddy didn’t think I was one bit cute. He grabbed Conroy by the sleeve and whispered in a harsh voice, “Are you
nuts
bringing him to your cabin? I hear this captain runs a tight ship. The last pet that stowed away got tossed overboard.”

I didn’t know where overboard was, but it didn’t sound good. I sure hoped Conroy knew what he was doing.

Conroy halted and stroked his chin. “I never thought of that,” he said.

After some dithering, he started climbing down a whole bunch of ladders. Down and down we went, until we were at the very bottom of the ship, where the engine was. It hummed so loud, Conroy had to shout to make himself heard. He stashed me away in a nasty little room where they stored the coal to feed the engine.

“WHEN THE ENGINE GUYS COME IN TO SHOVEL UP THE COAL—HIDE!” Conroy said. “AND WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T LET ANYBODY SHOVEL YOU INTO THE FURNACE.”

A
DVICE FROM A
H
ORSE

Conroy came down twice a day to feed and water me and pick up my business. I kept hoping he would take me up for a walk in the fresh air. After all, I was a street dog, and I liked my freedom. Down there, I felt like a prisoner. The loud, steady drone of the engine was beginning to get to me. I was ready to bust out and make a run for it, when Conroy came to my rescue.

“YOU NEED SOME AIR!” he shouted over
the engine’s roar. “I’M GOING TO TAKE YOU UP ON DECK FOR A FEW MINUTES.”

If you think it’s easy for someone to climb a half dozen ladders while holding a quivering dog, you’re wrong. How Conroy managed to do it I don’t know. But eventually he did, and we were up on deck.

Fresh air! Birds! Sunshine! Ocean waves!

I leapt out of Conroy’s arms. I was free!

Some soldiers were standing around. “Stubby!” they cried when they saw me. They were all grinning, ear to ear.

Before I could say hello, I had to shake myself out. Black coal dust, like a storm cloud, billowed off of me. The soldiers stood back and laughed.

“Conroy, you’re a genius!” one of them said.

“Stubby’s a stowaway!” another said.

“Hurray for Stubby!” they all cried.

I ran back and forth, jumping up and licking everyone. I was so pleased to be out of the coal room and back with my boys that I got up on my hind legs and did my happy little bandy-legged jig.

The men circled round and stomped their feet and cheered. “Stub-by! Stub-by! Stub-by!”

Suddenly, the cheering stopped.

A tall, thin man marched over and broke through the circle of soldiers. Everybody pulled back. Only Conroy stuck by my side. But he looked plenty scared. The tall man was dressed differently from the soldiers—all in white. Something told me he was the man in charge. This was the seagoing Brass.

I stopped dancing, dropped to all fours, and hung my head. From the look on the man’s face, I was in for it.

“What’s THIS, Private?” the man roared at
Conroy. I tried to hide behind Conroy’s leg.

“It’s a dog, sir,” Conroy said in a small voice.

“I’m aware of that, Conroy. But how did THIS DOG get on board my ship?”

Conroy gulped. “I smuggled him aboard, Captain, sir.”

I looked up at Conroy and whimpered.

“I don’t know how you do things in the army, Private, but in the navy, we don’t allow dogs. The last dog that snuck aboard this ship got fed to the sharks.”

The captain pushed his hat back and wagged his head, like he was sorry for what was about to happen but there wasn’t much he could do about it, was there?

My heart skittered in my chest. I was sorry, too. I looked to Conroy. Couldn’t he do something?

Conroy said, “Don’t just stand there, Stubby.
You’re in the presence of the captain of the SS
Minnesota.
Atten-TION!”

Pulling myself together, I sat down and looked lively.

“Present ARMS.”

I lifted my front leg and snapped that captain the smoothest military salute ever made by a dog, on land or sea.

Before he knew what he was doing, the captain answered with a salute of his own. Then he caught
himself and began to laugh. “Well, I’ll be horn-swoggled!” he said. “If it isn’t a little soldier dog!”

The men fell all over each other, joining in the mirth. I didn’t see what was so funny. That salute was close to perfect. And it had saved my neck.

The captain shouted, “Machine mate—front and center!”

A mate ran up and saluted. “Yes, sir!”

“Go below and make this soldier a dog tag.”

I know what you’re thinking. When you hear the words
dog tag,
you think of those metal tags people put on their dogs with their address on them. But this here was another kind of dog tag. It was the kind the U.S. Army issues to soldiers. Stamped into the metal are their name, rank, outfit, date of birth, and the proud letters
USA.

Conroy was grinning like crazy later that day when he attached my dog tag to my collar.

If only my buddies back in New Haven could see me now!

—

After a few more weeks at sea, the ship finally docked in a place called Saint-Nazaire in the faraway land of France. Now we had a whole new set of commanding officers to hide me from. To get me off the ship, Conroy tried something different. He dressed me in his coat with my head sticking out of the collar like I was a soldier. I was nowhere near as tall, so he and his buddy had to hold me up. They walked me down the gangplank like they were supporting a guy who was unsteady on his feet. There was so much happening on the dock that nobody seemed to notice that one of the soldiers had a furry face and was floating about three feet off the ground.

It was exciting to be in a new place. New
smells, new people. We even had a new name—the American Expeditionary Forces. We were the first full outfit to land in France. They trucked us to a camp where we’d be holed up for a while. The Brass wanted us to train some more and get used to being in France before they sent us up to the Front.

What was the Front? The Front marked the spot where the two sides—our guys and the enemy—were fighting to win territory. I was no stranger to this idea. It was just like dogs on the street haggling over turf. The meanest, strongest, baddest dog won. I wondered,
In this war, who would that be?
All I knew was that I was there to help, in any way I could, like the good dog that I was.

Our first camp in France was like a town made out of tents. Conroy and I slept in a tent with five other guys. There was a mess tent and a latrine tent and a communications tent and a first aid tent and
even a tent where they showed moving pictures. I didn’t get out much, as you can imagine, being a dog in hiding. I spent most of my time under Conroy’s cot. He smuggled me scraps from the mess, mostly salmon and beef.

As careful as Conroy was, it didn’t take the new commanding officer long to get wind of me.

“You mean to tell me this dog came all the way from Yale Field?”

“It’s kind of a long story, sir,” Conroy said. Once again, he launched into it. How we met in town. How I followed him to Yale and latched on to the 102nd. How I drilled and trained and prepared to fight to give my life for my country, just like the rest of the boys. When he was finished, even I had a lump in my throat. What a touching tale!

By the time Conroy ordered me to salute, the
commanding officer was one hundred percent sold on me staying with the regiment. What was he going to do, anyway? Send me to Paris to hang out with French poodles? Besides, he said I was good for morale, whatever morale was. He made me the mascot for the 102nd Infantry, Twenty-sixth Yankee Division. It was official. From then on, the only people I had to hide from were the enemy.