by Craig Grossi
My family took me to a seafood place near the airport. We got seated at a big long table in the middle of the restaurant. It was crowded and noisy, and I remember looking around, thinking, Where are the exits? And then, Where are Ysa and Bobby? People kept walking behind me; I watched everyone who went by, trying to listen to anything they might say.
I didn’t have much of an appetite, but I ordered the surf and turf. Everything was drenched in butter, and I was coming off months of bland cafeteria food and MREs. I ate a few bites and pushed the rest of it around on my plate.
No one really knew how to ask me questions or what to say. I didn’t blame them. Someone eventually asked something about what it was like over there, but it was easy to deflect. “It was hot,” I said with a grin.
Thankfully, there was one thing all of us were happy to talk about, and that was Fred. Sarah jumped in and started telling stories about him. On the weekends, she’d gone to my dad’s to give him and my stepmom a break from taking care of Fred. She’d take Fred on walks and play with him. She laughed as she told me how Fred didn’t understand fetch. He would bring back a ball, but then he’d never drop it. Instead, he wanted her to try to get it from him or play tug-of-war.
A few times, she talked about watching Fred sit out on the front lawn, nose up in the air, sniffing and looking into the distance. It made her cry, she said, realizing that Fred may have been wondering where I was.
“I really think he was waiting for you,” she said.
My dad still lived in the house we grew up in, and my bedroom was still the same as it had been since childhood: same bed, same furniture, some clothes in the closet. Once, Sarah had been sitting on the couch with Fred, watching TV, when she realized he’d snuck away. She called out his name but didn’t hear anything. After searching the house, she finally found him. He was upstairs in my bedroom, on my bed, his head resting on my pillow.
Back in Afghanistan, my mind often wandered to Fred. I wondered what he was doing, what mischief he was getting into. I hoped he’d remember me. I hoped that I’d make it back to see him.
When dinner finally ended, we headed back to my dad’s house. On the way home, he explained how he’d turned the basement into Fred’s little lair. Apparently Fred loved the carpeting down there—better traction for running and playing. When we arrived at the house, I raced straight to the basement. My dad had been trying to crate-train Fred, so he was in this big metal crate, surrounded by pillows. As I came down the steps, the first thing I heard was his tail slapping against the metal. “Hey, buddy!” I called to him, and his tail stopped wagging. He got a good look at my face, and I swear he did a double take. There was a moment’s pause as he drew in a gasp of air, then he let out a long, slow howl, like he couldn’t believe it was me.
When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I opened the gate, and Fred went nuts. He was all over me, jumping and nipping and flipping around. He ran between my legs, rubbing against my shins with his butt while he continued to let out excited howl-whines. I lay right down on the floor and let him jump on my chest and lick my face.
He looked like a new dog. His fur was soft and fluffy, each strand set free from the weight of dust. He wore a green camouflage collar with FRED stitched on the side in big brown letters. He looked like he’d gained a little weight, too.
“Damn, buddy! You’re domesticated now,” I laughed, grabbing a rope toy so we could play.
I couldn’t believe I was here with Fred in my childhood home. The last time I’d seen him, he’d been in a kennel getting loaded onto a cargo jet. But something about this setting felt natural, too. Fred seemed comfortable, as if he’d always been there, as if we had always been together.
Even though it was cold and dark outside, I decided to take Fred for a walk. My family was buzzing with excitement and I just wanted a moment of quiet. I grabbed the leash my dad had bought, and the two of us headed out the door. We walked down a little dirt path that wound through the neighborhood. It was the same path I used to walk Irene and the other neighborhood dogs on when I was a kid, longing for a dog of my own.
I was impressed by how well Fred did on the leash. He trotted alongside me, looking up every few steps as if to make sure it was really me. I smiled down at him, and we walked together in the moonlight.
In the following days, I got a full Fred report from my dad. It was funny to me that my dad—who had never wanted us to have a dog as kids because he knew he’d end up doing all the work—had taken care of Fred all this time. But it actually seemed like he’d enjoyed it. He told me Fred had been really well behaved from the start. He ate anything you gave him and slept anywhere soft. Even though Fred had never lived in a house before, he’d somehow understood potty training immediately, maybe since he had only ever done his business outside. Fred was smart, though. My dad told me how Fred quickly figured out that, on walks, as soon as he went to the bathroom, the walk was over. So he began holding it, forcing my dad to go on longer and longer odysseys before he’d finally go.
One thing that scared him was curbside sewer drains. Something about the dark hole in the ground totally unnerved him. My dad would have to avoid drains entirely; otherwise, Fred would freeze up. A few times, my dad even picked up Fred and carried him past one because he wouldn’t budge.
Another thing Fred didn’t care for was being groomed. Since his fur was pretty long, my dad figured it would be a good idea to take Fred to the groomer. So he dropped the dog off one day and a couple of hours later returned to pick him up. Neither Fred nor the groomer looked very happy. “He really barks loudly,” the groomer said with a frown. Apparently Fred had had a lot to say about his new haircut.
In general, Fred seemed happiest outside. He loved sitting out on the front lawn, just taking in the smells and rolling around in the grass. He also loved the snow. The first time he saw it, he was amazed. He stuck his long snout into it, using it as a plow to push the cold white stuff around.
My dad warned me that Fred was fascinated by wood, so much so that he’d chewed up some furniture in the house. He was a bit impatient, too. One morning, my dad hurried to drink his coffee before taking Fred out for his morning walk. Apparently, Dad wasn’t fast enough. Tired of waiting, Fred sunk his front fangs into the molding around the door and popped off the entire frame in one tug.
While I was still on my deployment, my dad had been pretty protective of Fred. If anything had happened to the dog before I got home, my dad wouldn’t have been able to live with himself. So, aside from a few trips to the vet for vaccines and to get neutered, Fred mostly spent his time inside or on leashed walks.
Now that I was home, I couldn’t wait to take Fred on adventures and start our new life together. I quickly realized, though, that there would be a learning curve for both of us. We were starting over, in a different city, in a different country, and had to get to know each other again.
That summer, even with the humidity, Fred still had a lot of energy. He always wanted to be outside, and nothing seemed to tire him out. As he’d done at my dad’s house, he chewed around the base of my apartment door and even along the windowsills—anything that looked like an exit. Sometimes he’d start gnawing on the doorframe right in front of me, right after we came in from a long walk. “Fred!” I’d shout, completely exasperated.
We started spending a lot of time at the dog park. At first, Fred didn’t really understand how to play with other dogs. He had met other dogs before but hadn’t really been socialized. When a pack would run around, romping and wrestling, instead of joining, Fred would chase them, nipping at their heels and barking incessantly. It was as if he wanted to herd them, but he was coming off too aggressively. A few times, one of the other dogs lashed back at Fred, and I’d have to break up a scuffle. It was never too serious, but it was scary.
Still, I kept taking Fred to the park and watching him closely. I’d never trained a dog before, but I knew Fred needed to be socialized—and he definitely needed time to run and play. Despite the cha
llenges with other dogs, he loved the dog park. Always a bit on the independent side, Fred was happiest off-leash when he could wander around, explore, and sniff everything at his own pace. I smiled to myself watching him bop along with his curly, fluffy tail in the air, still the confident, happy dog I found in Sangin.
Every morning before work, I’d fill up my coffee mug and we’d go out. As Fred got to know some of the dog park regulars, he started to relax a little. The next problem was actually getting him to leave when it was time to go. Even when I’d bribe him with a handful of treats, Fred couldn’t have cared less. So, when it was time to leave the park, I started to trick him. Fred loved to cool down in the creek that was part of the park. It was separated by a fence with access through a gate. If Fred wasn’t listening to me, I’d go stand by the gate. When he saw me there, he’d come running, thinking he was going to go for a dip. Then right as he ran up, I’d reach down, grab him by the collar, and clip him to the leash so we could go home. He wised up to that pretty quick, and then I was back to square one.
To train Fred to be less possessive of his food, I started taking away his kibble while he was in the middle of a meal, or I’d stick my hand in his bowl while he ate. A few times, he snapped at me. Once when he was chewing a rawhide bone—he loved those—I pulled it away from him, and he turned and bit me on the wrist, hard enough to draw blood. I was pissed. I lunged toward him and grabbed him by the scruff, pinning him to the floor. Fred, who wasn’t giving up easily, squirmed and yowled. I held on, holding him in place, saying, “No!” We had it out for a minute, struggling like two brothers. Finally, Fred submitted, letting his body relax. After that, he never bit again.
By the end of the summer, I found one thing that worked well for us: long runs. It helped Fred get used to the leash and it gave both of us a chance to clear our heads and drain our energy.
Fred wasn’t the only one who had to adjust to life at home. That first summer—that first year, the first few years, really—I had a lot of my own ups and downs. Making a new life after Afghanistan is a process that’s ongoing.
After that night at the bar, when Ysa told me I couldn’t hold everything in, I tried to do a better job of opening up with people. It wasn’t easy, and it didn’t happen all at once. I still worked at the DIA at that point, and one thing that initially helped was talking with one of my coworkers, Jason. He was about my age and was a former marine scout sniper who had served in Iraq and Afghanistan.
Part of my initial resistance to sharing my deployment stories with Jason came from the fact that he had a really impressive military résumé. He’d seen combat in Ramadi and Fallujah, then Afghanistan. In my mind—and I made this assumption all the time with other combat vets—he’d seen way more fucked-up shit than I had. If Jason had his shit together after three deployments, then would he really want to hear about what I’d seen and done on my one combat deployment?
Jason and I fell into a lunch routine where we’d go to the food court and do the usual thing coworkers do: vent about the job, talk about the weekend, blow off steam. But as I slowly started to tell Jason about Sangin—about the nightly patrols, the firefights, the rocket, and, eventually, about Sean and Justin—I realized how affected he was by what I was saying. His reactions made me reconsider how much I might have been downplaying what I’d been through. I also realized, flat out, that it wasn’t a competition between us.
Later, talking to Tom, my former commanding officer who had helped me get the DIA job, I got a similar reaction. When I told him about how I kept working after my TBI and after Justin, he looked at me and said, “Man, you stayed. You could have gone on a few missions, gotten your Combat Action Ribbon, and come home satisfied. But you stayed out there. You exposed yourself, and you got everything out of that deployment you could have. That’s something to be proud of.”
Talking to the guys helped me recognize the significance of my deployment. It validated me, and it also made me realize that talking helped. That was a start.
I’d also gotten used to strangers asking about Fred when we were out together. They’d want to know what kind of dog he was—Is he part corgi? was a common question—or where I’d gotten him.
I answered honestly. And more often than not, when someone heard me say “Afghanistan,” they wanted to hear more. So I’d tell them a bit about the marines, and Sangin, and our mission. Before I knew it, I was talking about war with strangers. I didn’t realize it at first, but after coming home from Afghanistan, having Fred helped to keep me from feeling isolated. I met people, and I had a chance to tell them about my experiences in a way that made them feel relevant.
Still, it took me nearly three years to go to the VA. I was stubborn, and I hated the idea of being coddled. I was physically active: I ran, mountain-biked, played hockey, went on trips with Fred. Occasionally my ears rang, but that was pretty much it. Back at Pendleton, when I’d first gotten home from Afghanistan, I had to show up at the Wounded Warrior center because of my traumatic brain injury. I don’t know if the woman I met with was a shrink or what, but she more or less said to me: “You saw combat. You’re not the same. You’re different now.” Naturally, I resented that. Maybe I was worried that if I went to the VA, I’d get the same spiel; I’d be looked at as a victim and labeled with PTS.
At the DIA, though, my boss Kevin pestered me to go and wouldn’t relent. He’d known me long enough to have all the important pieces of my story: the rocket, Justin, and even how I’d sort of slipped through the cracks at the Atlanta postdeployment retreat. He was a retired marine colonel, and I think he felt responsible for me and for the way my separation from active duty may have been mishandled.
For the entire time we worked together, and even after I left the job, Kevin stayed on my case. Eventually, I gave in. I got to thinking a lot about a conversation I had with a Naval Academy neurologist on Camp Leatherneck after my injury. The doc was a pioneer of concussion testing procedures for the Naval Academy football team, and he also ran a military TBI recovery center. He was a brain expert. At the time, all I could think about was getting back into the field with the guys, but he sat me down, and he was serious when he talked to me.
“Look,” he said, “we know a good deal about what happens to brains upon impact. But you were also knocked out by a blast wave, and we don’t know that much yet about how that impacts the brain. The data isn’t there yet. You need to keep that in mind.”
The doctor continued: “You know how when you drop your laptop, you can pick it back up, brush it off, turn it on, and it still works? But it’s not quite the same—it might operate a little slower or freeze up more than it used to. Your brain is like that. Some things are different. We just don’t have the resources yet to understand exactly how different.”
The moral of the story was that I should keep an eye on myself—and let the military keep an eye on me, too. In the years since that conversation, there were times when I’d shrugged off what he said and other times when I thought more deeply about it. Between the pressure from Kevin and the words of the doctor echoing in my head, I finally went to the VA.
Still, I knew going in was going to be a pain in the ass. It takes a full day to be processed, plus follow-up appointments. You get a head-to-toe physical—there’s a primary care physician who gives you an exam, an optician who tests your vision, an ENT who checks your hearing, and on and on, including a psychiatrist who checks your sanity.
When I showed up for my first day of appointments, I gave each doctor the rundown: I’m not physically disabled. I’m active. Look, I can even touch my toes! I’m happy. I have no thoughts of suicide. I am fine. And my physical went well: I aced my vision and hearing tests.
My final appointment of the day was with a shrink. I’ll be in and out of here in fifteen minutes, I thought.
But it wasn’t the shrink’s first rodeo. He saw right through my BS within the first thirty seconds of our meeting. He was middle-aged, relaxed, and soft-spoken, with kind eyes. He hadn’t been in
the military, but he knew what he was doing. He asked me about the memorial bracelet I wore for Justin, and before I knew it I was telling him the whole story, even the parts I usually skipped, like my final moments with Justin on the helicopter. I got emotional, but it felt good to let it out.
“Do you think you have PTS?” the therapist asked.
“Probably,” I said.
I knew I had symptoms, like hypervigilance and bad dreams. I wanted to be honest, with him and with myself.
It wasn’t until a long time later, when I was clicking through the VA’s benefits Web site one day, that I saw my diagnosis for the first time. “PTSD—service connected,” it read. I wasn’t thrilled to see it, but I wasn’t surprised, either. I closed the browser without feeling much about it one way or another. All I knew was that I didn’t want to let it limit me.
In my second semester at Georgetown, in an ethics course, something clicked. We were assigned to read James Stockdale’s reflections on his time as a prisoner of war in Vietnam. The essay, called “Courage Under Fire: Testing Epictetus’s Doctrines in a Laboratory of Human Behavior,” captivated me. In it, Stockdale recounted how he drew upon the philosopher Epictetus’s teachings during seven years of imprisonment and torture. Epictetus was, for most of his life, a slave. Part of the philosophy he created was about how you can’t let things that are out of your control determine your attitude. As Stockdale wrote, “What Epictetus was telling his students was that there can be no such thing as being the ‘victim’ of another. You can only be a ‘victim’ of yourself.” Epictetus said, “For it is within you, that both your destruction and deliverance lie.”
When I read the essay, I couldn’t help but think of Fred. When I found him in Sangin, covered in bugs and dirt, without any buddies or even a source of food or water, he easily could have been aggressive or hostile. But he wasn’t; he was sweet. He had no reason to trust me, but he did. Even in a harsh environment, his attitude was stubbornly positive.
