Man's Best Hero. Ace Collins

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