No Buddy Left Behind: Bringing U.S. Troops' Dogs and Cats Safely Home From the Combat Zone

by Terri Crisp; C. J. Hurn

  The bathrooms on our outpost are some distance from where we sleep. During the day, a trip to the john is no big deal, but at night, you have to be pretty desperate to make the trek.

  In spite of our efforts to keep stray dogs away, there are still packs that prowl around at night. Our base is a long way from the city, and the closest villages are a few miles off, so we're out in the middle of nowhere, and the nights are eerie and quiet. Sometimes you go outside, and in the moonlight, you'll see them feral dogs-filthy, scarred, and mean, scrounging for garbage and hunting. You have to remember, these aren't friendly pooches; they're wild carnivores, ready to kill for food. Sometimes only a dozen or so are out there, but I've known nights when there must have been a hundred. They howl like wolves, and when you hear that low, steady growl, the hairs on your neck rise up.

  Although most of these dogs steer clear of people, if a guy made the mistake of getting between the pack and the morsel of food they're fighting over, the dogs could get downright vicious.

  Other than stray dogs, the second-biggest threat we face is coming up on one of those camel spiders. Looking more like a scorpion on steroids, some of them grow to nearly a foot long. If you run into one of them when you're half-asleep, it definitely wakes you up, and when those spiders feel threatened, they chase you. They're not afraid of anything.

  The first time I had to make the middle-of-the-night hike to the john, I was not looking forward to it. When I stepped out the door, there was Socks lying in the dirt. He wasn't asleep, but wide awake, as if he had orders to be on duty.

  "Hey, boy, what're you doing here?' I asked, wondering if he'd be friend or foe after dark. That's when I found out-Socks considers it his job to guard the men. He sits outside our barracks every night, waiting for soldiers to stumble out the door on their way to the bathroom.

  Well, Socks took his job real serious. He stuck to me like a president's bodyguard, his eyes and nose at full alert, until we reached the john. His head went down and hackles stood up; he was one mean looking guard. Socks stayed outside manning his post until I was done and escorted me back to the barracks. After that he lay down waiting for the next person who couldn't hold it until morning.

  The other awesome thing Socks does is that he leans against us. It's not just a dog planting himself against your leg; it's like he senses when you need contact with another living being. He'll just come over and lean. If you move away, he'll follow and reattach himself until you feel better.

  In the time that I have been stationed here, Socks and I have grown real close. He sleeps in my hooch now and follows me everywhere. Seems like he decided I was his. When my unit redeploys at the end of March, we'll be handing full control of this base over to the Iraqi Army, and there won't be any more American soldiers replacing us. Socks will be surrounded by people he considers his enemies, and they don't trust him either.

  Considering that Socks has been on duty 24/7 for over three years, I don't think he deserves to be left behind when we go. If there is anything you can do to help me get him back to the States, I'll take good care of Socks for as long as he lives. He's fought off several gangs of dogs that tried to attack me, and probably saved my life. I can't just walk away from him now.

  -SGT Andrew Bankey

  I agreed with Andrew-any dog that served the military in such an important way did not deserve to be left in Iraq. Andrew's unit was getting ready to redeploy in a matter of weeks, so we'd have to act fast. Socks had not been vaccinated, which created a dilemma, but he did have one advantage. Socks had been serving as an outer perimeter guard for quite some time, so it wouldn't be too difficult to have him classified as a force protection canine. This classification would enable him to get the veterinary care and health certificate required for travel. Andrew promised to get onto this task right away.

  Socks was not the only dog that needed immediate transport to the United States. I received several urgent requests for help, including one for two puppies named "Oreo" and "Bags." Bags had been rescued by a soldier who saw a group of kids kicking a bag around the street like a soccer ball. When the bag yelped, he realized what was inside.

  The SLG operations manager coordinated the collection of the dogs from each owner. The animals' exact locations had to be confirmed and a movement request submitted to U.S. Military Central Communications (CENT COM). Approval came back, along with directions for the route that was least likely to involve skirmishes. Other arrangements had to be made, such as fueling locations, food for the security team, and a safe place to grab a few hours' sleep.

  The SLG security team drove throughout the night in two Ford Excursions and two Ford gun trucks, one with a 360-degree turret on top. Their mission was to collect the dogs and transport them to the airport. The hundreds of miles they covered were fraught with danger.

  When the team arrived at Andrew's location in March, ready to load Socks, the dog took one look at the armored vehicle and decided he was not going into it. I received an e-mail from Andrew describing the scene.

  I drove to the convoy meeting place today, and all went smoothly until we got there, and I tried to put Socks in the truck. He got really upset, even growled at me, his buddy, and fought like hell not to go in that vehicle. He was so scared, I nearly called it off. How could I tell him this was for his own good? I guess he thought I was a traitor, because he sure was mad, and I worried about the safety of the transport team.

  One of the men, named "Jerry," said, "Don't worry. I'm fine with taking him." They got a dusty old blanket and wrapped Socks in it. It took five men to hoist that dog into the truck and slam the door before he fought his way out of the blanket. I sure hope he calms down. This is all very new and scary for Socks. He's a good dog, and I know he's in good hands. Thanks.

  -Andrew

  I replied to Andrew, "I'm glad you didn't cancel. Socks will calm down, and I'll take good care of him, I promise."

  On March 13, 2008, I landed at Dulles International Airport with Oreo, Bags, and Socks, three of the five dogs we had attempted to save on mission 3. This was the first time that we received, upon arrival in Iraq, tragic news from SLG of a dog's death or loss before the animal could be picked up. In this case the two other dogs had been shot. Sometimes the animals were culled by contracted companies called "vector control;" other times they were killed by locals or even members of the U.S. military. Whenever this happened, it was devastating for the soldiers, their families, and for me. All I could do was contact the soldiers as soon as possible and express my deepest sympathy. Then I got back to work saving the dogs I could.

  Considering the odds that were against us, each time my flight landed on American soil and the rescued dogs were taken to Bev and Barb's house or united with their families, I felt a million sighs of relief sweep over me and a renewed sense of determination to carry on the mission of Operation Baghdad Pups.

  I kept in touch with Andrew by e-mail to let him know how Socks was doing. Again, just as with Eddie, it seemed almost as if Andrew and I were parents separated by distance and as if Socks was our child. I knew how important it was for the owners to receive my updates. A few days later I sent the following report:

  Hi, Andrew,

  Today Socks came with me while I ran some errands. He sat in the front seat, taking in all the new sights, and he behaved so well, I treated him to his first McDonald's cheeseburger minus the ketchup, lettuce, and pickles. Your dog is now a real American.

  Socks learns everything so fast. The first few nights he slept for only short periods, but after he realized there are no threats here or a need for him to escort anyone to the bathroom, he started to sleep through the night. Socks is thoroughly enjoying his retirement from the Army, and I believe he dreams of becoming a couch potato!

  -Terri

  Andrew's unit was due to arrive at Ft. Stewart, Georgia, on March 29. It turned out that the best way to deliver Socks to Andrew was for me to drive south from Washington, D.C., on Interstate 95. Once again I would be spending more t
ime with an Operation Baghdad Pups dog during his first weeks in the States. Doing this gave me further insight into the dog's perception of a totally different world as I witnessed his fascinating and often entertaining reactions. Whenever we drove under a bridge or an overpass, for example, Socks ducked. His fascination with windshield wipers made me laugh as his head mimicked a metronome and followed the wipers' blade movement until I turned them off. Every time a semi-trailer roared up alongside our rented PT Cruiser, Socks backed away from the window, and I had to rest my hand on his back, assuring him it was okay.

  Socks and I arrived at Ft. Stewart in plenty of time to see the military "Welcome Home" ceremony for Andrew's battalion. As we got closer to the base, hundreds of homemade signs and banners began to appear on the route:

  WELCOME HOME, DADDY

  YOU ARE MY HERO

  PROUD OF OUR SOLDIER DAUGHTER

  Attached to fences, staked in yards, taped on streetlights and store windows, they all welcomed home the troops.

  At the main gate a guard gave me a temporary pass and a map to the field where the ceremony would take place. I knew that Socks would not be allowed in the bleachers, and even if he had been, the reaction of an emotional crowd might be too much for him. When family members spotted one another, it was going to get loud and crazy.

  Working our way across the ceremonial field, I found a quieter place to sit with Socks. I pulled out a red, white, and blue bandanna and tied it around his neck. A row of flowering redbud trees was planted beside the walkway where we waited. At the base of each young tree, a small American flag cast its shadow over a plaque, each one engraved with a soldier's name. Excited families waited for their loved ones' return on the opposite side of the field while Socks and I stood beside these memorials to soldiers who would never return. We took a stroll along the solitary row of trees and stopped to read the name on each plaque.

  My thoughts were soon interrupted as a crescendo of cheers emanated from the crowd. On the road that approached one side of the field, a white school bus turned the corner and headed toward me and Socks. This bus was immediately followed by one white bus after another. The buses were full of soldiers just off their home-bound flight. With hardly any time to transition, they still carried the smell of desert dust in their nostrils and the battles of war in the forefront of their minds. Looking out the bus windows and passing the welcome signs as they approached Ft. Stewart must have seemed like a dream.

  This was the moment we'd all been waiting for. The buses slowly passed by, and uniformed men and women hung out the windows. Shouts and cries of soldiers and their families filled the air as they called out to each other. Socks raised his ears, wondering what all the excitement was about.

  Suddenly a voice cried, "Socks!" Instantly Socks let out a sound unlike anything I'd ever heard. There was no mistaking the joy in his voice. He barked and strained at his leash, and a look of intense yearning filled his eyes. He just couldn't figure out where the voice came from. He kept looking toward the passing buses and then back at me as if to say, "So where is he? Let's find him!"

  For the next twenty minutes, the buses were out of our view while the unloading took place in a parking lot down the street. It's common knowledge in the military that you have to prepare for a whole lot of hurry up and wait. It seemed to take forever. Finally, without warning, the first row of marching soldiers appeared from behind the tree line. A deafening cheer burst from the crowd as row after row marched across the field. Before long, several battalions had gathered in formation, and the soldiers stood at attention. I couldn't help but marvel at their self-control. If that were me, I'd have jumped over the fence and run straight into the arms of my loved ones, but these men and women held it together, like always.

  People in the bleachers finally began to sit down, and a restrained quiet replaced the exuberant outbursts. The longer families took to settle, the longer their soldiers would have to wait. Socks stopped pulling as well. He seemed to recognize the command to stand at attention and knew it was time to be still, but his eyes continued to scan the field, searching for Andrew.

  Speeches from high-ranking military officers claimed no one's attention. Words were wasted at this point. Not a single person in that crowd could have focused on a speech when a loved one stood only a few hundred feet away. At last we heard the words everyone waited for, "You are released," and a happy pandemonium ensued. Streaming out of the bleachers, a landslide of people ran onto the field while the soldiers ran toward them. The scene resulted in a mass collision of embraces, laughter, and tears.

  I knew that members of Andrew's family had come to greet him and would want their moment together, so I didn't cross the field but instead waited for him to find us. Sure enough, after a few minutes, a soldier broke from the crowd and headed straight toward us. Socks began to strain on the leash again. I never let these dogs run loose. It would be a tragedy if they ran out and got hit by a car or disappeared, but this time there was no chance of Socks wandering away. He aimed his nose toward his buddy, and when I let go of the leash, he took off like a bullet. That dog flew-literally flew-into Andrew's arms. In a second they were both on the ground rolling and wrestling.

  I thought back to the day when Andrew and four other men had wrapped Socks in a blanket and shoved him into a strange security vehicle, and Andrew questioned whether to call the whole thing off. I wondered, as the SLG team had driven away, if Socks thought he'd ever see Andrew again. What a huge relief it was to see these two buddies reunited.

  After a while I approached Andrew and Socks, and they stopped their roughhouse play. Andrew stretched out on the ground, and Socks lay on top of him, covering Andrew's chest and body. For a long moment one soldier and his dog embraced in a wordless conversation. From now on Andrew and Socks would remain together, bound by memories, love, and a soldier's commitment to his buddy.

  SGT Andrew Bankey reunited with Socks in the USA Terri Crisp

  Hope-all grown up Pam Bousquet

  efore an animal could be accepted by the Operation Baghdad Pups program, I had to consider a number of factors. First the soldier had to have a reliable home for the animal to go to in the States, either with the soldier or with a family member. SPCA International had no intention of adding to America's overcrowded animal shelters. Soldiers also had to establish their commitment to the animal and show that anyone who was going to care for the animal until the owner arrived home was also on board.

  In the first two months of Operation Baghdad Pups, all the rescued animals were dogs that belonged to soldiers. Cats had also worked their way into people's hearts, however, and not all of the owners were active military. Many of the Americans living in Iraq are there as contracted workers. They also contend with war-zone challenges that affect soldiers. Separation from family, limited access to after-work distractions, depressing surroundings where infrastructures are unreliable or unavailable, and the constant awareness of danger make life in Iraq stressful and intense.

  I was contacted in April 2008 by a woman named "Pam Bousquet" regarding her husband, who was desperate to save his cat. I asked her to have him send me an e-mail explaining his situation. The very next day, Bruce's e-mail arrived.

  Dear Terri,

  In October 2007 I was hired by a private company to be lead technical advisor for the installation of a new power plant near the northern city of Erbil. It is one of the many reconstruction projects coordinated by the U.S. government to rebuild an infrastructure for this war-ravaged country.

  On most days in Erbil, there is electricity for no more than a couple of hours. Can you imagine getting through a day without air conditioning when it's 120 degrees outside? This new power plant represents hope for people who have little else to hang onto.

  My home away from home is in a construction camp not far from the plant. Some mornings I'm tempted to walk to work, but working in a war zone means I can't do a lot of the things we take for granted in the States. Instead, an armed driver from Olive Security
Group takes me wherever I need to go. My driver is a Kurdish man who commutes 18 miles each morning from his home in Erbil.

  One morning, as his car pulled up, I saw something fall from the engine and land on the ground. Considering how many cars in Iraq are rigged to blow up and kill people, I didn't know whether to investigate or run. That's when the howling started. As I bent down to get a better look under the car, the most pitiful calico kitten I've ever seen stared back with frightened eyes. I figured she couldn't be more than seven weeks old.

  I wasn't real sure what to do next, and my driver wasn't offering any suggestions. The stray cats that hang around camp are mean suckers, and I had yet to see a friendly one. So trying to pick her up was not a good idea. While I was trying to come up with a plan, the kitten moved, exposing part of the reason she was crying. She wasn't just scared. Her front leg was badly burned.

  She must have come in contact with the hot engine while she hitched the ride from Erbil. There was no way I could just leave her there. That burn looked nasty. I slowly reached my hand toward the kitten, and she never took her eyes off of me. Fully expecting her to fight or run away, I was relieved when she allowed me to gently pull her into my arms.

  Going to work was out of the question. I sent my driver back home while I took the kitten to my room to get a better look at her leg. Not only was the fur gone, but the skin had melted away as well, leaving the leg muscles exposed. I was not equipped to take care of something this serious. My only option was to take her to the camp medic. Helping a stray cat was prohibited, but what else could I do? Without proper medical care, the kitten would not survive.

  It turned out the medic liked cats. He cleaned the kitten's wound, applied some antibiotic ointment, and bandaged the leg. With another week of antibiotics and bandages, my feline roommate was well on the road to recovery. I was amazed she was going to pull through. Miracles in Iraq are few and far between.