sense for detecting the shells overhead long before the men could hear them. Picking up the distant whine, Stubby would drop down and freeze in this position. Months later, in the trenches of France, this would become a very useful early warning system for his infantry friend and many men had Stubby to thank for saving their lives. But at that moment on the training ground at Yale, the dog’s habit of putting his paws over his ears just before an explosion seemed like nothing more than an amusing party trick.
Stubby had been Conroy’s partner for almost a year when the presidential decree for general mobilization of troops was signed in May 1917. By then Stubby was used to all the bugle calls, drills, marches and routines of camp life. He could even salute. Mimicking the men, he put his right paw up to his eyebrow and each time he did it he impressed his audience. After a year in the company of the 26th ‘Yankee’ Division, Stubby was as much a soldier as any of the men and they recognized him in that way too. There was no way Conroy, or any of the others, was going to leave Stubby behind when they shipped out to Europe so a plan was devised to smuggle the dog onto the truck leaving the camp and then the train to the transport ship, the SS Minnesota, bound for France.
There was no problem getting Stubby past their own sergeant but the transport ship guards would have plenty to say if they discovered a Bull Terrier hidden in some-one’s kit bag. And that was another problem: Stubby was too big to hide in a bag. The best chance the men had of disguising the dog was to make him look like an extra, if very small, human. Under the cover of Conroy’s great-coat, the dog was successfully transferred on board and then into the ship’s coal bin where he spent the first twelve hours of the journey. One of the men watched the door at all times, until Conroy felt they were far enough out to sea to let him out. But he was still careful to keep Stubby under wraps – it was unbearable to even imagine that, given an unsympathetic commanding officer, the men could be ordered to throw their dog overboard. But they were lucky. The officers who did catch a glimpse of Stubby when he took his strolls on deck did nothing to harm him. They could see how valuable the little animal was to the men and right there and then in the confines of the ship he was safe. And although it must have been a very uncomfortable journey for everyone, the men were entertained by Stubby who had acquired a set of soldier’s dog tags made for him by one of the ship’s machinists. It was a gift that told the dog, ‘You’re a soldier now.’
Conroy’s army-issue greatcoat was to come in handy again at the other end of this long journey – to smuggle Stubby off the SS Minnesota . Wrapped like a small person in the long wool coat, Stubby knew instinctively to stay quiet as they were, by no means, home and dry. It was a miracle that Stubby had survived the journey from the US to France, not just because it was fraught with the danger of him being discovered but because of the unhealthy way the men were packed on board the ship.
By the time they reached their final destination, soldiers and dog alike were more than ready to disembark. But, for the men of the 102nd Infantry, their patience needed to last out a little longer until they were on their way to the camp. It was there that Conroy met their commanding officer who took one look at Stubby and asked how on earth the private had gotten this far with a dog all the way from Yale Field, Connecticut. Conroy had nothing to lose now, except the most precious companion he had known so he explained how Stubby had befriended him and become such a very special member of the division. Stubby was happy to salute on command and the CO could see that the dog was well behaved and loyal. As Conroy held his breath, almost expecting the officer to issue an order to abandon the dog, the decision came to make Stubby the mascot