Craig & Fred

by Craig Grossi

  Peter and a few of the guys appeared. It was the end of the workday, and they were off the clock. Behind the office, in front of the line of trailers, a folding table hosted a few simmering Crock-Pots. It was dinnertime, and hearing the news about Fred, they brought over a plate of chicken and rice for him.

  Each of us was from a different country—continent, even—yet here we all were, brought together by this one little mutt in the middle of the Afghanistan desert. We were all transplants here, trying to survive in our strange circumstances. These guys didn’t have to help me, and still, they did. I was humbled by their generosity.

  As I slipped away, back to the truck, and drove away from the compound, Fred barely noticed. He knew he was going to be well taken care of there, and he was happy.

  Two weeks at Leatherneck had hardly felt like one. Aside from getting Fred situated, I had to prep for the next mission, spending hours upon hours in the intel office with Sergio while he briefed me on what to expect from the Taliban this time out.

  The plan was to reinsert a few miles north of where we’d been before, continuing to clear out the Taliban along Highway 611. Our aim was to establish a patrol base that would serve as a semipermanent fixture along the highway and secure the area so the engineers could continue to make their way toward the dam.

  The farther north we went, the narrower the Green Zone became, cut off by an eastward bend in the Helmand River. It was kind of like a bottleneck—a narrow swath of Green Zone dense with Taliban. From our experience in Sangin, along with coverage from drones we used to track movement, we could tell that the Taliban had been “commuting” down from this area in the north to attack us during the day, then retreating back at night. After we extracted, we monitored the area by drone and saw the Taliban move around completely at ease, balls out, unafraid. They raided villagers’ homes and patrolled the area with AK-47s. It was almost as if we’d never been there. It was troubling. This time, we were going to show up right in their kitchen.

  On my first missions, since I was the only member of the company with my specific job—an attachment human-intelligence collector—I’d ended up getting closest with other attachments, like Ali, our interpreter, who actually had a contract position, and Matt and Dave, the EOD guys. Ali was going out on this next mission again, but Dave and Matt had already been in Afghanistan for eight months and were heading home. Another EOD team had just arrived in-country to replace them: Justin and Ysa.

  We met the night of our reinsertion. A bunch of us were gathering on the flight line with our gear, cracking jokes and killing time. I told a story about how I’d smoked a cigar with one of the British marines in Sangin, then promptly got sick just as we stepped off on a patrol. I spent the night meeting villagers with a puke-stained uniform.

  The guys all laughed, and when Justin and Ysa joined us, I turned to introduce myself.

  “Hey, guys. I’m Craig,” I said. I liked to skip titles and marine formalities to throw people off guard and gauge their reaction.

  Justin was about my height, a big guy, in shape, with these huge hands. I could tell immediately he had a quiet confidence. I knew he was a staff sergeant, but he introduced himself as I had, using just his first name. After shaking hands, he seemed to take my casual tone as an opening to ask about Fred.

  “You’re the guy who snuck the dog out in a duffel bag last time out, right?” Justin said.

  Dave must have blabbed about Operation Fred. Justin was a new guy—I couldn’t let him off that easy, so I changed the subject.

  “Dude, you’re from Pittsburgh, aren’t you? I’d recognize that accent anywhere, you freaking yinzer.”

  Justin immediately cracked a smile. I told him my dad’s side of the family was from a small town outside of Pittsburgh. Everytime my dad said “house,” it sounded like “hass.” I hadn’t heard the western-Pennsylvanian accent in a while but I still had an ear for it.

  To make it even, I busted on Ysa about his name. “Y-S-A?” I said, pronouncing it why-essay in a goofy tone. Ysa—which is actually pronounced ee-ssa—was, like Justin, immediately easygoing. He was a little shorter than Justin, a Mexican American guy from a small town in Texas, but his personality was as big as the state itself.

  “Look, guys. Me and Dave were close,” I said. “The RECON guys are great, but they’re their own unit. We should stick together.” Justin and Ysa had more combat experience than I did, but this would be their first time in Sangin.

  “Okay—let’s be friends,” Ysa said with a smile, and they lugged their gear over so we could load up on the helicopter together.

  As the sun sank into the dusty horizon, I felt a moment of peace. Fred was safe. I knew Sarah would find a way to get the forms we needed. And I was surrounded by a good team of guys, doing a job I loved. I didn’t know it then, but that moment was the quiet before the storm. As the light faded in the sky, we trekked across the tarmac, boarded the helicopters, and headed back to Sangin.

  CHAPTER 11

  Wilderness

  On our last night in Los Angeles, Jen, a friend of mine from high school, and her husband, Barry, hosted a small party at their home in Echo Park. The last time I’d seen Jen was about fifteen years before, at her high school graduation party. Since then, she’d kept up with me on social media and told me she was dying to meet Fred. When we got to their place, it felt like no time had passed at all.

  That night, Jen and Barry were amazing hosts. Barry grilled swordfish, octopus, and veggies out on the patio and served up homemade salsa while Jen floated between guests, introducing us to friends and making all of us feel at home.

  At one point, when Jen and I were standing in the kitchen, she surprised me by remembering the speech I’d given to our class at the end of our senior year.

  “You talked about how we had started high school dressing up for one another, trying really hard to figure out how to fit in and how to look cool,” she said. “But by the end of high school, you talked about how we were comfortable with ourselves, and we all started to wear sweatpants and T-shirts to school, like we did when we were little kids on the playground.”

  I laughed. She was right. What I’d been trying to express was how much we’d grown together in those four years—and how much we’d become ourselves. At the time, though, we were all jittery and excited to graduate, just trying to get through to the celebrations, to summer, and on to our futures. I was impressed and sort of flattered that she remembered it.

  “You have a real ability to impact people in a positive way,” Jen added sincerely. “I don’t want you to ever forget that. I think about your speech all the time.”

  I was touched. It occurred to me that Jen remembered me as my high school self—the person I had been all those years ago. Someone who was charismatic, secure, unburdened. It was as if Jen held up a mirror to me, and I saw myself in a way I hadn’t in a long time. Was I still that person now?

  I got the impression that, to Jen, the fact that I’d managed to get Fred out of Afghanistan wasn’t surprising at all. In high school, I bent rules, I found loopholes, and along the way, I made friends with everyone I met. I thrived when I was making people feel comfortable and making people laugh.

  In the marines, there was no rule bending. That’s what I’d wanted, and that’s what I’d gotten. There was time for laughter, sure, but in many ways, going to Afghanistan knocked the wind out of me. Sometimes I felt like I was still catching my breath.

  When I first encountered Fred, though, and ever since then, he had a way of reminding me of the little kid inside me. It was a thing only a dog could do. Fred was naturally confident and carefree. He lived in the moment. He even looked like he was smiling. After we both came home, he helped restore those qualities in me at a time when it was especially difficult. It didn’t happen all the time or all at once, but in little moments. I couldn’t always see it, but that night, Jen reminded me. I was grateful.

  When our time in L.A. came to a close, Josh, Fred, and I put the Pacific Ocea
n on our left and headed north up the coast. After ten days in one place, it felt almost as if we were starting a new road trip altogether, and we were excited for what lay ahead. As the city faded behind us, we wound along the Pacific Coast Highway, in awe of the view. The water was stunningly blue, and the cool ocean air rolled up over the bluffs and poured into the truck’s open windows. We listened to feel-good tunes, songs by Weezer and Biggie Smalls and Van Morrison.

  Josh and I had researched a hike in the Los Padres National Forest that would take us deep into the wilderness. We planned to spend two nights in the woods, exploring hidden hot springs and creeks. To get to them, though, we’d have to cover extremely challenging terrain under full pack weight. Josh was up for the adventure; I hoped his prosthetic would be, too. It was our first overnight hike of the trip, something we were both looking forward to.

  The trail into the forest began with a series of grueling switchbacks. Heading straight up the mountainside, the steep ascent had us out of breath quickly. Overhead, towering redwoods reached for the sky, blocking most of the sun but also preventing the ocean breeze from circulating. The trail was hot. Without saying much, we pressed on, our packs creaking on our backs and Fred panting at my heels.

  After an hour or so, we reached the summit. Propping ourselves up against a boulder, we rested the weight of our packs on its surface while Fred found a cool spot under a clump of bushes. High on the ridgeline, we took in the view: a vast piney wilderness to our east and the glittering Pacific Ocean to our west. The cool sea air reached us again, rushing up the mountainside and washing over us. Looking down, we could see the trail we’d just traveled in its entirety. What had only been visible in short, uphill segments on the ascent revealed itself to be a long, zigzagging path etched into the mountainside.

  The next few miles covered flat ground and went by with relative ease. Josh’s prosthetic had survived what we hoped had been the most challenging part of our hike. Back in the parking lot, before we began our ascent, a few hikers coming off the trail had told us the hot springs were overcrowded and campsites were hard to come by. They tipped us off to a different spot—a quiet, tucked-away area with a beautiful stream running through it—and we marked it on our map. When we came to the junction that they described, we decided the freshwater creek sounded much more appealing than battling for space at the hot springs. A trail sign pointed the way down a well-worn path toward the hot springs. But just to the left of it, we could see another, unmarked trail that had been cut through the thick brush—it was the one our friends had mentioned.

  Josh eyed the trail apprehensively.

  “Downhill will be tough for me right now, man,” he said.

  His prosthetic knee contained oil that greased the hydraulic and, just like motor oil, it became thin and lost its viscosity as it heated. After a few hours of intense hiking in the heat, Josh felt like the knee was starting to give out every so often. It’s one thing to trip and fall on a trail, but it’s another to be carrying a heavy pack with a prosthetic, never knowing if your leg might buckle under the weight of your next step.

  “My knee is red hot,” Josh said apologetically as he reached down and touched the metal beneath the plastic protective cover on the knee.

  “We can go as slow as we need to,” I said with optimism. “We have plenty of light left. I won’t leave you behind.”

  As if on cue, a young couple came bounding down the trail from the hot springs. I could hear music blaring from their headphones, and they almost didn’t see us as they came around the corner with their heads down.

  “Oh, hey! You guys heading to the hot springs?” the guy asked when he finally noticed us, pulling his headphones back off one ear while the music continued pumping out.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “Lots of people out there?”

  “It’s a popular spot for sure. You guys will have fun,” he said. The woman he was with couldn’t be bothered; she was already up ahead, rounding the next bend. The man nodded at us, placed his oversize headphone back over his ear, and went on his way.

  Josh and I looked at one another and shook our heads.

  “Let’s go, man. I’ll slide down the hill on my ass if I have to,” Josh said with a groan, getting to his feet. We hadn’t come all this way to share an overcrowded campsite with a bunch of noisy vacationers.

  “That’s my boy!” I said. I picked up Fred’s leash and the three of us walked into the woods, heading down the unmarked trail.

  The trail led us back down the other side of the ridge in a steep descent through thick brush. Soon I wasn’t sure if we were even on a trail. All the elevation we’d gained on our climb up the switchbacks disappeared at a rapid rate. I did my best to hide my concerns and forge the easiest path for us, avoiding fallen trees and sharp drops. Josh was too busy watching his footing and bracing himself for a fall if his knee gave out to realize that we weren’t really on a path anymore. Fred pranced along right at my heels, not caring where we were going as long as we all stayed together.

  My thighs burned and my toes hurt from crashing into the front of my boots with every step. When I gained too much ground, I stopped for a minute to wait for Josh. He wasn’t talking much. I could only imagine the mental and physical challenge he was facing with each step. As the brush got thicker and the terrain got steeper, I started to worry we’d made the wrong decision.

  Then I heard a low and steady babble rising from below us. I stopped to listen, wondering if it was the sound of the wind. It was like a distant ocean, but as I listened more intently, I realized the hushed gurgles were the sounds of the stream.

  “You hear that, buddy?” I asked, knowing Josh could only hear pain. He stopped and looked up, the sweat dripping off his nose.

  “Sounds like heaven,” he said with a big grin.

  After a few more yards, the trail widened, and we excitedly burst into the clearing. Before us was a wide creek, about twenty yards across, with a small waterfall cascading over rocks and the trunk of a massive fallen tree. It was beautiful. The water in front of us was shallow, so we crossed and headed up the other side of the bank. Someone had made camp there, leaving behind a fire ring of rocks and a large log, but we walked past it in hopes of finding a spot we could make our own. A few minutes later, we found a bend in the creek where the force of the water had created a small, gravelly beach. A collection of boulders in the middle of the stream created a deep pool of clear mountain water, perfect for wading into. Josh and I looked around and smiled.

  “I officially declare this Man Camp,” I said, letting my rucksack slide off my back and hit the ground with a thud. I sat on a log and started to untie my boots. The heat of the day and the stress of our improvised route would all be worth it once I submerged myself in water.

  Josh sat on a boulder and removed his prosthetic to give his leg some air. The nub that remained on his right leg was swollen from being stuck inside the carbon socket attached to his prosthetic knee and foot.

  “You go check it out, I’m right behind you,” he said, waving me off with one hand and rubbing powder on his nub with the other.

  When I walked onto the rocky beach in my swim trunks, Fred scampered to my side to see what I was up to. I started walking through the creek, stepping from rock to rock, and Fred followed, precariously balancing on the stones. I climbed onto a boulder and looked down into the deep, clear water, where a few large fish were swimming. I hopped off the rock and let gravity do the rest. Plunging into the cool water, I sank to the bottom. The shock of the cold woke my senses. I came to the surface and sucked in the fresh air, beaming.

  Fred, part panicked and part excited, waded into the water and paddled toward me, his snout in the air.

  “Hey, buddy!” I said, swimming toward my rescuer. Fred loved being in the water but much preferred it when he could touch the bottom. Both of us floated toward the bank so he could get his footing. It made me laugh to think about how Fred might be the only dog in his gene pool to have ever swum as much as he ha
d.

  “Looks cold!” Josh said from his spot on the bank. “I’m gonna jump in over there.” He pointed upstream to where a massive fallen tree lay across the creek. The tree was the best way for him to get in the water. Wading in from the bank would have meant me helping him hop on one leg. From the tree trunk, he could leap on his own.

  I swam over to the water beneath the tree as Josh climbed onto it. It was plenty deep at the midpoint, just beyond a couple of boulders on either side. Fred went out ahead of Josh, scurrying onto the trunk, looking from Josh to me and whimpering disapprovingly.

  “It’s okay, pal. It’s just a little water,” I said.

  Josh took off his leg and scooted across. As he got closer, Fred calmed down, sitting back on his haunches as he watched Josh make his way toward him. When Josh got to the middle, he looked down at the drop, and I could tell it looked a lot more intimidating from where he sat. He was probably about fourteen feet over the water, and with the boulders infringing on the pool of water below, his margin for error was small.

  “Just pop yourself off and go butt first,” I said, trying to simplify it as much as I could. I swam downstream and found a rock to sit on, out of the way. Fred scampered off the tree trunk and along the bank to join me, licking the cool water off my skin.

  Then, without warning, Josh lifted himself by his arms and popped off the log. For a moment, the fall blew his hair upward and he let out a “Yip!” just before hitting the water. He stayed under as I had done, enjoying the peace. Just as the ripples were fading, he surfaced, taking in a big breath and then smiling from ear to ear.

  We spent the rest of the day taking turns hopping off the fallen tree and swimming in the creek. No one came by; we were perfectly alone in the peaceful forest. As the sun began to sink, we started a fire at our campsite to keep the bugs away. For dinner, I heated up some water for our freeze-dried camp food. Chicken and rice for me and chili mac for Josh. They were like MREs, but better in quality and with far more flavor. Fred was curled up in front of the fire when he smelled the chicken. I added a scoop to his dry food and, to my surprise, he gobbled up his meal instead of burying it. He must have worked up quite an appetite playing lifeguard all day.