A military escort greeted Rusty when she came aboard the USS Sturtevant (DE-239). Nothing fancy. Just a handful of seamen making certain that no one would disturb her peace as she lay, curled up and asleep, in an upside-down sailor’s white hat.
I do not recall any stated reaction by Lieutenant Commander Frederic W. Hawes relative to her presence. As a U.S. Naval Academy graduate, a decorated survivor of the Lexington (CV-2) sinking, and then our first captain, he had emphasized that he would veto things not specifically spelled out in Navy regulations. But, for whatever reason or fate, Rusty would remain on board our destroyer escort for almost three years.
By the end of World War 11—and after 26 Atlantic crossings, convoy protection and antisubmarine warfare in that ocean, a tour of duty in the Pacific, and 180,000 miles afloat—it’s possible that she was one of the Navy’s all-time most-traveled mascots. And woe to the person who did not treat her like a lady.
Who gave or what sailor received the tiny brown puppy during precommissioning training at Miami, Florida, in the spring of 1943 is long forgotten. The donor is rumored to have been a girlfriend of one of the crew, who, in turn, was amenable to having Rusty adopted by all others as the mascot of a ship that none of them had yet seen.
Therefore, when that portion of the Sturtevant complement transitioned from Miami to Houston’s shipbuilding yards, Rusty rode the rails as a member of the official party, was dockside for the ship’s commissioning ceremonies, and, along with 10 officers and 173 enlisted men, became one of the warship’s plank owners. If not the first canine ever to hold such a title, she is one of the rare ones in Navy annals. And, to leap 34 months ahead, she was one of the last to leave the destroyer escort on her decommissioning.
Fully grown, Rusty was medium sized, weighed somewhat more than 20 pounds, and had short hair, slightly slanted eyes, ears that were always upright, and an uncertain but obviously mixed ancestry. In time, in addition to receiving a hash mark for re-enlistment, she unofficially rose through the ranks to honorary gunner’s mate first class, a rate incompatible with her reaction when the big guns fired or the depth charges rolled. Any of that would send her whining and quivering into the radio spaces, snugged up against the feet of the operators until the ship-shuddering noises abated.
Aside from that, she was a magnificent sea dog, ascending and descending ladders like a true sailor, learning to balance herself with the pitch and roll, standing watches both topside and below decks with her human shipmates, and accompanying them on shore leave and sharing their beer in the Americas and their ale in the British Isles. Like them, she was susceptible to hangovers and could be snarlingly grouchy on the mornings after.
Rusty also was extremely loyal. When the gangway was down, she was the only member of the Sturtevant crew except for the captain who could go or come without official permission, and as Radioman First Class William “Tommy” Thompson once noted in the ship’s newspaper, she resisted all coaxing by foreign male dogs to join them in eating Irish stew in Ulster or raiding garbage piles in Casablanca. When the Sturtevant sailed, she always was on board.
Moreover, Rusty shared the attitudes of the enlisted men. She preferred their below-decks living quarters, and, while having her own designated sleeping area, most of her nights were spent on the foot of various seamen’s bunks, with daytime naps anywhere on them that she so desired. It was with those shipmates that she inevitably went ashore and stood watch. Which sailors and when was her own choice.
Rusty’s disposition changed markedly when the ship went into a navy yard between convoys for maintenance or installation of new equipment. She openly disliked the surge aboard and clatter of yard workers. Usual tail-wagging acceptance of strangers could change to bare-teethed snarls when confronting such interlopers, with one—a welder laden with equipment and in view of several seamen—retaliating with a poorly aimed kick at Rusty’s head. She was all right. Not so the welder. He and his gear quickly ended up on the dock with a collective warning that he not return.
Faith in her friends was justified. They sheltered Rusty from all potential harm. Once during an operation at sea when, despite all precautions, she lost her footing and toppled overboard, Radarman George Smith disregarded both his own safety and the probable wrath of the captain by plunging in after her. The ship was ordered around, cheering crewmen threw a line to George, and he and Rusty were hauled aboard.
It was fitting that George was given Rusty at the end of the war, and through him I was kept apprised of her activities until her advanced dog-years’ death in Memphis. He was a lobbyist for the Tennessee pest control industry, and the two of us often met in the Capitol in Nashville, where he would pull out his billfold and, like a proud father, display pictures of Rusty.
Most crew members probably also had a few. Whenever cameras came out, she inevitably did, too. Rusty would pose with groups and singles, usually looking full face into the lens.
Rusty was not always perfect. As Tommy Thompson wrote, the crew continually had to wash down the decks where she had left her droppings, and occasionally a sleepy seaman would find his bunk damp. But, most important for a bunch of young men away from home, she left a warm spot in their hearts.
