Craig & Fred

by Craig Grossi

  When we came home together, Fred was a source of light. If I was pissed off or upset about something, playing with him cleared my mind and made me feel calm. Even simply looking at Fred was comforting. We’d been through so much together, and he got it. We were a team.

  Yes, I had been through a lot in Afghanistan. Yes, it affected me. Yes, I was dealing with PTS. Because of that, it seemed like people allowed me—or even expected me—to be negative and cynical. Fred not only showed me I didn’t have to be that way, but he helped me be better, just by being there. I probably knew it before, but I realized something loud and clear: it’s not what happens to you that matters, it’s about how you make meaning out of those experiences. If Fred could do that, then I could try to, too.

  CHAPTER 17

  The Uncertain Path

  On a hot afternoon in mid-August, shortly after I got home from the road trip, Josh helped me move into a house near campus. The old, white-shingled row home sat on a small lot with a patch of grass and a porch where I hung an American flag. I didn’t have much to move: just a desk, mattress, small fridge, footlocker, and an old thrift-store chair Fred loved to sleep in. I also still had some of Josh’s things, too—like the leg he busted in the redwoods—so he was coming to pick them up.

  Josh showed up with a clean shave and fresh haircut.

  “Well, if it isn’t the pig in the silk hat,” I joked. I knew he was interviewing for jobs again. No one would have hired him with that on-the-road scruff and stink we’d cultivated.

  After lugging the furniture to my room, we sat out on the back porch with a couple of beers. The sun was low in the sky, but it was still hot in that late-summer way. The deck overlooked a small, fenced-in backyard with patches of grass and bricks. Fred moseyed around, sniffing at the ground. Beyond the yard, we could see parents helping their kids move into the college housing units around us. I watched as they hugged good-bye and, one at a time, drove off.

  Between sips of beer, we talked about the year ahead, how Josh was back in the application grind, looking for a job, and how I was looking forward to starting classes again and playing ice hockey with the guys. We joked about the trip and how we were proud of it, too. The accomplishment felt almost like being in the military—something only a sliver of people get to experience.

  “I feel like an asshole for the things I said in Minneapolis, man,” I said, putting my beer down. There was no resentment between us, but it felt important to clear the air. “I was out of line trying to tell you how to deal with your issues.”

  In our argument, I’d told Josh not to let his injury become the most interesting thing about him. Even though I meant well and didn’t want him to get bogged down in trying to prove himself to anyone, I knew my words had sounded harsh.

  “You weren’t wrong about it,” Josh said, bringing his beer to his lips. “I definitely saw what I can do this summer. I know I need to value my time here and not just coast through it.”

  “We both need to make sure we never forget that,” I said.

  Looking back on that night, I knew a lot of what I saw in Josh, I saw in myself, too. Neither of us wanted to be looked at as victims because of what we’d been through in Afghanistan. We didn’t want assumptions to be made about us. We didn’t want to be put into boxes. We’d both had near-death experiences and seen our friends die. We knew we were lucky to be alive. That’s why we pushed ourselves so hard. It fueled us and kept us moving forward, but it was also a lot of pressure. Sometimes, we’d get so caught up in being fine, it was hard to admit when we actually weren’t. We didn’t want our friends and family to look at or treat us differently, but the truth was, some things about us were different. Josh and I were both striving to reconcile that and trying to figure out how to live fulfilling lives after the military. There were no easy answers.

  “I think it’ll be a long time before we know just how important this summer was,” Josh said.

  “That’s the smartest thing anyone has ever said with a Natty Lite in his hand.” I grinned. We lifted the sweaty cans in the air and cheersed them together.

  The next spring, I graduated from Georgetown with a bachelor of arts in liberal studies and a concentration in international affairs. It felt good to have that box checked, but I didn’t know what I was supposed to do next. My dad said, “You’ve got a degree now. You need to focus on getting back to work in a stable job with a future.” He wasn’t wrong, but I grappled with how I was going to find meaningful work. At my old job at the DIA, we had this phrase: “Take your medicine.” We were often told by our higher-ups that we should be grateful for our jobs, but we didn’t necessarily always feel that way. Our phrase meant “just deal with it”—sometimes, you were going to have to do things you didn’t want to do, like sit inside at a computer all day without complaining or hold a job with no clear career track or way to progress. When I graduated, I felt like I needed to just take my medicine again, but when I thought about returning to a conventional job, my heart wasn’t in it. I was terrified by the idea of waking up at sixty years old and not feeling proud of what I’d done with my life.

  A couple of years earlier, before the road trip, I’d met a girl named Nora. Nora was a musician—creative, outgoing, and incredibly pretty, with a smile that lit up the room. All this time, we’d kept in touch, sharing updates about our lives and checking in with each other. Just before my final semester at Georgetown, we finally got together, and after I graduated that summer, she moved in with me. With all of us under one roof—me, Nora, Nora’s dog, Ruby (an energetic little terrier mix who became Fred’s little sister), and Fred—the four of us became a family.

  Nora, patient and supportive, worked an office job that paid the bills while I tried to figure out what to do with my life. I’d worked at a men’s clothing store throughout school and kept that going, since so much of the job was about talking to people, something I enjoyed and was good at. They also let me bring Fred into the store, a big bonus.

  In an attempt to be practical, I applied for a job with one of the most respected government contractors in the beltway. The high-profile firm supported the CIA, and the position I applied for was one I would have pulled my own teeth for just three years earlier. Now, though, I wasn’t sure what I wanted. They called me, and I went through round after round of interviews. Finally, they made me an offer. Though I accepted it, they informed me that my security clearance needed to be reinstated before they could give me a start date. The clearance had lapsed while I was in school and it was going to take another eight to twelve months for it to be reinstated. In limbo, I waited.

  By this time, Josh had gotten a job that seemed perfect for him. He worked for a nonprofit that organized outdoor conservation work for kids. His love for the great outdoors, he said, had been renewed on our trip. When you’re in the military, you derive a lot of purpose from knowing that you’re in the service of something greater. Josh thought he’d never get that feeling again, but through his work, he said he felt reinvigorated by the opportunity to serve others as well as the environment. I was really happy for him.

  As summer turned into fall, I began planning the fourth annual memorial fund-raising event for Justin. I’d started it back in 2013 after Chaz, one of the bartenders at the Pug, suggested it. I used to go to the Pug on the anniversary of Justin’s death and drink in his honor. Chaz, hearing me talk about Justin, offered to host a memorial event at the bar if I ever wanted to.

  I called Justin’s wife, Ann, who still lived in Pittsburgh. I told her about what I wanted to do and asked if she wanted to recommend a charity we should raise money for. She suggested Tragedy Assistance Programs for Survivors (TAPS), a nonprofit that provides grief counseling to families of military members and emergency responders who have passed, regardless of the circumstances of death.

  That year, I made T-shirts that said SCHMALLS on the front—Justin’s nickname—and had a Bruce Lee quote on the back: REAL LIVING IS LIVING FOR OTHERS. Tony, the owner of the Pug, bought a ton o
f Stroh’s and donated the night’s proceeds to TAPS. It was a high point of my year, and each year after that, it became even bigger.

  The year I graduated, Justin’s parents would be coming to the event for the first time. We’d outgrown the Pug, so I rented out a bigger venue down the block. At Georgetown, I’d joined a cover band called the 50-Year Storm as the drummer, and we were just good enough to hold down a two-hour set. We’d be playing at the fund-raiser. I was anxious but determined to make it a memorable night—the best one yet.

  Then I got a call from the firm that had offered me the intelligence job. In addition to reinstating my clearance, they needed me to come in for a polygraph test. They informed me it was scheduled for the morning after Justin’s fund-raiser. I knew that after a night like that—full of alcohol and emotion—I wouldn’t be in any shape to go in for the test. I called them immediately and asked to reschedule, even explaining that I was hosting an event for a friend who had been killed in action.

  “Sorry, but we don’t reschedule polygraphs,” the representative said plainly. “That’s your date.”

  The fund-raiser was scheduled for a Wednesday night the week after Thanksgiving. It was cold and rainy, and ticket presales hadn’t been great. I was nervous. I showed up that afternoon to help set up. We made signs, decorated, and arranged the T-shirt table. At 7:00 P.M., when the doors opened, Justin’s parents were the first to arrive. The venue manager, who also happened to be a marine veteran, met them at the door and showed them inside. When he came over and told me they were there, my heart started to pound in my chest.

  Keep it together, man, I thought to myself as I walked over. I introduced myself and held out my hand to Justin’s dad, John. He was a big guy with a commanding posture and voice. I smiled thinking about how much he looked like a cop, which he was. Instead of the handshake, he said, “No, I’m a hugger,” and pulled me in for a bear hug.

  Justin’s mom, Deborah, who also worked as a cop, was pretty much her husband’s opposite: petite and soft-spoken. But, like John, she exuded strength. Her quiet confidence reminded me so much of Justin.

  John, who had a Yuengling in his hand, said, “What’s with the Stroh’s? We don’t drink that crap.” He smiled at me, and I could tell he was just giving me a hard time—he was sarcastic and quick-witted, just as Justin had been. John proceeded to tell me how, also like Justin, Stroh’s had been the first beer he ever drank. It gave him such a bad headache, he never had it again.

  When my dad walked over and joined us, the conversation turned to Pittsburgh. I told them how Justin’s accent had been the first thing I’d picked up on. As we talked, I could see out of the corner of my eye that more and more people were showing up. Josh was one of the first ones there, followed by a group from the DIA, including my former commanding officer, Tom, and Jason, the scout sniper I used to eat lunch with. PJ came, too, my close friend from intel training who had deployed with me to Sangin, and a big group of my high school buddies. Sarah had come early to help set up, along with my girlfriend, Nora. Ysa had given me a heads-up that he couldn’t make it, but he’d spread the word in the EOD community, and I recognized an EOD technician I’d met briefly in Afghanistan coming through the door, along with three of his EOD buddies. Then, just ten minutes before showtime, the entire Georgetown club hockey team appeared, with a bunch of their friends in tow. People from nearly every corner of my life had come together and were gathered all in one place.

  Chaz and my sister got up onstage and introduced the band. We played our first set, lots of feel-good tunes by Phil Collins, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Sublime, Tom Petty, and, of course, Johnny Cash. In a break after the first set, Tony, the owner of the Pug, took the stage. He lightheartedly teased about how he’d spotted me “drowning at the end of the bar” all those years ago, getting drunk and emotional on the anniversary of Justin’s death. That night, I’d been there with Jason, my buddy from the DIA, another combat vet who understood. Then Tony got serious.

  “This is one of my favorite nights of the year,” he said. “We’re all here to think about someone who left us too soon.” Then he introduced John, Justin’s dad.

  “Justin would have been totally overwhelmed with all of this attention,” John said with a smile. I smiled, too, thinking about how he was right. Justin hadn’t been the type of person who did anything for attention or praise. “But it means a lot to me and my family to see all of you here and to know my son’s memory isn’t gone. Thank you.”

  Through tears, I got up and thanked everyone in the room for being there, too. Then we played our second set, and afterward, the crowd moved to the Pug. I spent the rest of the night by John’s side, listening to funny stories about Justin as a kid and about his wedding day. Around 1:30 A.M., Chaz poured us two shots of whiskey. I considered putting mine back down on the bar, sliding it away, and calling it a night. Back at home, I’d laid my suit out across the bed in an attempt to be prepared for the polygraph the next morning. Moving forward with the new job made sense on paper: it’d lead to a solid income, a clear career path, and a sensible retirement account. It was the easy choice. It was also the kind of choice I had been wary of my entire life. If I had lived my life up to that point making decisions that way, I wouldn’t have joined the marines, gone to Afghanistan, or met Justin. I wouldn’t have moved into the city, enrolled at Georgetown, or gone on the road trip. And I wouldn’t have Fred. Whenever I looked at Fred, he reminded me what I was capable of. If I could manage to get that little fur ball out of Afghanistan, then what else could I do?

  John and I lifted our glasses in the air. “To Justin,” I said. We clinked them together and knocked back the whiskey. The difficult and uncertain path had paid off my whole life. I owed it to myself to continue on it.

  Throughout the road trip, sitting on the tailgate of the Land Cruiser or around a fire as it crackled into darkness, sometimes I’d pull out my old, clunky laptop and write. In school, I had been doing a lot of academic writing, but I always had the urge to pen something more personal. Maybe to make sense of what I’d been through. I had no idea how to even start putting into words the scope of the war, my experience in the marines, or my time in Sangin. But an easy place to start was with Fred.

  So, as Josh and I made our way across the country, in stolen moments here and there, I wrote the story of my dog. I wrote about giving Fred a piece of beef jerky that first day. I wrote about how he followed us on patrols and what he meant to me and the guys in that hellish combat zone. I wrote about how nervous I’d been to try to sneak him onto Leatherneck and about how generous the DHL guys were. I wrote about waving good-bye to Fred as his plane took off, not knowing if or when I’d ever see him again. Sentence by sentence, the words came flooding out. It felt good. After I graduated, when people were asking me what was next, the truth was, deep down, I knew I wanted to keep writing Fred’s story so that I could one day share it with people. It sounded like a dream, but I was determined to make it my reality.

  The morning after Justin’s fund-raiser, I didn’t go to the polygraph test. Instead, I wrote an e-mail. I sent a short version of the story I’d written about Fred to a Web site called the Dodo, knowing they published uplifting stories about animals. Just a few hours later, a woman from the publication called me. The very next day, she published an article about Fred and me, along with a video of our story. People responded. So many shared their own dog adoption stories and sent well wishes and support. I was floored.

  Because of that article, a publishing house contacted me with a question: Was I interested in the opportunity to tell Fred’s story, from beginning to end, in a book?

  It was a cold, gray day in February when Nora and I packed up our apartment and loaded the car. In the backseat, Fred peered excitedly out the window. Ruby—all ten pounds of her—danced around beside him, trying to get a good view. I shifted the car into drive and pulled away from our apartment, through the neighborhood, and onto the highway. North of us, the forecasts called for a blizzard
. There was up to two feet of snowfall projected in Maine, which was where we were headed.

  I’d been to Maine twice before, though neither time was much of a visit. Nearly all military members fly through Bangor on their way to or from Afghanistan and Iraq. In the airport, a troop of veterans and locals volunteer 24-7 to send off and greet servicemen and women on their short layovers. Maine had been the last piece of the U.S. I saw before I left and the first to greet me when I came back. I wasn’t sure exactly what was drawing me back to the state, but I had a good feeling about it.

  Nora and I had found a rental house on the ocean, one that had been built by the owner’s grandfather, a World War II veteran. All we knew was that the place would give the dogs plenty of room to explore, and that it’d be quiet and smell like the sea. Perfect for writing.

  In the car, snowflakes began to fleck the windshield. We took it slow, carefully making our way. In the backseat, we put a pillow between Fred and Ruby so they each felt they had their own little nest. But Ruby, who loved being close to her big brother, ended up asleep on the pillow with her butt resting on top of Fred’s. We were listening to oldies and blues. Nora changed the music, knowing it was time for Johnny Cash. I smiled and tapped my fingers on the steering wheel.

  In the rearview mirror, I caught sight of Fred, who lifted his brows and looked up at me. I thought about how much we’d been through together. From the time we met, in the unlikeliest of places, to now, we’d had a bond that continually gave me the strength to surmount so many of the challenges that veterans face. Not only did he remind me what I was capable of, but his presence prevented me from ever taking even a moment for granted. Each day, Fred reminded me that a loving, adventurous, and rewarding life was possible if I could continue to choose to be optimistic, even in the face of great calamity or despair. I knew I had rescued Fred once, but Fred continued to rescue me time and time again.