“Everyone’s dog is top dog to them,” he said to Jill one evening, after his second deployment to Iraq with Lucca. “Every handler thinks their dog is the best. But I’m the only one telling the truth.” He laughed, but he realized it wasn’t completely a joke.
“Of course, we all know Lucca is the best dog in the world,” Jill concurred, smiling. She meant it—this dog was smart, calm, sweet, stunning, and heroic, and had brought her husband home alive twice. But she couldn’t help being amused by the irony of all these dogs being the best dogs ever at the same time. It was like the guy on the radio said. All the children are above average.
Willingham had taken out extra life insurance before his Afghanistan deployment and could not precisely say why. He wrote a five-page letter to his family and left it with a neighbor to give to Jill in the event of the worst. He read bedtime stories to his children on video, so they wouldn’t forget him, and so they’d always have him with them, in case. Two deployments so far, and he had come through unscathed—at least physically. He hoped “three strikes and you’re out” didn’t apply, but in his way he prepared.
He had carved out a few minutes to see Lucca in the kennel the day he and his dog teams were shipping out. He loved her up and gave her a pep talk.
“You keep an eye on this place while I’m gone, and show ’em what you’ve got.”
She alternated between staring at him and glancing out at the activity going on around her as other handlers got their dogs ready. Willingham wondered if she understood that she wouldn’t be going, or if she was just waiting for him to click her harness around her chest and go off to their third deployment together.
He couldn’t look behind him as he shut the kennel door and walked away.
HE HAD SPENT the last year helping prepare his thirty dog teams for this deployment. He trained with the teams, sent them to Yuma Proving Ground’s intensive military dog team predeployment course, and then trained some more. The handlers were physically ready, mentally strong, and mostly in synch with their dogs. Only six had deployed before, but he was very confident in everyone’s abilities, proud of all his teams.
The dogs were, for the most part, kicking ass at their jobs. The canine half of the platoon consisted of twelve specialized search dogs, twelve patrol explosives detector dogs (PEDDs), four combat tracker dogs (CTDs), and two patrol narcotics detector dogs (PNDDs).
Everyone in the platoon flew to Camp Leatherneck together, on a C-17. On the flight, the dogs stayed in their Vari Kennels between the two rows of handlers, who were facing each other along the sides of the plane. Some dogs barked occasionally, but it was a relatively quiet ride, considering there were two and a half dozen war dogs packed side by side in long rows of kennels.
Willingham was determined that this was not going to be a one-way journey for any of his handlers. He planned to accompany as many of them as he could outside the wire, to act as their spotter and give them tips if he could see ways they could improve and stay safe. These were his guys, they were family, and he wasn’t going to lose another brother, wasn’t going to let anyone else lose a son. Not if he could help it.
As he lay in bed that first night in his MECC room, he thought about the scrapbook his father, Elden, had put together with the assistance of his mother, Martha, during his first deployment in Iraq. Every morning they leafed through The Tuscaloosa News for stories about Iraq, read them, and clipped them out. They attached the articles to the pages of a scrapbook with a glue stick. Sometimes his mother got out a sheet of scrapbook paper covered with a happy design, like bright balloons or American flags, and glued an article to the decorative paper before attaching it to the scrapbook page. She thought it made the news seem a little less daunting. As a nurse, she was used to balloons and flags brightening the mood of the hospital rooms of even the sickest patients.
This daily routine helped them deal with the uncertainty of their only child being in a war zone, and it gave them something they could actively do to feel a little closer to the situation. Sometimes facing the monster is the best way to defeat it.
By the time Willingham came back safely from his deployment and visited them with Jill and the kids, the scrapbook was four inches thick. He couldn’t believe they had gone to all the trouble. As he turned the pages in awe of what they had done, he saw the headline ALABAMA SOLDIER KILLED BY BOMB IN IRAQ. He wondered if it had made his parents’ hearts race, and if they had skimmed the article praying not to see his name. Surely they would have been told the news before it got in the paper. Besides, he was a marine, not a soldier. But still, it was too close to home, and they must have mourned for the poor young man and his family.
WILLINGHAM RETURNED FROM that deployment weighed down by the guilt over Wiens. He told his father a little about what he was going through, but the elder Willingham knew that no amount of reassurance that Wiens’s death wasn’t his son’s fault would help at this point. He’d been through something like this himself, in Vietnam. He had never told his son what happened there. All Willingham knew was that his dad had been through hell in Vietnam. Upon his return, protestors spit on him.
One evening during his visit to the Tuscaloosa farm, the two were sitting on a brown couch and matching love seat in the sunroom in the back of the house. The room overlooked the rolling property, a pond in the distance. It was one of Willingham’s favorite views. No one else was around, if you didn’t count the huge elk head mounted to a plaque on the one wall that wasn’t glass. The elder Willingham decided it was finally time to tell his story.
“It was a long time before I could talk about what happened to me,” said his dad, who had been in narcotics law enforcement most of his career. “I felt the same guilt. You question every move; you wonder how you could have prevented it. But that’s a losing game—it’s war, and you just don’t have control.”
In September 1970, nineteen-year-old Elden arrived in Southeast Asia with Charlie Company, First Battalion, First Marine Division, whose mission included defending the vast Da Nang Air Base. Elden found himself assigned to a small outpost on top of Hill 52, a bald, bulldozed slope several miles from the base. The only means of supply was by helicopter.
Hill 52 had been made into a huge hive of trenches, pits, and bunkers and was surrounded by razor wire, and beyond the wire there were trip flares and claymore mines. The hill was cleared of all vegetation to provide free-fire zones and to keep the perimeters visible. Charlie Company did the usual grunt work of war, digging holes, repairing trenches, preparing ambushes, and going out on patrol, often at night.
In late September, the hill was put on 100 percent alert, following an intelligence tip suggesting an attack was imminent. Everyone was required to stand watch all night.
Among the marines in Elden’s squad was Private First Class Jose Munoz Jr., or JJ, a kid from California who always seemed to be smiling and telling jokes. Then there was the squad leader, Lance Corporal Bryce Leroy Kendrick, also from California, an amiable fellow and a good leader. And finally, Lance Corporal William Mark Predovic, the point man, an Ohioan who Elden thought would have been one heck of a football fullback. He was stocky and muscular, like a typical fullback, and he also had the look of someone who would be a workhorse clearing a path for running backs.
“After dark on September 28, our squad left Hill 52,” Elden told his son. “We walked half a mile or so to our ambush site. It was raining and miserable. The rice paddy fields were filling up with water and every one of us was soaking wet. We carried no ponchos, as they made too much noise. We only had the liners. Visibility was next to nothing.
“Around midnight JJ heard people speaking Vietnamese and saw movement in a nearby tree line. Kendrick attempted to contact the communications center on base to alert them to the situation, but the radio wasn’t working. We had a prearranged signal that if we shot off two designated flares, say a red one followed by a green one, it meant that we had no communications
and were requesting to return to the hill. In response, if someone on the hill shot off a designated flare sequence, then we could head in.
“Kendrick shot off the flares and we received the response that allowed us to return. We started back in with Predovic walking point; a marine from Tennessee was next; then Kendrick, then our radioman, then JJ, and then me and the two members of my gun team.
“As we got to the razor wire at the hill we started to receive fire. Predovic was hit by a rocket-propelled grenade. It killed him instantly. Kendrick received some type of wound to the head and was immediately incapacitated. The radioman received a severe wound to his hip area.
“The marine from Tennessee was calling for JJ to get some illumination up. I called to JJ but he didn’t respond. He was on his knees with his face on the ground. I crawled up to him and discovered he was wounded. When I turned him over I saw he had a severe wound to his neck. His eyes were open, but minutes later he died as I held him.”
His son sat riveted on the couch. He had no idea his father had had it this bad.
“After a short time,” Elden continued, “I started firing the grenade launcher and my M16. Eventually, we decided to try to make it onto the hill. The guys from my gun team came up and we found Kendrick still alive. A marine from Texas, Rafael Gonzales, came off the hill to help us. I went back to get JJ but was having a hard time lifting him and walking in the mud. The next thing I know Gonzales was there and we were able to get JJ onto the hill.
“We continued to receive fire throughout the night. After getting on the hill I started carrying mortars to the mortar pit. During the night several NVA were spotted coming across the river on a raft. The mortar men took care of that threat. Then one marine who had been dropping the mortars in the tube did not get his hand clear in time. The fin from the mortar round ripped his hand open.
“The next morning after the wounded and dead had been taken from the hill by helicopter, the members of my squad met with the lieutenant in a bunker to do an after-action report. Inside the bunker was a PFC from New York. After the debriefing, everyone left the bunker except him. As we were leaving the bunker, the kid said something like, ‘I can’t take this; I’m only eighteen years old, too young to die.’
“Not long after we left the bunker, it received a direct hit from a mortar round or maybe from a recoilless rifle round. He was killed instantly.”
Elden paused to collect himself. His son sat, silent and stunned. All this horror, and a man, barely older than a boy, had died in his father’s arms, when his father was barely older than a boy himself. Death in a landscape of devastation had marked his life at such a vital point, and yet he had come through it. He had gone on to live a generous life.
“It’s hard to explain,” his father continued, “but you wonder why one person dies or something tragic happens to them and you are right next to them and come out without a scratch. JJ, Predovic, and Kendrick did not deserve to die like they did. Neither did Kory Wiens. At some time you realize there really wasn’t anything you could have done.
“You’ll still have your days. But you do your best and keep going.”
OVER THE YEARS, Chris Willingham had met dog handlers who had served in Vietnam. While he was an instructor at Lackland, several Vietnam War dog handlers worked with his students to put together a memorial there for a Vietnam hero dog named Nemo. The German shepherd had attacked some Vietcong who were attacking his men. In the attack, Nemo got shot in the nose and the eye. Even though he was blinded by his injury, he managed to run over to his fallen handler and lie on his body, guarding him until help arrived.
Nemo was one of only about two hundred dogs who returned from Vietnam, out of about four thousand who deployed. Most of the others were euthanized in-country or given to the South Vietnamese Army, which they figured amounted to the same fate, or worse. Times change. Willingham was grateful the Defense Department had learned a lesson, had listened to the people, and that now all war dogs return from war with their handlers. He didn’t think he could be in the profession if that weren’t the case. War without dogs like Lucca—prized by not just their handlers but everyone in the military who met them—had become, in one generation, hard to imagine.
Vietnam War dog handlers had spoken to Willingham on many occasions about the affection they had for their military dogs. Some devoted a cabinet or wall in their home to their dogs. Other guys kept their dog’s collar on a hook, at the ready, as if they would pop it on their dog when he came in wanting to go for a walk. Many of the veterans went to Vietnam dog handler meetings, where they rattle off their dogs’ names and tattoo numbers as easily as their own, without hesitation. Willingham could tell the dogs were a part of these handlers, just as today’s dogs were an extension of their handlers. Some of these men had reenlisted despite the nightmare conditions, just so their dogs would live longer, so that maybe something would change and the dogs could come home. And then one day they finally had to say good-bye after trying everything in their power to keep the dogs alive.
Willingham might miss Lucca, but at least it wasn’t like that.
“POSHA! YOU’RE LOOKING good, boy! And who’s this guy you dragged along with you?”
“Long time no see!” Marine Sergeant William (Billy) Soutra Jr. said as the two handlers hugged with a couple of hearty back slaps at Leatherneck.
“Your girlfriend ain’t here, Posha. I couldn’t bring Lucca this time.”
Posha, a black German shepherd with larger-than-life ears that angled outward in a wonky but endearing way, sniffed the air a few times when he heard Lucca’s name, then lay down at Soutra’s feet. It had been a long week of supporting Marine Corps Forces Special Operations Command (MARSOC), and he wasn’t his usual high-energy self.
Soutra and Willingham had served together during Willingham’s second deployment to Iraq. They were based at FOB Echo, in Diwaniya—about 120 miles south of Baghdad—with two other handlers, from October 2008 to April 2009. It was a far less treacherous deployment than the first one. IEDs, firefights, and weapons caches were no longer everyday affairs. He thought it might have been because Operation Marne Torch, and the troop surge in general, had accomplished what they had set out to do, but who knew? In the fog of war no one on the ground is too sure why exactly these were easier days. Marines don’t ask. Dogs don’t care.
Because of the decreased ops tempo, the four handlers also had more chances to kick back at night in a makeshift office/living room, play poker, and watch every episode of Scrubs while huddled around a small laptop.
They weren’t the only ones enjoying more downtime than usual.
Slam!
Lucca swung her hind end into Posha’s side, and she whirled around in front of him, in the puppy play stance, waiting for some response. Posha had a reputation of being a phenomenal SSD and a badass with other dogs. But never with Lucca. It seemed clear to Willingham and Soutra that Posha had a soft spot for her.
“He has good taste, that dog of yours,” Willingham told Soutra.
When Lucca had first tried to play with Posha, he just stood there as if he had no idea what to do. He stuck his chest out, his ears went straight back, and he kept looking at Soutra. Willingham thought he looked like a sixteen-year-old boy going on his first date.
Dad, she’s flirting! I think she likes me! What do I do?
As they spent more time together, Posha grew more accustomed to this new friendship. Willingham still thought Posha looked a bit befuddled around Lucca, but he had started playing with her. He was a little stiff in his movements, like someone who needed to get out of a business suit before he could really relax, but it was enough for Willingham to proclaim them an item.
Lucca had another dog friend named Buddy. “Just a friend,” Willingham joked to a soldier who saw them sleeping next to each other one lazy afternoon on FOB Echo. “I don’t want my girl to get a bad reputation.”
Budd
y was an army patrol explosives detector dog (PEDD) that had seen or heard too much on a previous deployment with another handler. He had stopped working nine months into that last twelve-month deployment. His current handler, Sergeant Tyler Barriere, had done his best to get Buddy ready for their own yearlong deployment but was worried about taking this dog to war. It was before the DOD officially recognized post-traumatic stress disorder in dogs, so off Buddy went to Iraq again, despite the concerns Barriere had raised.
When they got to Iraq, nothing had changed. Buddy stood frozen in fear, tail between his legs, at the sound of bombs or gunfire. Sometimes he’d back up, in a fruitless attempt to get away from the noises. Iraqis frightened him as well. He would become so distracted around them that his lack of focus made it hard for him to do his job. Barriere couldn’t imagine why he’d be so scared of locals and could only conclude that during Buddy’s first deployment he had encountered some Iraqis with hostile intentions.
Willingham worked with the team and helped Buddy get to the point where he could go on low-risk missions outside FOB Echo. Inside the wire at Echo, Barriere used Buddy’s exquisite bite work to demonstrate this skill to future Iraqi handlers. The exposure to Iraqis in a task Buddy loved helped him move past this fear, but only during the time he was in his zone, focused completely on leaping on one of the U.S. handlers in a bite suit and ripping into him. After the joy of the bite work, it was back to his fearful glancing at the Iraqi onlookers.
“Heard anything from Barriere about Buddy deploying again?” Willingham asked Soutra after they’d talked about old times and caught up on the latest with their Afghanistan deployments.
“No, you?”
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