Soldier Dogs

by Maria Goodavage

  Tattoos start with a new letter every year. The year 2011, when I arrived at Lackland Air Force Base, was an R year.

  So let’s say you come upon Handler Joe and his dog Bella M430. Tell him you can guess pretty close to when his dog arrived at Lackland for the first time. Then all you have to do is figure out how many letters earlier than the current year’s letter M is. If you’d met Joe and Bella M430 in 2011, during the R year, you’d calculate the numerical difference between M and R. So M-N-O-P-Q-R—that’s six letters. But don’t blurt out that Joe’s dog arrived five years ago. The letters G, I, O, Q, and U are not used in tattoos because they can easily be confused for other letters or numbers. So in the case of Bella M430, you “add back” two years (for O and Q) and now you can safely say that Bella arrived at Lackland for processing three years ago. Since most dogs get to Lackland when they’re two or three, you could take it a step further and figure that Bella is five or six years old.

  Beers all around!

  I’m not sure how much Sergeant Stubby had to do with this, but a military myth holds that a dog is always one rank above his handler. The popularity of this story spiked after the bin Laden raid.

  The truth is that, officially, dogs hold no rank—equipment never does. (Equipment doesn’t let you bury your face in its fur when you’re mourning a fallen comrade, either.) It would also be confusing when a dog gets transferred between handlers of different ranks. There would be a lot of demotions and promotions in a dog’s career—not that the dog would care.

  That’s not to say that some handlers don’t refer to their dogs as the next rank up. I’ve never come across a marine handler who did this, but it’s a fairly strong tradition in the army, where it probably started during World War II. Some say it was a move to get handlers not to abuse their dogs, because they could be in trouble for abusing a superior. Others believe it was just a maneuver to warm the hearts of Americans so they’d support the war-dog program and donate their dogs to the fight.

  Even in army ceremonies honoring a dog for his service, the dog will often be referred to by his rank. And handlers have fun with it in everyday life, too.

  “On occasion we tease lower-ranking soldiers if they ask to pet our working dogs,” says Army Sergeant Amanda Ingraham. “We tell them if they do pet our dogs, they need to do so at the position of parade rest and show our NCO some respect. It’s all in fun, but at the same time it gets everyone to realize the value of our dogs.”

  And non-handlers will also notice the names of dogs tattooed on their fellow servicemen’s arms or legs.

  Ink all around!

  6

  HEY, IS THAT 600 ROUNDS OF ANTIAIRCRAFT AMMUNITION?

  Early in the research for this book, I got a note from Brandon Liebert, a former marine sergeant who had been a handler and trainer for eight years. He deployed to Iraq in 2004 with one of the first groups of garrison handlers sent into a war zone. He’s now a civilian contractor, working as a dog handler. He gave me one of my first insights into who dog handlers are.

  Dear Maria,

  During my time at MCAS Cherry Point, NC (March 2003–August 2006), I only handled one dog. His name is Monty E030, a Patrol Explosive Detector Dog. He and I had a great bond. He was a very fast learner and loved to please me. Because I trained him to do more than what the military required, I ended up making sure he had a different toy for every task. He also had his personal toys. He had more toys than any other dog in the kennels. Every morning we would go out and play before starting any type of training. Even though we were not supposed to, I would feed him some human food while we would be out on patrols. While deployed to Iraq, I would take Monty with me everywhere (i.e., chow hall, internet cafe, phone center, etc). Taking him with me everywhere also helped in keeping up the morale of the troops. They loved to play with him, pet him, help me with his training. Having him around all the time was not only fun and good times for me but also the troops, whether it was on base or out in the field.

  When we were in Iraq, we celebrated the Marine Corps Birthday. The Marine Corps flew in steaks for us. I asked the cooks if they would save a leftover one for me so I could give it to Monty, and they did. So we both had steak for the Marine Corps Birthday. He sure did love it.

  I would do anything for him and he would do anything for me. I had full confidence in him when he alerted to something. If he was not confident about something, I could tell. He could read me and I could read him. That is how good our bond was. When I had to give him up to another handler and change duty stations, it was hard. I felt like I had lost my best friend. We had bonded for over 3 years and now it was time to say goodbye. It was harder for me to say goodbye to him than what it was to say goodbye to everyone in the kennels. But he had a new daddy, so I had to move on.

  It was an intriguing note to get at the start of this project. Here was a marine who referred to himself as the dog’s “daddy,” a warrior who felt a lump in his throat when parting with his best friend of three years. His tender ways with his dog clashed with the image I’d always had of marines as super-tough, aggressive combatants. I wondered: Was Liebert the exception, or was he typical of military dog handlers?

  As I came to see, Liebert’s closeness with his dog was not unusual. Phrases like “He’d do whatever it took to save my life, and I’d do the same to save his,” or “She was like my child,” come up all the time when talking to handlers. The stories handlers told me made it clear that the closer a handler feels to her dog, the better the working relationship tends to be. In the end, that translates into saved lives. If a handler knows a dog well, she’s going to know what subtle signs to watch when the dog is looking for explosives or bad guys.

  I met up with Liebert and his fiancée, Amanda Lothian, when they were passing through San Francisco. No longer obligated to uphold marine standards, he wore his dark hair slicked back in a tidy ponytail and sported a trim beard and mustache. He’d met Lothian at Lackland Air Force Base, where she was a vet tech. She left the army for civilian work shortly before having their baby. She went into labor as Liebert was getting on a plane to go train as a dog handler. “I’m sorry,” he told her on the phone when she—in the throes of contractions—called him. “I have to get to the dogs.”

  Dogs are still front and center in their lives. When we met at the rooftop bar at the Marines Memorial Hotel, Liebert was awaiting a high-security clearance for his second round of contract work in Afghanistan. He is now “daddy” to a German shepherd mutt, Mabel. When stateside, he plans vacations around her, refusing to put her on a plane, and taking her in his truck on road trips instead. The dog will be staying with his sister while he’s away for the next year. Lothian is now a vet tech at the Veterinary Medical Teaching Hospital at the University of California, Davis, and has a German shepherd, Archimedes.

  Liebert and Lothian both sport tattoos of dog paws on their lower legs. His paw tattoo is big and burly and is flanked by the words “Dogs of War.” Hers is a replica of her dog’s paw, with the name written in dainty italics underneath.

  With introductions made, drinks in hand, and the pianist gliding his way through the entire song list from Phantom of the Opera, Liebert begins to recount the story of his dog Monty’s greatest day, his biggest find in Iraq. Liebert’s voice sounds remarkably like Jimmy Stewart’s when the actor was young. I’ll let him tell it.

  “We were in a little forward operating base (FOB) in a town called Husayba. The commander of the base was given information about threats made to the Iraqi Civil Defense Corps (ICDC) unit there. These threats came from a group of insurgents looking to take over the ICDC compound. They feared the worst, so the unit chose to abandon their compound, which was located just a few hundred yards away from our base. If the insurgents were to take over this building, it would give them a good advantage to try and take over our base.

  “We got to the building with no resistance and had to sweep it for explosives. When we started searching inside, Monty led me to a back room. On the way
he alerted to a mortar round and an antitank mine that had been taken apart. We continued toward the back room again, and when we walked in, he started to circle the room. This usually means that there’s a high concentration of odor and he can’t pinpoint where exactly the odor is coming from. The only things in the room were these huge metal boxes. I brought him over to them so he could search them, and he gave me a final response. Something was there.

  “One of the boxes was slightly open, so I looked inside as much as I could without touching it. From what I could see, there were bullet rounds in it. I notified the sergeant in charge and we had a couple of marines guard that area while I continued. In the next room, we found the weapon for those rounds. It was some type of antiaircraft gun with a swivel mounting system. Eventually we went over to a medium-size building with only one room. Monty alerted to an area against the inside wall where there was a mound of dirt and some trash. We secured the area and had the EOD team come out and check the areas where Monty had responded.

  “According to EOD, Monty found over six hundred antiaircraft rounds and a 155mm round. It was the biggest find our K-9 group had while we were there. I was so proud of him, and he was really happy, because he knew he did a great job. He loved to work for his toy, and he loved to work for me, so it was really all just big fun for him.”

  I ask him what could have happened if Monty had not found those rounds. “If those rounds had been used,” he says, pausing and taking a long draw on his drink, “you just don’t want to think about what they can do with those things.”

  We talk more about their adventures together. About how the dog cheered up troops by his mere presence. About the array of different toys Liebert gave Monty for successfully completing tasks. “If you were given a steak dinner every time you did something good, it would get old after a while.”

  Eventually we come to how Liebert and Monty had to part ways. The pianist is playing “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina” now. Another round of drinks comes our way.

  When they came back from Iraq, they had more time together at the kennels for several months until Monty was assigned to another handler who would be deploying to Iraq with him two months later. Liebert likened it to having your child assigned to another parent. “It’s disconcerting, really hard, especially when you’ve been together as long as we had.” But he knew this came with the territory of being a military dog handler, and he steeled himself.

  He wasn’t supposed to interact much with Monty at that point, because the new handler needed to build up a rapport with him. So Liebert would pet him through the fence. Every once in a while he’d get in the kennel with him and hold on to him and hug him. “I told him, ‘Hey, I’m your stepdaddy now, that’s your new daddy.’”

  The handler and Monty deployed, did their tour, and came back safely. Not too long after they got back, Monty was put up for adoption for a medical reason Liebert wasn’t privy to. He handed in his adoption packet immediately, but he learned that Monty had already been adopted out, probably to another handler. He’s not sure who got Monty, because there was an incident toward the end that caused a rift between him and the people who made the decision in the kennel. He doesn’t go into it. He kept busy, spending the next four years, from 2006 to 2010, as a dog trainer at Lackland Air Force Base. He left in mid-2010 in order to make more money as a dog handler in the private sector.

  He had several good months as a contract dog handler in Afghanistan, working with Loebes, a black shepherd, but he can’t imagine anyone will ever take Monty’s place. Some days he wonders if Monty, who would be a senior citizen by now, is still around. “All I can do is hope and pray that whoever has him is taking care of him and giving him the life that he deserves as a retired military working dog.”

  7

  THIS IS THE LIFE

  Ask almost any handler how he likes the work, and you’ll hear something like this: “It’s the best job in the world.” I’ve never heard this phrase so much as I did while exploring the world of military working dogs. These are people who go to hellish areas and get shot at and risk their lives every day, and they say things like “I wouldn’t trade working with my dog for anything,” or “Canine is a lot of hard work, a lot of extra hours, but, I mean, it’s a dog.”

  These men and women (women make up only 10 percent of handlers) don’t all come from a dog background, but those who make it through the intensive training and end up with a canine partner are passionate about what they do. Handlers tend to be type A personalities who, by their own admission, often get along better with dogs than people. Not that they don’t like people. It’s just that they get to know dogs so well. Handlers in war zones must rely on the dogs for their very lives. Along the way they get to know the hearts and souls of their dogs. “It’s better than with people,” one handler told me. “It’s just simpler, and more pure.”

  A big fear some handlers have is that their home kennel won’t get enough dogs, and they’ll become just regular MPs, which is where most started out. Once you’ve worked with these dogs, once you’ve experienced that bond, it seems the idea of becoming a regular “straight legs” is a lonely proposition.

  Army Corporal Kory Wiens called his mine-detection dog, a Labrador retriever named Cooper, “my son.” He bought him all kinds of toys, and they sometimes shared a cot while on deployment in Iraq.

  Wiens, twenty, planned to reenlist so he could stay with Cooper and adopt him when the dog was at the end of his career. He would never get that chance. Wiens and his dog were killed by an IED while on patrol in Muhammad Sath in July 2007.

  His family knew how important Cooper was to Wiens. The pair’s cremated remains are buried together in a cemetery in Wiens’s hometown of Dallas, Oregon.

  8

  THE KILLING FIELDS, WITH DOG

  What was bad in Iraq is worse in Afghanistan.

  The first handler I reached in Afghanistan was an army staff sergeant named Marcus Bates. In an e-mail, he introduced himself with characteristic military formality. “My name is SSG Bates, Marcus, serving in the U.S. Army,” he began. Bates wanted to talk about his partner, Davy N532, a three-year-old Belgian Malinois, whose name didn’t match her gender.

  Bates recounted how he and Davy were supporting the Fourth Battalion Twenty-fifth Field Artillery Regiment, in Kandahar Province. During their months together they’d already found 140 pounds of explosives, two grenades, and two mortars.

  “We get action about every time we go on a mission,” Bates said. He described Davy as a top-notch patrol and explosives detection dog. She’d been with Bates for nineteen months, at home base and in theater. “I trust her with my life. If I didn’t trust her, I wouldn’t be here.”

  Bates had deployed with a dog once before, in Iraq. But Davy is new to war. In fact, Bates is her first handler. They hit it off immediately and she sleeps on his cot. She starts off with her head on his chest, but by the morning she is sleeping nestled up to his feet.

  She’s slight for her breed, weighing only forty-five pounds, but her size turns out to be an asset in more than just sleeping arrangements. She’s agile enough to scramble up and over the four- to five-foot-high hardened mud walls that surround the area’s notorious grape fields. When Bates thinks of other handlers having to hoist eighty-pound German shepherds over those walls, he’s grateful for Davy. His combat load is already fifty to sixty pounds, including weapons, ammo, and enough water and food to last both of them for a two-day mission.

  One November day Bates and Davy were on patrol in a grape field when they came under fire from eighty yards away. “I hate the grape fields here.”

  Grape fields in Afghanistan are a far cry from your standard lush, manicured Western vineyards. Grapes grow in sprawling, tangled rows, between humid, muddy ditches obscured by weeds. The trenches are notoriously good places to hide explosives. When a blast goes off, the narrowness of the trench concealing it intensifies the explosion. These are the killing fields of a new generation of soldier.

  A
s bullets from the AKs flew past, Bates and his squad took cover and returned fire. After a while it was time to get away from the dangerous trenches and up close with the enemy. The squad leader and Bates, Davy alongside, moved swiftly toward the enemy, firing as they approached.

  The insurgents bolted and disappeared. But their secret ally—in the form of a long strand of copper wire in the dirt—remained. Bates and his little team followed the wire to a nearby grape hut. It was a small mud barn with thick walls pocked with holes for hanging fruit, as well as opium and marijuana, depending on the season. They entered, with Davy’s nose leading the way. Bates followed the wire to a battery. It was the makings of a command-wire IED. All someone had to do was touch the battery to the wire, and an IED on the other end would explode “on command.” When Bates looked up, Davy was sitting down staring at a pile of branches. She sat there, head tilted slightly down, riveted to the branches as if lost in a good book.

  “My first thought was ‘Holy crap what is right next to me?’”

  Bates approached the pile gingerly and found a vest with two grenades and some intel on local insurgents. A short time later, Davy discovered two IEDs near the hut.

  It is clear that the bond between handlers and dogs on the battlefield is extraordinarily powerful. But wait. Before we go any further, there is a question we must address. Is it right to use dogs in war? Should we be putting them in harm’s way at all? Why should dogs die for the arguments of men? After all, dogs don’t have any say in the matter. They’re drafted and serve faithfully. They probably don’t understand the concept of death. This is all a big game to them, in a way. It’s about chasing a ball and bonding with a handler and having fun and getting praised.