Dogs at War: Smoky, a Healing Presence for Wounded WWII Soldiers
For centuries military dogs have played important roles on the battlefield.
Bill
Wynne holds Smoky, the Yorkshire terrier he adopted in the Philippines
while serving with
the U.S. Army Air Force during World War II.
the U.S. Army Air Force during World War II.
PHOTOGRAPH COURTESY OF WILLIAM A. WYNNE
Published May 20, 2014
Editor's Note: This is the fifth and final part in this series.
Every day waves of Japanese planes attacked the Allied airfield at Lingayen Gulf on Luzon, the largest of the Philippine Islands.
The onslaught was taking a toll on communication, and the
American commanders urgently needed to run telephone lines through a
pipe that stretched roughly 70 feet underground from the base to three
separate squadrons, but they lacked the proper equipment.
The pipe was just eight inches in diameter, and the only way to put
the lines in place would be to do the job by hand—having dozens of men
dig a trench to get the wires underground, a dangerous job that would've
taken days and left the men exposed to the constant enemy attacks.
So instead, they pinned their hopes on an unconventional
solution: send a tiny Yorkshire terrier through the pipe with kite
string tied to her collar. The string could then be used to thread the
wires through the pipe. Calling to her, coaxing her forward was her
owner, Corporal Bill Wynne, a 22-year-old Ohio native, who'd adopted her
while he was in New Guinea.
The little dog reached the other side, the communication
network was established, and she was credited with saving the lives of
some 250 men and 40 planes that day. But in the years to come, the
little Yorkie would achieve much greater acclaim for her healing effect
on wounded soldiers.
Bill Wynne (left) and linesman Bob Gapp send Smoky
into a pipe to help string telephone wire beneath an airstrip heavily
targeted by the Japanese. She is credited with saving 250 men and 40
U.S. planes from possible destruction over a three-day period.
PHOTOGRAPH COURTESY OF WILLIAM A. WYNNE
Finding Smoky
When Wynne first set eyes on this dog in March 1944, while
he was stationed with the U.S. Army Air Corps in Nadzab, New Guinea,
she'd seemed almost too small to be taken seriously, weighing a mere
four pounds, standing only seven inches tall, with a head the size of a
baseball.
One of his tent mates had found her in an abandoned foxhole
on the side of the road and was willing to sell her. She was underfed
and scrawny. And because another soldier had thought the small dog was
too hot under all her fur, he'd crudely sheared her, leaving her
once-long, silky hair sticking out in uneven tufts.
But Wynne, who had been around dogs all his life, quickly
decided to keep this scraggly little animal, and so he shelled out the
soldier's asking price, two Australian pounds ($6.44 U.S.)—a fair chunk
of his overseas pay—and called her Smoky. And during the next year and a
half, Wynne and the little dog would survive air raids, typhoons, and
12 combat missions together.
Not long after Wynne adopted Smoky, he caught dengue fever
and was sent to the 233rd Station Hospital. After a couple of days,
Wynne's friends brought Smoky to see him, and the nurses, charmed by the
tiny dog and her story, asked if they could bring her around to visit
with other patients who had been wounded in the Biak Island invasion.
During the five days he spent in the hospital, Smoky slept with Wynne on
his bed at night, and the nurses would collect her in the morning to
take her along on patient rounds, returning her at the end of the day.
Wynne had noticed what a powerful effect the dog had on the
soldiers around him, how Smoky lightened the mood, not only with her
presence but also with her personality. They laughed as she chased the
wildly colorful Queen Alexandra's birdwing butterflies
that, with a wingspan of 14 inches, were far larger than she was. And
of course, they loved the tricks Wynne had taught her mostly to relieve
the tedium.
The duo's repertoire started modestly enough with basic
commands, and Wynne soon had his diminutive charge playing dead. When
Wynne would point one finger at her and yell "bang!" not only would
Smoky fall over to the ground at the command, but she also would lie
there listless while Wynne came over to poke and prod her and even as he
lifted her from the ground.
Eventually, he trained her to walk a tightrope, ride a
handmade scooter, and even "spell" her own name—Smoky would pick up the
large cutout letters in her mouth as he called them out to her.
A Red Cross worker brings Smoky on patient rounds
at a U.S. Army hospital. The four-pound Yorkie became a popular and
effective diversion for wounded men in the Philippines as well as back
home after the war.
PHOTOGRAPH COURTESY OF WILLIAM A. WYNNE
Trailblazing Therapy Dog
Word of their act spread, and while Wynne and Smoky were on
convalescence furlough in Australia, they were invited to perform at a
few hospitals. As he watched the men in wheelchairs holding Smoky in
their arms, he could see the difference that the tiny dog was making.
"There's a complete change when we came into the room," he says. "They
all smiled; they all loved her."
Smoky was hardly the only dog aiding in the recovery of
wounded veterans in the aftermath of the Second World War. At an Air
Force convalescent home in Pawling, New York, the medical staff
witnessed the remarkable effect one dog had on a reluctant patient,
completely changing his mental outlook. After that, they brought more
dogs into the hospital and eventually built a kennel on the grounds to
house them all.
The trend caught on, and in much the same way patriotic
owners volunteered their dogs to serve with American forces fighting
overseas, they brought their pets to serve as hospital dogs to provide
uplift for injured soldiers as they recovered from their wounds. By 1947
civilians had donated about 700 dogs. In many ways, these dogs were the
first therapy dogs, whose curative abilities were not only recognized but also harnessed to great effect.
After the war was over, Wynne and Smoky continued to tour
hospitals, bringing their act to recuperating soldiers back home. Smoky
retired in 1955, and she died in her sleep two years later in 1957 at
the age of 14.
As Bill Wynne remembers it, for the wounded soldiers Smoky
was a complete diversion—something to pull them away from what ailed
them, something they could await with happy anticipation. In his mind
her ability to make a difference was really quite simple: "She was just
an instrument of love."
Coming this weekend: A War Dog Fills a Void
Rebecca Frankel is a senior editor at Foreign Policy Magazine. Her book, War Dogs: Tales of Canine Heroism, History, and Love, will be released in October.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Please leave a comment-- or suggestions, particularly of topics and places you'd like to see covered