Craig & Fred

by Craig Grossi

At dawn, the air was cool and crisp. I unzipped my tent and, shivering, made my way to the Land Cruiser for my Jetboil. Fred scampered out behind me, shook, and looked around. He trotted over to the brush and sniffed his way to a spot he deemed worthy of marking. Josh emerged from his tent, too, and we quickly got to work breaking down camp. We wanted to get our view of the canyon before the tourists and RV folks had even finished brushing their teeth.

  We easily made it through the gate before any crowds had formed, and as the mist rose up out of the canyon, the three of us were cruising Desert View Drive to a lookout on the South Rim. On either side of the road, the green brush grew high toward the sky, obscuring our view.

  As we came slowly around a bend, I moved my foot to the brake. Ahead of us was a herd of enormous mule deer—as tall as the truck and built thick, like cows. They swiveled their heads toward us, blinking their big brown eyes, then nonchalantly continued across the road toward the brush. Fred stuck his snout out the window cautiously, twitching his nose, huffing and growling in low, quiet bursts.

  “What’s wrong, buddy?” I said. “Little bigger than the deer back home, huh?”

  Josh and I laughed. Fred loved to chase deer on trail runs in parks outside D.C., and typically, he’d be hanging out the window bellowing and barking like a maniac. He must’ve been able to tell these deer were a different kind of beast.

  We continued down the winding road, and after a few minutes the brush began to thin and a breeze streamed through our open windows. Nearing the canyon’s edge, we arrived at the turnoff for our overlook, parked, and jumped out. Next to an old observation tower, we found the mouth of a trail and headed down. I broke into a run, and Josh and Fred followed.

  Nothing can prepare you for a view like that. Even calling it a “view” is an oversimplification. The canyon looked unreal, like a painting. Layers of brown, red, orange, and black stretched on in gradients against the bright, cloudless sky. The depth and expanse were dizzying—incomprehensible. The three of us stood in silence for what would have otherwise been an uncomfortable amount of time, quietly looking into the distance as the wind rose up and wafted over us in gentle gusts.

  We took a few pictures—some of Josh standing triumphantly with his hands on his hips and a few with him holding his leg above his head. When it was my turn, I scooped Fred up and propped him across my shoulders. We both smiled for the camera, the mighty Colorado River and massive canyon at our backs.

  Afterward, taking one last look at the endless formations of rock, I couldn’t help but feel insignificant. I thought about how all those layers in the canyon walls represented the passage of time—all the ages that came before us and would come after us. All the lives and stories of people who passed through here, and all the many who never would. I knew our story was just one. Yet, standing there with my dog and my friend—two beings I never would have met had my life gone another way—I was in awe of the profound unlikelihood and beauty of it all.

  CHAPTER 8

  Extract

  The RECON marines and ANA commandos stood across from each other, sweaty and grimacing in the sun, guns in their arms. Fred cowered at Dave’s feet.

  “Stand the fuck down,” Jason, the royal marine in charge of the ANA group, said, stepping right into the middle of the group. “Drop your weapons,” he growled to the Afghan commandos, “or you can expect your pay to be withheld.”

  The threat of docked pay defused the situation quickly. Jason walked right up to the commando who had kicked Fred and, for good measure, grabbed the AK-47 from his hands. With that, he and the rest of the commandos shuffled through the dust back to their side of the compound and I followed a few of the marines into the command center, Fred at my heels.

  The atmosphere in the compound was uneasy, to say the least. The fact that we had gotten anywhere close to engaging in a gunfight with the commandos was unacceptable. We were nearing the end of our mission, and all nerves were shot. We looked and felt like crap. Trekking for miles each night through canals and cornfields and ditches, never knowing if the next step would be your last, was wearing on all of us. But there was also something off about the commando who had kicked Fred. We’d all heard chilling stories about green-on-blue attacks—where Afghan forces attacked coalition forces—and we were unnerved by his behavior.

  We squatted down on dusty mats and orange-stained pillows in the command center, sweating. Someone passed around vacuum-sealed fudge brownies.

  “We need to come up with a Fred watch,” Jason said. “We need to agree that we’ll be accountable for him, especially at night. We gotta keep him away from the commandos—if he bothers them or gets in their way, it might force their hand.” The commandos had a room at the other side of the compound where they slept. We didn’t want Fred wandering over there while we were out on patrols. We all agreed to keep a closer watch on the dog, especially Top, who was usually with Fred all night while we were patrolling.

  But what was really on our minds was a much bigger question: What would become of Fred when we left? We were extracting soon, in about a week, the same way we’d come in: by helicopter in the middle of the night. No one wanted to leave Fred behind. He’d become one of us. For the past three weeks, he’d lived in the dirt with us, patrolled with us, comforted us, and given us something to smile about, without asking anything in return. He wasn’t like other strays in Sangin. I couldn’t picture him joining a pack of those huge howling dogs, roaming through the Green Zone at night, barking and fighting over food. And after witnessing Fred getting kicked, the threat of human cruelty loomed in my mind, too.

  While all the RECON guys had grown attached to Fred, responsibility for him fell at my feet. All the guys knew—and I knew, too—that Fred was my dog. He followed me around, slept on my mat, and kept an eye on me more than anyone else. I knew we had a special bond from the moment I handed him a piece of jerky that first day. So as the final days of our mission slipped by, the pressure mounted for me to figure out a plan to get Fred out.

  The challenge was threefold. First, there was the issue of sneaking the dog onto the helicopter and smuggling him back to Camp Leatherneck. Second, once we were back, I’d have to figure out a way to ship him halfway around the globe back to the States—a huge logistical challenge I didn’t even know how to begin to tackle. And third, while I was figuring out how to get Fred to the U.S., I’d need to somehow keep him concealed on Leatherneck, a place where, if caught, he’d be put down immediately.

  Having Fred at Leatherneck was what worried me the most. Leatherneck was huge, like the Pentagon of Helmand Province—home to the largest number of coalition troops in-country. And many of the marines were high ranking, with nothing better to do than narc on the sergeant with a dog in his room. I’d only spent a few weeks at Leatherneck—before and after my Trek Nawa mission—and I’d already seen how much our every move was scrutinized, how easy it was to get into trouble. One night in the chow hall, as I walked back to my table with a tray of lasagna (with an extra scoop of watery “meat” sauce), I got ambushed by a first sergeant.

  “What’s on your face, asshole?” he said, leaning into me before continuing with a string of expletives. It was a mustache—technically, one within regulation, but clearly not to this guy’s liking. I went to the barracks and shaved it off.

  Another time, the problem was my wearing my watch cap on base (the military-issue tan beanies are only supposed to be used in the field), and another time the concern was a non-issue green shirt under my cammies.

  They were small, stupid moments of “discipline” from bored and frustrated leaders, but that was the environment on base. I could only imagine the more extreme consequences I’d face if I got caught with a dog—anything from removal from operations to time in the brig. Everyone knew there was a nationwide order from the commanding general of all U.S. forces in Afghanistan: no pets. Worse, if we got caught, Fred would be euthanized immediately, no questions asked. I would have effectively killed him by removing him from his nat
ural environment. How could I risk that? Instead of endangering both of our lives, I wondered if I should just snap some pictures of my furry friend and keep them as a pleasant memory.

  Around the compound, the guys worked on me. Plenty of them had stories. “I heard about a guy in Iraq who used this organization called Baghdad Pups,” said Will, a civil affairs attachment. Someone else thought he had heard of a local SPCA back home that raised money to get dogs out. Those were nice suggestions, but we didn’t have that kind of time. Plus, in every other dog story I’d ever heard, the dog in question had been hanging around a base for months, coming by for food, and eventually, over time, someone took the initiative on figuring out the paperwork to get the dog out. In our case, we were taking Fred from the compound where we found him—against orders—and bringing him to a place where you’d get your ass handed to you if you didn’t have a proper shave.

  Matt and Dave, the EOD guys I spent a lot of time with, were adamant. “We’ll keep him at the EOD compound,” Matt said. On Leatherneck, the EOD unit had their own section of the base, relatively removed. “It’ll be fine,” Dave said. “We’ll figure it out.”

  Since Top was in leadership, he couldn’t promise anything. But he did say he’d pass around a hat back on base and round up donations to go toward the cost of shipping Fred home.

  “You’re gonna figure it out,” the guys would say. “You can do it, Grossi.”

  I knew the guys meant what they said. I knew they’d help me. But I also took their promises with a grain of salt. Back on base, everyone goes back to their own lives. People spend their time calling home, hitting the gym, doing office work, reconnecting with buddies. We’d all be going our separate ways for a while, taking space, resting. Anyone looking after Fred would not only have to deal with the hassle of hiding him, but they’d be putting their career on the line. I trusted the guys, but I also knew someone had to take responsibility for Fred, and that was me. If I do this, I thought, I’m on my own.

  As the sun went down on extraction day, the marines on the rooftop positions pulled out their knives and slashed through the sandbags in front of them. The bags sagged, weeping sand and dust. Down below, under the glow of red lights, we rolled up our sleeping mats and bug nets, collected our grenades and magazine rounds, rounded up our iPods and beat-up copies of Car and Driver, and condensed everything into our rucks. The burn pit, which was always sort of smoldering, consumed the last of our MRE wrappers and shit. We threw in the dead batteries that had powered our radios and laptops; they cracked and popped in the heat, sending splinters of plastic into the air. The black smoke billowed into the sky. As long as the wind was in your favor, you could almost avoid the stench. But if you breathed it in, you could never really breathe it out.

  Bringing a helicopter down in a combat zone is a huge risk. One well-placed RPG round and boom—there goes the whole platoon. Extracting was going to be one of the most vulnerable points in our mission. There was no way we could do it from our current compound. The Taliban knew exactly where we were, and we were too close to the Green Zone. The plan was to dismantle our makeshift base in the middle of the night, hump to a compound a few miles away—into the desert, farther from the Green Zone—and get picked up in the dark, undetected.

  Earlier that day, while gathering up my belongings, I spent some quality time with Fred. I gave him his favorite beef jerky and the dusty old rope he loved to play tug-of-war with. I’d already taken a bunch of pictures of him, but I realized I didn’t have any of us together. Before I packed up my camera, I handed it to one of the guys and hoisted Fred onto my lap for a photo. In the picture, my face is turned toward the shutter but Fred’s looking at the rope in my hand, his front paws reaching toward it. You can see the tip of his pink tongue hanging from his snout and the goofy expression of a puppy focused on his favorite toy. After the photo was taken, we played a little longer, and I scratched him behind the ears and massaged his neck. It was as close to a good-bye as I’d let myself get.

  I still wasn’t convinced about bringing Fred back to Leatherneck. I knew I wanted to bring the dog home, but I could only rationalize taking the risk if I felt certain that Fred wanted to come, too. If he seemed content staying in his compound—the only home he’d known—then I’d accept it as the best thing for him.

  With all of us working in the moonlight, it didn’t take long before the compound returned more or less to the state we’d found it in—festering burn pit and holes in the walls notwithstanding. Nothing else was left behind. Our makeshift home would soon be crawling with Taliban, and we made sure we didn’t leave anything they could use.

  Loaded up with our gear, we lined up by the back door. I thought I saw Fred poking around the burn pit looking for scraps. The guys got quiet as we got ready to head out, and I focused on the journey ahead. When the first marine pushed through the doorway, we followed him into the night, single file, the same way we’d come.

  The desert was cool and clear, with a sliver of moon overhead. Through my night vision, I looked out at the open landscape of sloping sand hills rolling softly into the distance. The wide expanse was a welcome change from the dense cornfields and network of canals in the Green Zone. Our packs were heavy, but we moved quickly and freely. I felt like I could see for miles in every direction—but I didn’t see Fred. I’d wanted him to make the decision for me, and now he had. I told myself I should accept it—it was for the best. But I was heartbroken.

  A couple of hours later, miles from our compound, we approached another compound that had been scouted by drone. It was smaller and full of goats—a good sign there wasn’t a network of IEDs underfoot. We filed in, and a few RECON guys made a rooftop position to scout from. Other than that, we kept a low profile. Morning was close. Once light broke, we’d spend the day waiting for dark to return and, with it, our ride out of there.

  For the first time in weeks, I felt the weight of the mission begin to lift. I didn’t have any reports to write. There were no villagers to talk to. We were getting out—and we were getting out with all our guys, no less. That felt like nothing short of a miracle, given what we had expected from Sangin. The bullet that passed through Joe’s helmet had been the closest we had come to losing a guy. We were lucky. Now, we could rest. As the morning sun began to peek up over the horizon, I sat down and leaned back onto my ruck, finally allowing myself to think about my upcoming hot shower and hot meal rather than how much I would miss Fred. I stretched my legs out in front of me and crossed my arms on my chest, nodding my head back against the wall and closing my eyes.

  I awoke to shouts from the guys on the roof.

  “Grossi! Get up here!”

  Daylight had broken across the new compound. I blinked my eyes open and saw the guys lying and sitting in the shade along the perimeter walls. Disoriented, I got to my feet. I looked over to where the shouts came from and made my way to the post. A rickety wooden ladder leaned against the clay shelter, and I climbed up, crawling next to the guys. Someone handed me binoculars.

  “Look who it is,” he said.

  The desert, glowing and hazy in the morning sun, looked almost out of focus. There were miles of nothing and then, coming toward us, a squatty white dog trailed by a cloud of dust. Goosebumps rose on my arms. It was Fred, the sun in his eyes, bounding toward us with that signature bounce in his step, chin up.

  “Dude must’ve needed to pack!” The guys laughed.

  I blinked away the sting of tears. I couldn’t believe it.

  “Good boy,” I whispered.

  Fred pranced right through the doorway of the compound like he owned the place. In typical Fred fashion, he greeted each marine one at a time, howling and woo-wooing, dancing between us with joy. I came down from the roof and grabbed a piece of beef jerky. When Fred frolicked over to me, I swear he was smiling. He wound through my legs in excitement, as if to say, “Where’d you go?” I squatted down to give him the jerky, then pulled out my collapsible coffee cup and poured him some water. As he lapp
ed it up, I shook my head in disbelief. Had he spent the night scavenging through the burn pit? Was he waiting for the sun to come up before making his trek? I’m not sure how he did it, but Fred had tracked us down.

  After sunrise, the temperature spiked, as it always did. Fred, entertained by the goats, chased them from one corner of the compound to another. He trotted over, lowering his head to the ground to nip at their wobbly ankles, and they squealed and dashed away as he followed. The guys and I sat around in the shade watching and laughing. We were still stunned and excited that Fred had followed us. But if I was going to get him out of the field completely, there was still the issue of how, exactly, I’d get him on the bird.

  We talked about it for what felt like hours, strategizing ways to pull it off.

  “What if we just walk him onto the helicopter like he’s a working dog?” Jason suggested. Back at the compound, Jason had woven together some paracord, using a button from his trousers to fasten it around Fred’s neck with the leftover cord as a leash. Fred had hated the thing and managed to wriggle free each time we put it on him. Jason still had the paracord, but the plan didn’t make sense to me.

  “There’s no way we’ll get away with that, man,” I said. “They know we didn’t come here with a dog—we can’t just stroll onto the helicopter with one when we leave.”

  “What if we just hide Fred in our gear?” someone suggested. In the field, we all carried thin, foldable duffel bags; if a fellow marine was injured in action, you’d use the bag to gather the guy’s equipment so nothing got left behind. We got out a duffel bag and tried to see how Fred would react to being put inside it. Unsurprisingly, it was a no-go. Two guys held the bag open while I lifted Fred by the torso and placed him down. As soon as he hit the ground, he threw his head back, squirmed relentlessly, and bolted off. Tail wagging, he sauntered back and stood there looking at us, as if to say, “Try it again!” He thought it was a game.