by Craig Grossi
The forms complete, I sat back and took a breath. They looked good. Finally, I had Fred’s ticket out. I didn’t feel bad, exactly, but the weight of what I was doing kicked up a new wave of anxiety in my chest. I tapped my foot into the ground and ran my hand through my hair.
Maybe there was one other thing I could do. I went back to the truck and drove to the other side of Leatherneck to Bastion, the British side of the base. The Brits were more laid-back, I figured, and technically they were outside the U.S. military, so maybe less likely to get me in trouble. I knew they had working dogs, so I figured they must have a vet on-site.
I found their military police and security forces office and asked a guy walking through if there was a vet around. He pointed me in the direction of a building nearby. When I walked in, the room looked like a normal veterinary office back home. Steel exam tables, kennels. A woman looked up from her laptop in my direction.
I introduced myself, and this time, I didn’t beat around the bush.
“I’ve got this stray dog,” I said. I told her about Fred and how I was trying to get him home.
“I don’t need your name on anything,” I said. “But just for my peace of mind, could you examine him? Make sure he isn’t sick with anything?”
She looked at me, a little stunned. After a short delay, she said, “Can you bring him in around seven tonight? By then it should be pretty empty around here.”
I picked up Fred from DHL around dusk. It was pretty quiet on the roads; the only people out were contractors or civilians. I let Fred stick his head out the window in the passenger seat and smiled. For a moment, I let myself imagine the two of us doing this very thing back home.
The vet was there waiting for us, and Fred, of course, was a charmer. He let her pick him up and put him on one of the exam tables. She checked out his ears and teeth. He even let her do a rectal exam without freaking out.
“Where did you find this little gentleman?” she wanted to know.
I just laughed. “It’s a long story.”
“Well, he’s totally healthy,” she said. “He’s young! Maybe six or seven months old. Just get him home as soon as you can, then get him neutered and vaccinated once he’s there.”
She even wrote a note for me on paper with British Army letterhead, stating Fred was cleared for travel. It wasn’t an official document, but she thought it couldn’t hurt.
Back at the DHL compound, I handed over all the paperwork to Tinashe: my new note along with the forged forms.
“Well done, my friend,” he said, leafing through the pages. “I can get Fred out on the next flight. But we still need a kennel. Did you get one?”
I had been so worried about paperwork that I’d forgotten a critical part of the equation. In the back of my mind, maybe I was hoping Tinashe would be able to come up with a kennel for me. But it looked like that wasn’t the case.
I told Tinashe I’d figure something out. As I stepped through the door, Peter and one of his coworkers ran up to me.
“Mr. Craig! We made something for Fred.”
I looked at what was in their arms and, at first, didn’t realize what it was. Then it registered: they had made a homemade crate for Fred. Using chicken wire and scrap wood from around the compound, they’d assembled a makeshift kennel.
Tinashe stuck his head out the office door. “I told them I couldn’t send Fred in that thing, but they made it anyway!” he said.
I couldn’t believe it. I was blown away by the gesture—more so than I could properly express. These guys barely knew me; they didn’t owe me anything. And here they’d taken time out of their busy and exhausting schedules to make this contraption for Fred. And they’d already done so much by keeping him safe for me.
I thanked them as much as I could. Tinashe, though, insisted he needed an FAA-approved kennel. We all looked at each other apologetically, each of us wishing we could use the hand-built one. We were so close. Feeling defeated, I promised to come up with something soon, and I headed back to the truck once again.
The adrenaline rush that had kept me going all day was giving way to a crash. Every so often, my ears would start ringing, and walking around, I’d feel a wash of dizziness. I gripped the steering wheel and tried to think, but I came up with nothing. Dejected, I went home and fell asleep.
The next day, I racked my brain. Was there a way I could sneak into the military police compound and steal a kennel from them? That was probably the riskiest option. Maybe I could ask the nice British vet—but I really didn’t want to implicate her; she’d already been so kind. I also hated the idea of attempting to order a crate online, or waiting for Sarah to send one, and risking Fred’s livelihood any longer.
Each night on Leatherneck, the chow halls served a meal we called “mid rats.” It was whatever was left over from the day’s meals: pancakes, lasagna, waffles, pasta, chicken. That night, I sat down with a tray of food and just stared into it, too stressed out to take a bite. I was about to give up on eating when I saw a young marine also sitting by himself on the other side of the chow hall. He was looking right at me. When we made eye contact, he waved for me to come over. He was a skinny, lanky kid with glasses. Young. I didn’t recognize him, but I went over.
He introduced himself. Jenkins. A private. Then he leaned across the table and said, kind of quietly, “I know about Fred.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, sizing him up.
“Come on, Sergeant. I want to help,” he said.
I had nothing to lose, and Jenkins didn’t exactly seem threatening. I asked him what he knew.
“You need a kennel,” he said.
“Can you help, or are you just fucking with me?” I asked.
“I can get you one,” he said. He was completely sincere. He told me he worked at the military police compound. He had the joyous duty of hosing crap out of the dogs’ cages and scooping their chow.
“There are empty kennels everywhere,” Jenkins said. “I can get you one. What’s your room number?”
I told him. We shook hands, and he left. I didn’t know how this kid knew about Fred, but I assumed some of Fred’s biggest fans—Dave and Matt, or even the RECON guys—must have let it slip. In the marines, stories had a way of making their way around between the lower enlisted guys. The first three ranks—private, private first class, and lance corporal—probably make up almost 80 percent of the Marine Corps. Those guys have to do a lot of the tough, unglamorous work, and as a result, they watch out for each other when they can. You scratch my back; I’ll scratch yours—that kind of thing. We had a nickname for it: the Lance Corporal Mafia.
Late that night, I heard a thud outside my door. When I got out of bed and tried to open it, I couldn’t. I realized right away why the door was stuck: Jenkins had left the kennel right outside. I was in disbelief. He actually came through.
I pushed open the door and pulled the kennel inside. It was disassembled into a few pieces—a top and bottom portion made of tough molded plastic, and a metal gate for the front—but it was perfect.
In the morning, when Sergio woke up, I said, “Dude, this is it. Let’s go!” I knew U.S.-bound flights departed every morning; Tinashe told me as soon as I got the kennel, he could get Fred out.
When Sergio and I pulled the truck into the DHL compound, I pressed into the horn and let out a few excited honks. Fred, who was on the end of his lead, recognized the black Toyota by now and stood wagging his tail. Tinashe came out of the office as Sergio and I pulled out the crate.
“You did it!” he said, laughing heartily.
None of us fully believed it was really happening. Peter and some of the DHL guys came over and helped Sergio and me put the crate together with zip ties. I put a little pillow and one of my T-shirts inside—plus some food from the chow hall—and let Fred wander in to check it out. I grabbed a black Sharpie and wrote across the top of the crate: SGT. FRED, USMC.
“Okay!” Tinashe said in approval once the crate was ready to go. “Today’s the day.” H
e walked over to the schedule board that he updated daily with the day’s outgoing and incoming shipments. In the outgoing column, he wrote: “Bye to Fred, we will miss you, good boy. Love, DHL Staff.”
I squatted down and held Fred’s face, massaging his neck under his ears. He looked at me happily, tongue peeking out of his goofy teeth in a little pant. As usual, he looked like he was smiling. “Okay, buddy,” I said. “You’re going home.”
I put a last piece of lunch meat in the crate and closed the gate behind Fred when he went in. Tinashe helped me lift it onto a wide, flat pallet, then we secured it in place with a few ratchet straps. Peter drove a forklift up to the pallet and gently lifted it, placing it onto the back of the flatbed truck. Fred sat in his crate looking out, still grinning, as if this were all according to plan.
“Do you want to come along?” Tinashe asked, pointing to the flight line. He was going to personally make sure Fred boarded the plane without any issues.
“Absolutely,” I said.
Sergio and I hopped in Peter’s truck, following behind Fred to the flight line. I still laugh to myself thinking about the view: a huge eighteen-wheeler pulling nothing behind it except a trailer with a little happy dog in a crate.
Tinashe pulled the truck onto the tarmac, where a huge white 747 was waiting. Peter and a few of the DHL guys had come along, and they jumped up on Fred’s pallet for one last good-bye and a group photo.
The flight would take twenty-four hours: to Pakistan, then Bahrain, then Germany, and finally John F. Kennedy airport in New York. Tinashe introduced me to the loadmaster so I could explain the special cargo. The loadmaster—a big guy with a firm handshake and long beard—was excited about Fred and his story.
“I’ll be with him through the entire journey,” he said. “I miss my dog back home, so it’ll be nice to have some company. He’s in good hands.”
A forklift loaded pallets of cargo into a large bay at the side of the plane. We watched as it was Fred’s turn. He was still sitting in his crate, totally relaxed.
“Bye, Fred!” we shouted and waved, a motley crew of dusty guys from all over the world, all devoted to this funny, sweet-hearted fur ball.
I thought of the RECON guys and how badly they had wanted Fred to make it home, too. I felt like I’d achieved something we could all be proud of—something that meant more to me than any medal or award. I still had four months left in my deployment. The last few days in the field had nearly destroyed me, and I didn’t know what lay ahead. But a deep sense of peace settled over me. I took in a long breath and let it out.
The massive jet engines began to whir, and we watched the plane taxi onto the runway, then roar to life and speed away. At the end of the runway, the plane lifted into the sky and became smaller and smaller in the distance. I smiled and thought, There goes my dog.
CHAPTER 13
The Redwoods
It was in the humming forest of Redwood State Park, under the serene, towering trees, that Josh’s leg broke.
That morning, we’d hiked seven miles into the forest. With our rucks on our backs, heavy with two days’ worth of provisions, and Fred leading the way at the end of his leash, we walked into the woods. At first, the trail was wide enough that Josh and I could walk shoulder to shoulder. It was a welcome change from the grueling, bushwhacked path we’d forged the week before in Los Padres. On the wide, flat trail, for the first few miles, we moved at a brisk pace. Our footsteps fell into a rhythm, the possibility of adventure propelling us. We were so determined to move forward and move quickly that we almost didn’t notice the redwoods rising around us like giants. It wasn’t until the trail narrowed and then led us through a dry creek bed that we realized we were surrounded.
We stopped, the three of us standing in the shadows, looking up at the trees. The rough, wrinkled trunks were moss covered and red; our eyes followed them up, up, up to dizzying heights, till our vision blurred in a sky-high gathering of branches and leaves. Even though they were right in front of us, the redwoods’ enormity was difficult to comprehend. It felt like being a little kid at your parents’ party when all you can see are kneecaps. Life, it seemed, was above. Down on the ground, we were small and insignificant. To walk among their ancient presence, though, was breathtaking. I felt like I could sense the energy of the trees buzzing in the air.
We hiked almost six miles without even realizing it. Every time we came around a bend in the trail, we encountered even bigger and more beautiful trees. My neck became tired from craning to look up.
Overhead, the sky began to turn murky and gray, releasing big droplets of rain. We came to the wide, flat clearing of a dry creek bed that looked good enough for camp, and we decided to get settled in before the rain picked up. We pitched our tents, securing them into the loose gravel of the creek bed. Josh had a large camouflage tarp, and we suspended it about a foot off the ground and put our rucks underneath to keep them dry.
After we’d spent some time arranging camp, the rain stopped, as if it’d gotten off to a false start. I decided to explore with Fred while Josh took a nap in his tent. With Fred on the leash—we’d read warnings about bears and mountain lions in the area—we followed the dry creek bed through the forest, scampering over loose rocks and gravel.
About a mile up the creek, we spotted a fallen giant. The tree had to have been over two hundred feet tall. I imagined the sound it would have made when it came down: a thunderous crash, like a freight train in a blender. The tree was breathtaking, even in its death.
I picked up Fred and, keeping him tucked under my arm, found a way to scramble up onto the trunk. Fred loved running up and down the trunks of fallen trees, and I wanted nothing more than to see him prance along the mighty redwood. Cautiously, we stood and got our bearings, then together we ran along it like two kids on a playground. With his low center of gravity, it was as if Fred were made for balancing on uneven surfaces like this. He scurried back and forth over the trunk, turning to look back at me, mouth open, ears perked, eyes wide. As soon as I ran toward him, he’d turn and run, too, tail wagging.
When we finally climbed down from the tree, we sat at its base and looked out into the woods. The afternoon sun broke through the rain clouds and warmed us up while we rested, totally at peace. In moments like that, it’d hit me all at once: here I was, standing beside a centuries-old redwood tree in California with my stray dog from Afghanistan. It seemed like we’d been destined to end up here.
Back on Camp Leatherneck, after I’d watched the plane carrying Fred take off and disappear into the distance, I called Sarah, who had been helping me all along.
“Hey, sis,” I said. “Fred is on the way. He’ll be at JFK in twenty-four hours. Can you and Dad—”
“We’ll be there,” she said, before I could finish.
I sent Sarah the flight details and waited. I was in limbo: stuck on Leatherneck, going to physical therapy, working in the intel office, wondering about Fred. I walked around the place like a ghost—empty, going through the motions, my mind somewhere else entirely.
The wait felt like an eternity. Finally, after little food or sleep, enough time had passed. It was the middle of the night. I don’t remember if I’d fallen asleep and woken up again or if I’d just laid there all night. I sat up on my cot, grabbed my sat phone, and walked outside. The stars twinkled overhead. I pressed the buttons and held the phone to my ear.
It rang, then the line clicked. I heard Sarah’s voice on the other end.
“We got him,” she said. “He’s beautiful, Craig.”
I let out a choke of laughter. Tears ran down my cheeks.
“You did it,” Sarah said. “You did it!”
When I called, Sarah, my dad, and Fred were in the car driving from New York City back to Virginia. Sarah told me how, at customs, both the loadmaster and pilot had come out and introduced themselves. “This is a great dog. He took a piss in Germany,” the loadmaster told her.
Sarah laughed, grateful Fred had been so well taken care of
. When the paperwork cleared and they finally were able to let Fred out of the kennel, he carefully stepped out, looked around at the group of people, and then walked right up to Sarah. Someone had whispered, “How did he know that’s his sister?”
Our conversation was only a few minutes long, but the joy we shared over the phone that night was electric. I remember the way the tone in Sarah’s voice shifted subtly before we hung up, though. She didn’t say it outright, but I could hear it in her good-bye: she was saying, “You did this—but you’re not done.” I still needed to come home, too.
Neither of us knew it then, but the worst part of my deployment still lay ahead.
When Fred and I walked back to camp, I heard a loud thumping as we approached. It sounded like Josh was driving a stake into the ground with his hatchet. But when we came around the corner and I got a look at him, I saw he was sitting on a log, his prosthetic in his hands, slamming it against the tree. Then he paused, holding the mechanical knee up to his face to examine it.
“Hey, man. What happened?” I said.
“Some dirt found its way in and jammed up my knee,” Josh said. “Stupid thing is supposed to be used in the field. I put the dust cover on and everything.”
Josh explained that when he woke up from his nap, he decided to try to assemble a shelter using the tarp. If it rained some more, we could use it for cover. But when he knelt down in the creek bed to unhook the tarp from where it covered our rucks, some gravel got into the joint of his prosthetic knee. When he stood up, the leg jammed up and he lost his footing, falling onto his elbow and pushing even more gravel into the knee’s exposed mechanics. Now, he was trying to clear the tiny pebbles and dirt from the joint with a small brush meant for cleaning the inside of a rifle. A trail of blood ran down his forearm from where he’d fallen on his elbow.
