Sergeant Stubby, Hero Pup of World War I by Laurie Calkhoven

Author:Laurie Calkhoven [Calkhoven, Laurie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.
Published: 2018-10-10T16:00:00+00:00

When we got back to headquarters after our Paris vacation, Bob and I learned that the 102nd had another new commanding officer. Gatling Gun Parker was replaced by “Hiking Hiram” Bearss.

“Don’t forget to impress him, Stubby,” Bob whispered.

Don’t worry, I thought. I’ll charm the new guy in no time.

And I did. All it took was that salute Bob taught me back in Connecticut and I immediately won officers over. Hiking Hiram was no exception. I was irresistible.

Hiking Hiram led us on our next mission. We’d had the Germans on the run for weeks, and everyone knew they were going to lose the war, but they refused to give up. Our new mission was to regain territory in northeastern France that the Germans had won way back in 1914.

If we were going to win, we needed to have surprise on our side. The entire Yankee Division gathered in the dark of night in early September 1918 and began a ten-day march. Of course, most of the men didn’t know where we were going. The army couldn’t risk our plans getting back to German spies. We just knew we were on the march.

The men ate wild blackberries and cherries along the way. The cooks picked apples and fed us apple fritters. That helped make up for all the rain and the mud. If we weren’t marching into battle, I think the men might have enjoyed their journey across France.

The French people sure appreciated us. Every time we marched through a town or a village, no matter how small or how damaged by the war, the people came out to cheer us on and to wish us luck.

Not surprisingly, they loved me, especially when I was wearing my uniform. I trotted along beside Bob looking as fierce and soldierlike as I could, but that didn’t fool anyone. Children still ran beside me, laughing.

There were always cries of, “Le chien! Le chien!”—which means “dog” in French.

Things were pretty jolly until we were close to our objective, just south of the town of Verdun. The men got quieter and quieter, knowing what was in store. No one was looking forward to facing the German guns again.

Be safe everyone, I thought. At the same time, I knew that was impossible. Very soon I would have to say goodbye to more of my friends.

On the night of September 12, 1918, more than five hundred thousand American doughboys and one hundred thousand French poilus went on the attack. First, we hit the Germans with artillery fire, and in the morning, we advanced through fog and rain. We had the Germans on the run—they were giving up territory they had held for four years.

There were shells landing, bullets flying, and men screaming. Throughout it all, Bob was busy trying to figure out the path of the Germans’ retreat. We climbed hills whenever we could to try to spot them in the distance, and I worried every time that someone would send a shell in our direction, or a sniper would fire a bullet.

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