"Gary went out on patrol. While he was gone, one of the Iraqi soldiers at the base said Dodger attacked him. Oh, Terri, he was just a puppy ...
Given what I knew about Iraqis' all-too-frequent mistreatment of dogs, I could imagine the scene. Many of the soldiers I'd dealt with reported that their dogs loved Americans but feared Iraqis. When American soldiers worked with Iraqi civilians or soldiers during the day, the chance that one or more of those workers could be an enemy infiltrator was always a possibility. People had been wounded or killed by undercover insurgents who came on base with suicide bombs hidden under their clothing, and the dogs sensed the threat. Dogs had also learned to distrust a population that, by tradition, had kicked, stoned, tortured, and shot them. Unless Iraqis earned a dog's trust by showing that they weren't a threat and demonstrating kindness, dogs saw local people as potential enemies, even when they lived and worked at the base.
"Dodger wouldn't attack unless he was provoked, Terri! The soldier never even gave Gary a chance to intervene. Before he got back from patrol, the Iraqi shot Dodger. Every day my husband risks his life, and now this ... it's ripping him apart."
We had come within days of bringing the puppy home only to have his life extinguished. I couldn't find a way to reconcile the tragic situation. So many things about war and rules and other countries' customs seemed brutally unfair. Although I could do nothing to make Susan's and Gary's pain go away, I could grieve with them and remind them that Dodger's last days had been filled with knowing he was loved.
I began to fear that another tragedy might happen before we got these animals out of Iraq. Each time I opened an e-mail, I held my breath, hoping it wasn't sad news. Losing Dodger meant a replacement dog or cat could be added to the mission. Was there enough time to make this happen? I'd have to try.
On the morning of May 27 I shuffled out of bed knowing this was the last full day I had to prepare for the mission. My first caller of the day was John Wagner from Gryphon.
"What are you doing up so early?" I asked. It was barely 5:00 a.m. in Colorado, where John's office was based.
"Good morning to you, too," he laughed. "I've been on the phone with our guys in Kuwait. They're still working on getting our landing permits for Dubai, but they say the FedEx people over there have been terrific, pulling out all the stops to help speed things along. We should know something today."
"If the answer is no, I'll be spending the summer in Baghdad, babysitting animals."
"We'll make sure you get home long before then," he laughed.
My next e-mail was from Doug at SLG security in Baghdad. The day before, CPT Kevin Connor's dog, Francine, and his cat, Tom, had been collected and driven to the compound. Tom was the cat found with a cord tied around his neck, and John's team saved him from death by slow strangulation. Tom had been a great source of comfort after the unit lost several men to IEDs while training Iraqi Army soldiers.
According to Doug's e-mail, Tom wasn't eating, and he walked as if he was in pain. Searching for a local veterinarian with cat experience had proved fruitless so far. When I e-mailed Kevin to see if he knew what might be causing the problem, he replied that Tom had been fine up to the time SLG collected him. Kevin ended his e-mail with, "Please try to save him."
By mid afternoon the twenty-eight airline crates had not been delivered to Bev and Barb's house, and I was starting to get nervous. I took Bev up on her earlier offer to call her at work if I needed help. She immediately got on the phone and chased down the crates.
"It's a good thing I called," Bev said. "For some reason they never got loaded onto the truck this morning. They're still sitting in a warehouse in Virginia."
"Well, that's doing us a lot of good, isn't it?" I said, shaking my head in disbelief. When I had placed the order I had stressed how important it was for the crates to arrive on time, and the woman assured me they would get here in time. "At least the warehouse is in Virginia. Did you ask where they are exactly?"
"Yes. I've got the address. I called them to say we're coming, and the man at the warehouse said we could pick them up tonight around 9:00 p.m. It won't be busy then, and there will be someone available to help us load them. We'll have to take them out of the shipping cartons first and stack them, or they won't all fit in my car and Barb's truck."
"Okay," I said, laughing with relief. "One more thing I can add to our to-do list."
As I slapped together a quick peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch, the phone rang again.
What now? I thought.
"We got it," John blurted out, bypassing his usual greeting.
"Got what?"
"The landing permit."
"Are you serious?" I asked, almost choking on my first bite of PB&J.
"Yep, you're going to Dubai."
John's news made me feel as if all the red traffic lights had suddenly turned green.
When the long day should have been winding down, Bev, Barb, and I headed out the door and drove through the dark until we found the warehouse where our carton-packed crates were stacked nearly to the ceiling. We broke down the cartons and managed, after some reconfiguring, to get all the crates stuffed into both vehicles. Finally, by 10:30 p.m., we made it back to the house, tuckered out and ready to call it a day.
Being a seasoned traveler, I usually get to the airport with just enough time to check in, but the next afternoon I was taking no chances. We went to the airport four hours before departure in case any check-in problems arose. The airport porters were more than accommodating as they pushed three baggage trolleys bearing the weight of the crates through the bustling terminal. When we approached the ticket counter, I wished I had my camera handy to capture the looks on the airline agents' faces. Apparently they hadn't seen anything like this pull up to their counter before.
"Where are you flying to?" an agent asked in a guarded voice.
"Kuwait first; then on to Baghdad, Iraq, in a couple of days," I replied.
"And you're taking all these crates?"
I resisted the temptation to say, "No. I'm taking one and leaving the rest with you." Instead I said, "Yes. We'll be using them to transport dogs and cats to the States for U.S. soldiers."
The agent exchanged looks with her manager. This didn't look good. I was prepared to pay a hefty charge if I had to; I was not leaving these crates behind.
The manager turned to me and asked, "Did you say these are for the dogs of American servicemen and women?"
"Yes," I replied, hope rising. "They have no way of transporting their wartime buddies home when they redeploy. If SPCA International doesn't help them, the animals will be left to starve to death or
"Don't charge the extra baggage fee," she said to her agent. "We're happy to do what we can to support our troops."
Another red light turned green.
After we reached the departure gate, I checked my e-mails one last time.
One of the pressing issues that Doug had been dealing with was locating a place for the animals to stay during the two-hour wait before loading them onto the Gryphon plane that would fly them out of Baghdad. Being surrounded by U.S. military traffic, it would be extremely difficult to remain off the radar.
Just before we boarded, Doug e-mailed me with instructions as to where we should gather at BIAP. The location was about as discreet as we could get. With one more problem solved, my faith in the universe's intention to keep things rolling was strengthened.
Bev and I landed in Kuwait just after 9:00 p.m. on May 29. Ahmed, from the Plaza Athenee Hotel, stood outside Customs waiting to greet us with his wide, welcoming smile. Knowing how much baggage we were bringing, he had driven the hotel's catering truck. With the help of three porters, we soon got twenty-eight crates loaded onto the truck, and we made it to the hotel without any holdups.
I enjoyed watching Bev's face mirror the same excitement and intrigue I had experienced when I arrived in Kuwait for the first time only three months before. Exhausted and grateful to have made it this far, when we rea
ched the hotel, Bev and I looked forward to a good night's rest. It might be our last for quite a while.
A neighbor's crowing rooster woke us in the morning, fooling me into thinking for a moment that I was at home. From the airconditioned room, I stepped onto the balcony where a wall of desert heat hit me. The temperature would reach 113 degrees by noon, but already we were melting. I could see now why the airlines had a heat embargo restricting animal cargo. It should have applied to people as well.
The day passed quietly. Bev rested, and I checked last-minute e-mails. We went out for a huge meal at TGI Friday's since we didn't know what the food would be like in the security compound in Baghdad. After our late lunch, Bev and I made last-minute phone calls home.
"Remember, don't do anything stupid or heroic," my oldest daughter, Jennifer, warned.
My husband, Ken, yelled from the background: "And if you hear any shelling, keep your head down!"
"Be safe, Mom," Amy shouted.
"Go get those animals, Mom," Megan, the youngest one, called out.
Their voices reached across the miles like a warm group hug. Knowing I had their love and support made my job so much easier, especially when the danger stakes were raised.
John Wagner had already forewarned the Gryphon counter staff that Bev and I would be on the flight to Baghdad and that we were not traveling light, so when we returned to the airport at 2:30 p.m., they were ready for us.
"The Dog Lady has returned! I hear you are embarking on a big adventure this time," the familiar agent said as Bev and I approached the counter.
"That we are. A thirty-animal big adventure," I responded with enthusiasm.
"I'm glad Gryphon was able to help you to save these animals," he said. "It is a good thing you are doing."
Hearing these words from a Muslim was so heartening, and the sincerity in his voice was unmistakable. I wanted to give him a hug, but all I could do was look him in the eyes and say, "Thank you. You have no idea how much I appreciate your kindness."
Instead of waiting for us to push the heavily loaded trolley across the busy concourse, the sticker man from the airport administration office came to the ticket counter. He greeted me with a smile, and the whole time he was slapping stickers onto the crates, he shook his head in disbelief. I glanced at Bev, who looked like she was trying not to giggle. Before the sticker man returned to his office, he repeated the warning from my first trip, "You be safe. Baghdad is bad place."
This time, as Bev and I boarded with one-way tickets, the sticker man's warning took on a whole different meaning.
Forty minutes into our flight, the cabin went pitch black.
"Is this when the fun begins?" Bev asked.
"Yep. Hold on tight for the ride of your life."
This was my seventh trip into Baghdad, and the excitement was still there, only this time, a smidgen of fear was present. Doug and John had both assured me that Bev and I would be well protected during our three-day layover in the city. I trusted these men, and I knew that the entire SLG team would do everything necessary to keep us safe. Even so, no one is exempt from danger in a war zone.
Neither Bev nor I spoke as the plane made its steep descent. I think we were both trying to absorb the enormity of what we were about to do. When the Gryphon plane finally came to a stop, I stood up and pulled my briefcase out of the overhead compartment.
"Are you ready for Baghdad, my friend?"
"You'd better believe it," Bev said, grinning.
While finalizing this part of the journey, I had asked John what Bev and I should do about visas because neither of us had the proper credentials to enter Iraq. The last thing we wanted was to have the Iraqis arrest us for entering their country illegally.
"Don't worry," John had assured me. "SLG is doing all the credential checking for the Gryphon flight, and they will treat your situation as an extended layover."
"Are you sure?"
"Trust me."
When we stepped out of the plane, it felt strange not to be picking up animals and heading back to Kuwait. This time my familiar muscled friends stood there empty-handed, ready to escort Bev and me to the SLG compound.
"Good to see you guys again," I said.
"Yeah, welcome back, Terri," said the team leader. "I understand this time you're staying. That has to be somewhat unnerving."
"Hey, who says it's fun to always play it safe?"
Introductions to Bev were made in the dark as we walked over to where the twenty-eight crates and our two suitcases were unloaded by the ground crew.
"Boy, you sure don't travel light," one of the SLG men commented. "Did you leave anything at home?"
While the SLG drivers went to get their vehicles, Bev and I sat and waited on a cement barricade, dwarfed by our heap of baggage. We had not been there five minutes when, out of a nearby hangar, a line of about two hundred soldiers who were exiting Iraq paraded past us.
I had seen similar processions on previous trips, only this time I was close enough to see the expressions on the young men's and women's faces and the effects of war in their eyes. At first, relief and excitement covered the battle-weary lines, but under the surface of desert grime, hints of emotions, as dangerous as any planted IED, lay waiting to explode.
Just then four heavily reinforced, black SUVs pulled up like a scene right out of an action movie. Armed and dressed in bulletproof protection, the SLG men jumped out, nudging me slightly outside of my comfort zone. Once we began moving the crates, however, the ominous feeling about where we were going slipped away.
A thick, protective metal lining on the SUVs' interior walls had reduced carrying space to such a degree that, no matter how many ways we tried to cram the airline crates into the vehicles, we could not fit them all in.
"We'll have to stash some of these at one of the outbuildings until we can come back for them tomorrow," one of the men concluded. Harry, the SLG medic, stayed with Bev and me while the rest of the team went to deal with the crates.
When the men returned, we followed them to the armored cars, and as we reached the second vehicle, one of them instructed us to stand next to it. The driver then reached into the back and produced two bullet-proof vests and helmets.
"Put these on," he said. The body armor was big, black, and incredibly heavy. As Bev and I donned our protective gear, that comfort zone began to melt away. We glanced at each other for a moment with looks that clearly said, "What have we gotten ourselves into?"
Some of the men climbed into their vehicles, while Harry checked our vests and began his safety briefing. "You two will ride in the middle seat. Make sure you stay in the center and sit as close to each other as possible. If we should run into trouble, get down on the floor as quickly as you can and don't move until we tell you."
The floor? That doesn't sound like fun.
"Any questions?" Harry asked.
Bev and I shook our heads.
Twenty-eight airline crates headed for Baghdad Bev Westerman
The car's tinted windows were made of glass at least an inch thick, a bonus for safety, but it made sightseeing at night impossible. It seemed a shame to come all this way and not have at least a few stories to tell about our first sights of Baghdad.
During the drive to the SLG compound, we stopped at three heavily guarded checkpoints. At each one a U.S. soldier cautiously approached our vehicle and asked what our business was. The driver answered the questions, showing some kind of document he removed from the visor above his head. After the guard inspected the paper, he handed it back and waved us on.
After we cleared the third checkpoint, Harry turned around in his seat to inform us, "We have now left the Green Zone."
Despite the heat, a chill crept down my spine. There was no turning back now.
A sign that definitely gets your attention Bev Westerman
old red letters on the large white sign facing our vehicle read, "All Weapons Red at This Point. Lock and Load." This was no place to stop for a picnic.
A
lthough Bev and I had been doing our best to see out the windows of our armored vehicle, after we entered the Red Zone we decided the floor looked pretty darn attractive. When your senses are on high alert, mortality becomes your only concern and time becomes distorted. The trip from BIAP to the SLG compound took less than twenty minutes, but it seemed as if an hour had passed before Harry announced we'd reached our destination.
Surrounded by fifteen-foot cement blast walls, miles of razor wire, and dozens of well-armed men, the block-long SLG compound was a dimly lit fortress. Four men stood with guns at the ready as we drove through the main gate. When we parked, I could just make out a garden courtyard to our left that led to the front door of a massive house. A single light bulb illuminated the entryway.
"We have a total of five villas," Harry explained as we followed him to the house. "They belonged to government ministers who worked for Saddam Hussein. When the war began, they either fled Iraq or were captured. The furnishings you'll see are what they left behind. If your taste leans toward ornate and oversized, you'll feel right at home."
Harry wasn't exaggerating. We entered a huge foyer with shining marble floors, walls, and a sweeping marble staircase outlined with gorgeous carved railings. The scale of everything symbolized the wealth of a chosen few who overindulged at the expense of less fortunate people during Saddam's regime. We followed Harry up to the third floor, where our room was located at the end the hall. We were relieved to discover that it came with air conditioning and had a modern bathroom right across the hall.
"Just a heads-up," Harry cautioned. "Don't drink the water out of the tap, and keep your mouths shut when you shower. When you brush your teeth or need a drink, we have plenty of bottled water downstairs, so help yourself."
Dropping our suitcases onto the beds, I asked Harry if we could see Tom, the sick cat. The last e-mail I had received from Doug said that Tom still wasn't well and had no appetite.
No Buddy Left Behind: Bringing U.S. Troops' Dogs and Cats Safely Home From the Combat Zone Page 16
