Dog Diaries 07 - Stubby Read Online Free

wants us clean as a whistle. That’s what the latrine is for.”
    In the latrine there was a long row of shining sinks. The soldiers splashed water on their faces and cleaned their teeth with little brushes. Some of the men lathered up their cheeks with soap and ran a flat metal stick over them. Others stood underneath the spray of a shower and scrubbed themselves, singing at the top of their lungs.
    I sure hoped Conroy wasn’t expecting me to get clean. One time, a street sweeper accidentally splashed me with water. It took me forever to get dirty again. Until I did, I had no idea who I was. A dog’s smell is who a dog is.
    Conroy was busy lathering up his face. “You’re lucky you don’t have to shave every morning.”
    Didn’t I know it!
    When all this cleaning business was over, we headed to a sweet-smelling shack Conroy called the mess hall. He grabbed a tin plate and stood on the chow line. I sniffed it out as we went. We passed a big pot of scrambled eggs, another filled with white mushy stuff, and a griddle loaded up with fried spuds. Maybe it was because I was born in a nest of spud sacks, but I’ve always been fond of potatoes. I’d eat them any old way, but I especially liked them when they were fried up in bacongrease, which these fine crispy babies were.
    The soldiers didn’t seem happy about the food.
    “I’ve had garbage that tastes better than this swill,” the guy in front of Conroy said.
    Obviously, this guy had never enjoyed the privilege of eating real garbage.
    “Belly robber!” another groused to the man who was serving it up.
    “Don’t look at me,” said the man. “I just sling it. I don’t cook it.”
    The men grumbled and made faces. But they choked down the food anyway. Conroy sat on a bench at a long table, elbow to elbow with other soldiers. I squeezed beneath the table, between his feet. Every bite of food came to me served up on Conroy’s buttery fingers. I don’t know what kind of garbage these soldiers had been eating, but the stuff tasted swell to me.
    Afterward, I went with Conroy to a field. It was surrounded by rows of wooden seats.
    “This is called the Yale Bowl, Stubby,” Conroy said. “Before the war, they played football here. Now we use it to train for combat.”
    Conroy and the other soldiers carried rifles. I’d seen rifles before, propped on soldiers’ shoulders as they marched down Main Street on parade. But these rifles had sharp knives stuck on the ends of them.
    “This is a bayonet,” Conroy told me. “Dangerous to little doggies.”
    I gave all the bayonets plenty of space.
    I sat on the sidelines and watched as the men marched across the field in long, straight lines.
    Sarge caught sight of me and glared. “What are you looking at, soldier? Look lively, and fall in!”
    Confused, I stared back at Sarge. Conroy called,“Here, boy! Stay with me, okay?”

    I scrambled until I caught up with him. Then I ran alongside him as he marched. When Conroy halted, I halted. When Conroy turned, I turned. When Conroy lifted his rifle, I stood back and watched out for the pointy tip of the bayonet.
    Sarge walked up and down the lines. As he passed, each man raised an arm, bent at the elbow, and hit the side of his head. Would somebody tell me why these soldiers keep hitting themselves in the head? You wouldn’t catch a dog doing that.
    Then the men stood in two long lines, facing each other. Their feet were wide apart, and they aimed their bayonets at the throats of the men standing across from them. I growled at the one with the bayonet pointing at my soldier boy.
    “It’s okay, Stubby. It’s just a game,” Conroy told me.
    I stopped growling, but I didn’t like this game.
    Sarge strolled along, correcting the way the soldiers held their rifles. He said, “The bayonet can be a good friend to only one man—you or your enemy. Your life depends upon your learning how to handle it. Your hold should be firm, but relaxed. Your stance should be balanced and