Craig & Fred

by Craig Grossi

  Josh had only been in-country a little over three months when his vehicle hit the roadside bomb that took his leg. It was a routine patrol on a clear day, middle of the week, September 2009. Josh was in the first vehicle in the convoy, on the machine gun, sitting in a way that was against protocol: kind of half in and half out of the vehicle. When the Stryker hit the pressure plate, the IED exploded directly under them. Not only did the blast take Josh’s right leg, but it took the lives of three of Josh’s teammates inside. The fact that Josh had been sitting the way he had was what saved his life.

  In the first few weeks after the accident, Josh had a bunch of surgeries; remarkably, within a few months, he was up and walking. Motivated by his initial success, he made steady progress for a couple of years, but all the follow-up surgeries he required between 2011 and 2015 started making it really hard for him to get on with life. How could he keep a job if as soon as he got one, he’d have to turn around and request a couple of months off for surgery and recovery?

  When we talked, Josh had a way of keeping positive. Understandably, he was more comfortable talking about what came after the accident than the accident itself. He would say things like how much he benefited from top-tier health care and how lucky he was to have been injured at a time when advancements in prosthetics allowed him to regain so much independence. He always was happy to show me—and anyone who asked—his leg and how it worked. Josh was grateful to be alive, and he wanted to move forward.

  For two guys, a dog, and a twenty-seven-year-old truck with no air-conditioning, driving from the Grand Canyon to Los Angeles—about eight hours through the Mojave Desert—is a pilgrimage. As we made our way through the 100-something-degree heat, across the flat, arid terrain, my eyes steadily flickered between the road and the temperature gauge. I didn’t say it aloud to Josh, but I thought for sure the engine would overheat. C’mon, baby, I thought to myself, watching the needle hover between the C and H marks. So far, our faithful Land Cruiser was doing okay.

  Every so often, a current of wind brought a gust of sand right through the car. A fine layer of it began coating the dashboard, our skin, and everything in between, even working its way between our teeth. Naturally, we were smiling from ear to ear. Even though I was nervous about the engine, I never once envied the people in their SUVs who blew by us with frost on their windows.

  “Fred probably thinks we’re taking him back to Afghanistan,” Josh joked. I laughed and looked up in the rearview mirror, but Fred was asleep, unbothered by the desert air whipping through his white fur.

  Ahead of us, the heat made the horizon waver, as if layers of road were continually peeling off and evaporating into the sky. I kept my foot steady on the gas, and we pressed on, giving the Land Cruiser encouragement by patting the dash.

  As we finally breached the end of the great Mojave, we pulled into a small service station to celebrate. The Land Cruiser needed gas, and the three of us needed water and ice cream. I filled the tank, then pulled the truck into the shade and popped the hood. Josh, Fred, and I sat at a picnic table near the pumps and, under a faded plastic umbrella, enjoyed our soft-serve ice cream in sugar cones. After eating half my cone, I gave the rest to Fred. Specks of sand from my beard had settled into the melting ice cream, but Fred didn’t seem to notice the grit as he scarfed down the treat.

  Back on the road, continuing farther west, signs of civilization began to interrupt the barren landscape: billboards, faded strip malls, parking lots. Then, as we crept closer to L.A., we encountered another phenomenon of civilization: the traffic jam. We came to a crawl on the freeway and looked out at our fellow travelers—commuters in BMWs and Land Rovers, in big sunglasses, with phones in their hands. The Land Cruiser might as well have been a covered wagon, and inside it, we must have looked like quite the sight: two dusty, bearded, sweaty guys in tank tops accompanied by one panting, short-legged dog hanging out the window in the middle of rush hour.

  We inched our way to our exit. The plan was to stay the night with Josh’s friend Kyle. Josh and Kyle had deployed together but hadn’t seen one another since Afghanistan. After Josh’s vehicle hit the IED and he was taken from the battlefield, Kyle’s deployment ended in a similarly horrific fashion. Kyle had been a sniper, and during a gunfight with the Taliban, a single round hit him in three locations. As he held his rifle and looked down the scope, a Taliban bullet grazed his left wrist, traveled through his right thumb, then ricocheted off the buttstock of his gun into his right shoulder. The wounds were serious, but he survived.

  Kyle met us outside his apartment building, wearing a tank top, cutoff camo shorts, and flip-flops. His blond hair fell nearly to his shoulders, though some of it was stuffed in a bun on top of his head. You couldn’t see that he’d been injured. He looked as if he’d come from a day of surfing or from a music festival.

  With a big smile on his face, Kyle gave Josh a big hug and a pat on the back, sending dust from the Mojave into the air. The three of us—all veterans of desert warfare—couldn’t help but laugh. Turning to me with the same big grin, Kyle said, “You must be Craig—and this must be Fred! I’ve heard a lot about this little guy. Welcome to L.A., Freddy!” He bent down to pet Fred and I smiled at Kyle’s drawn-out way of speaking: a classic Southern California accent.

  Even though Kyle’s unit was on the fourth floor, the low ceilings made the place feel dark. Dust hung in the air where strips of light came through. There were dirty dishes in the sink and on the counters, shoes and magazines strewn about the living room. On the walls were Jimi Hendrix and Bob Dylan posters, as well as an American flag. Kyle pointed to a plaque that displayed the stock of his sniper rifle. You could see the scar in its side from the bullet. It commemorated his brush with death, Kyle said.

  The apartment kind of reminded me of a college dorm room—it made you want to throw open the shades and let the air and light in. Fred jumped onto the couch and made himself at home while Josh and I took turns showering off the desert dirt. When I came out, Kyle had put on the nineties action flick Point Break.

  “Ha! I love this movie,” I said, sitting down next to him. It had been in regular rotation for movie night back on Leatherneck.

  Kyle laughed and finished rolling a joint on the coffee table. “Helps me with the pain from my surgeries,” he said, bringing the joint to his lips and sparking his lighter.

  “You don’t have to explain, man. I’m sure it’s better than whatever the VA was trying to get you to take,” I said.

  Physically, Kyle looked completely fine. If he had scarring from his injury, it wasn’t immediately obvious. I wondered if going through a trauma like that, then looking totally “normal” afterward, made it tough for him.

  “Meds made the pain go away but made a lot of other things come around,” Kyle said, then paused to suck in another hit. “Felt like my brain was betraying me.”

  I nodded and leaned back into the couch, eyes on the TV.

  That night, Josh and I saw a side of L.A. we probably never would have if we hadn’t met up with Kyle. The evening turned into a sort of bar crawl through strange, kitschy dive bars, including a memorable one that was hosting death metal karaoke. A skinny kid in even skinnier jeans took the stage all by himself and put on a hell of a show, screaming along to some obscure heavy metal song. It was too weird not to love.

  The next day, we said our good-byes to Kyle and thanked him for putting us up for the night. He offered to let us stay longer, but we were ready to be on our way. My buddy Casey had offered to put us up for a few days at his place in Venice, and we were eager to explore another part of the city.

  Driving away from Kyle’s apartment, Josh let out a sigh. I could tell he felt uncomfortable about his friend and the state of his place.

  “It’s fine, man,” I said, but I understood how he felt. Josh knew Kyle as a sniper in the army, back when Kyle performed one of the most physically and emotionally demanding jobs in the world. Now, you just got the impression that he might not be doing so well.r />
  “I’m not sure what to think,” Josh said.

  “Yeah, it’s tricky, man,” I said. “I mean, it looked like he was paying the bills. He’s in school. He’s probably happy, you know?” Josh hadn’t known Kyle before the army; maybe this was how he’d always been.

  As vets, we didn’t exactly spend our time sitting around talking about post-traumatic stress, asking personal questions, exchanging notes. The stigma is so intense that you don’t want to heap it on anybody. Plus, everybody’s experience is different; PTS looks different for different people. Some vets have very painful, debilitating post-traumatic stress. For others, it’s not like that. And for others, maybe it’s not there at all. Assuming anything is a mistake; it only feeds into the stereotype that all combat vets are “broken.”

  Venice Beach was a circus. Walking down the beachside promenade, Josh, my buddy Casey, and I took in the sights around us: masked unicyclists, tattooed jugglers, hulking bodybuilders, impassioned musicians, face-painted performers. When we stopped to watch a juggler, Fred looked up inquisitively, following each ball as it traveled up, down, up, down, waiting for one to drop. We watched him watching the balls and laughed. It was a beautiful sunny day. Palm trees rose up overhead, the mountains looked down on us in the distance, and the Pacific Ocean sparkled. So this is what all those California songs are about, I thought.

  Casey and I first met during intelligence training in Virginia Beach. After training, we’d crossed paths briefly at Leatherneck, but hadn’t seen each other since then. He was one of those guys who was a friend for life, though. It was easy to pick back up.

  Off the boardwalk, we found a skate park where kids were competing. A DJ played hip-hop while an announcer called out names of skaters when it was their turn. We stood and watched the young skaters push the limits of gravity and physics. Fred sat quietly and followed the skaters with his head. Back home in D.C., he usually tried to chase skateboarders, howling and pulling on his leash. But here, he seemed to be enjoying the entertainment. One of the skaters took a spill just in front of us, and Fred let out a high-pitched yowl, going OOOH! as if to say, “Ouch!” His reaction drew some laughs from the otherwise tough-looking crowd.

  We spent the week at Casey’s place, enjoying having some downtime in the air-conditioning. In the mornings, I’d take Fred for a walk, then we’d go up to the rooftop deck together to enjoy the cool morning breeze coming off the ocean while I drank a fresh mug of coffee. From Casey’s, I also got in touch with someone I hadn’t seen since Afghanistan: Top. He lived in Oceanside, just a couple of hours south, and invited us to come down. Top hadn’t seen Fred since the day he helped me smuggle the dog onto the helicopter in Afghanistan. I couldn’t wait to reunite them.

  Top lived just outside of Camp Pendleton, the base I’d been stationed at right before and after my deployment. Pulling into the neighborhood, we drove by big suburban houses with USMC flags on front porches and eagle, globe, and anchor stickers in car windows. Top’s house was no exception. He had a black pickup truck parked out front, and I smiled when I saw a red Harley-Davidson sitting next to it.

  Top walked through the open garage door. He looked the same—broad shoulders, huge frame, slicked-back hair, huge smile. He wore a Harley T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops.

  “Hey, boys!” he bellowed. “Where’s that stubby-legged guy that used to leave his chewed-up rope on my sleeping bag?”

  Fred, who had just jumped down from the Land Cruiser and was on the end of his leash, pulled frantically. I let go and he ran right up to Top, howling the whole way with joy. His body waved from snout to butt as he wagged his tail.

  Top squatted down and Fred ran right into his arms, gleefully shivering and spinning and wiggling, till Top scooped him up and cradled him like a baby. The dog licked his face and nuzzled his salt-and-pepper hair.

  I don’t think any of us expected Fred to react the way he did. It’d been five long years, and the last time he’d seen Top was half a world away. Still, it didn’t matter. To Fred, it was as if no time had passed. He never even liked for people to pick him up, but with Top, he didn’t mind at all.

  Top hoisted Fred in the crook of his left arm, then walked over to Josh and me. He shook Josh’s hand and introduced himself, then pulled me in for a bear hug.

  “Good to see you, brother,” he said before releasing me. “Thank you for coming.

  “And it’s really good to see you, you little weirdo,” he said, looking Fred in the face. They were both smiling so widely that their eyes disappeared.

  Top led us through the garage into the house, explaining that he had his smoker going out back with some salmon and pork shoulder for us. Walking through the garage, I noticed a squat rack, kegorator, and an iconic marine black flag with a skull, crossed rifles, and yellow letters that read, MESS WITH THE BEST, DIE LIKE THE REST.

  Inside, we were greeted by Top’s wife, Tara, who embraced and welcomed us. “We’re so glad you’re here,” she said. “This guy’s been pacing around all day waiting for you to arrive,” she added, smiling at Top.

  “I know who he’s really excited about seeing,” I said, laughing. Fred hadn’t left Top’s side. Tara knelt down and gave Fred a big kiss on his head. “Thanks for looking after my man while he was in your country. I’m so glad you made it back safe and sound.”

  From the glass door leading to the backyard, Top’s own dogs excitedly peered inside at us, pressing their snouts to the glass to try and get a look. There were three of them—two big shepherd mixes and one smaller one. Clearly it was no mistake Fred and Top had gravitated toward each other back in Sangin. Top was a dog person.

  Tecates in hand, we went out back and let the dogs introduce themselves as only dogs can. After a minute or so, they seemed to reach an understanding. Fred instantly picked out Top’s biggest dog, Sugar Bear, as his new best buddy. They began chasing each other, spinning around and trying to nip each other’s legs.

  With the dogs romping around, I turned to Top and said something about admiring his smoker and looking forward to dinner. He looked me in the eye and said, “It’s Mark. I don’t go by Top anymore.” I could tell by his voice that he was firm, like he’d given it some serious thought. Every rank in the Marine Corps has a nickname, and the master sergeant is Top, so, over there, that’s all we ever called him. Some retired guys still like to be called by their rank after getting out—maybe it’s just what they’re used to or they don’t want to let go or it just reminds them of the good old days. Top had spent over twenty years in the RECON community—a rare and remarkable achievement, which also meant he’d seen his share of “good old days” as well as all the dark that comes with them. If he wanted to be called Mark, I’m sure he had his reasons.

  We all sat around out back, Mark occasionally checking on the meat, all of us nursing our beers. It was another perfect Southern California day: mild with a bright blue sky overhead. The dogs continued to chase one another. Fred got confused by the doggy door leading into the house. He’d never used one before, but after watching Mark’s dogs a few times, he bravely made the leap. With his short legs and long body, he wasn’t exactly designed for a contraption like that, but after he made it through once, he kept going in and out, mastering his new trick.

  When he got tired, Fred came over and sat on Mark’s foot, turning his head back to look up at him. I pictured Top and Fred alone in the command center in Sangin, a little clay room with a huge black antenna sticking out. Each night when we went out on patrols, that’s where they sat. The room was cramped and windowless, and colossal bags of rice lined the walls. Someone had created a makeshift desk out of a plank of wood, where Top sat. The only light came from the glow of the Toughbook laptop—where Top monitored a map of the night’s route—and the green flicker of the lights from the CB radios. At designated check-in points, the lieutenant would radio Top: “Checkpoint Alpha” or “Checkpoint Bravo,” they’d say, “Nothing new to report.” “Roger that,” Top would respond. It went on all nigh
t. I never saw Top sleep. If we lost contact on a patrol, he’d know where to send the QRF. If we stepped on an IED, he’d know where to send the medevac. And as Top would work through the night—a big guy hunched over a tiny table, staring into a screen—a little dog would sit on his boot.

  Mark leaned down and petted Fred around his ears.

  “I remember one time over there, I caught this little guy stealing jerky from my ruck. He sniffed it out somehow. He had his whole face buried into my bag up to his eyeballs before I caught him,” Mark remembered, smiling. “I was too impressed to be mad at him. Gave him half the bag.”

  “Well, you were pretty much his personal chef,” I said, remembering how I’d started catching Top slipping Fred little bites of food around the compound. Sometimes, after we got a drop-off of fresh MREs, all the guys and I would eagerly tear open a bunch of meals but wouldn’t finish them all. Top hated when we did it; it was wasteful. So he’d gather up the leftover food and make little concoctions out of them for Fred. Once he took half a meatloaf patty and mashed it up with pasta shells in white sauce. Fred, of course, loved it.

  One by one, Mark’s three daughters came home from school or from their activities. They were all about high school age, with the oldest getting ready to go off to college. Like Tara, they were polite and well spoken, pulling up chairs outside and sitting to talk with all of us. When the whole family was home and Mark deemed the meat ready, we went inside and all sat around the dining room table for a proper dinner. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d sat down like that for a family meal. I was grateful, and the food was delicious.

  Over dinner that night, I told the girls what an honor it was to work alongside their dad in Afghanistan. He was the kind of leader that didn’t need to yell or scream to get people to follow him. You followed him because you wanted to be like him, you wanted to be around him, and you didn’t want to let him down. And I wanted to thank him, earnestly, for keeping us safe over there. It was his leadership and the decisions he made for the company—patrolling only at night, taking challenging off-road routes, never using the same route twice—that kept us out of harm’s way.