Craig & Fred

by Craig Grossi

  Then, about a year later, I finally got the orders I’d been waiting for: we were going to Afghanistan.

  CHAPTER 4

  Sergeant Fred

  Fred quickly became popular in the compound. Within forty-eight hours, the guys started calling him Freddy or Freddy Zone, a combination of his name and combat zone. “Hey, Freddy Zone!” we’d call out in the stretches of afternoon when the compound was hot and quiet. Fred would mosey over for a pet and a treat, happy for the attention.

  I started to share my MREs with him here and there. One day I smeared peanut butter on the roof of his mouth, and he sat there smacking his lips, trying to reach every last bit with his tongue while I giggled. He was like a little brother.

  One of the guys found a piece of rope and started using it to play tug-of-war with Fred, getting him all riled up. He started to get vocal, barking and howling with excitement. Sometimes he’d bare his teeth, too, which cracked us up. He’d flash his big white grin, growling to try to seem fierce, but with his funny short legs and sweet personality, we didn’t buy it.

  Our favorite topic of conversation was Fred’s goofy looks. Not only was he much smaller than any other dogs we came across in Afghanistan—no more than thirty pounds—but his short legs were an anomaly we loved. Being low to the ground didn’t hurt Fred’s pride. He always trotted around the compound like a show dog, head up, tail bouncing, paws flicking the dirt. He had an irresistible combination of innocence and confidence.

  After Joe was shot that first day, he spent nearly a week holed up in a little room in the compound that had been designated as an aid station. Joe was okay—the bullet hadn’t pierced his skull—but the impact of the shot gave him a hellish concussion. He needed to be medevaced out. In the meantime, the doc kept him in the cool, dark room so he could rest. Nauseated and with the worst headache of his life, Joe lay on a mat in pain, in and out of sleep, waiting. At the same time Joe was injured, the Three-Five marines were getting ambushed by the Taliban in their position. They were losing guys and needed support. As a result, Joe had to wait days for a medevac.

  On the first day, Fred showed up in the doorway to the aid station. He paused and looked at Joe, then walked up. Leaning in with his hot breath, Fred sniffed Joe’s face, pressing his wet nose into his cheek. Then he lay down next to him, resting his head right across Joe’s chest. Fred let out a sigh and looked up, meeting Joe’s eyes, as if asking, “You okay?” Slowly Fred closed his eyes and just lay there with Joe. Then, after a few minutes, just like that, he got up and left. A couple of hours later, though, Fred came back. He went through the same routine of lying for a few minutes with Joe, checking on him, then leaving. He kept at it for days, monitoring Joe until his medevac came. It was clear there was something remarkable about this dog.

  During firefights, none of us could afford to get distracted with Fred’s whereabouts. We assumed he had a way of taking care of himself. Once, though, the Taliban were unusually effective during an attack, landing a mortar round just outside the perimeter wall of our compound. It felt like the earth was about to split open. Our mortar team and spotters remained posted while the rest of us took cover in the command center. We huddled together, waiting. Then, through the open doorway, I spotted Fred. He was grazing through the burn pit looking for scraps like he always did. His nose was to the ground as he nudged through dirt like a lazy detective looking for clues.

  The guys and I looked at each other, all with the same mental image: a well-placed round landing on our new friend, sending him into the air in bits and pieces.

  “Fred!” we shouted. “Fred!”

  The dog continued to nose through the garbage.

  “Hey, shithead! Get the fuck in here!”

  Finally, Fred looked up at us. He blinked in the sun, looking mildly confused, then promptly put his nose back to the earth and continued foraging.

  Overhead, one of our spotters on the rooftop post yelled, “Incoming!” and we braced for impact. This time, the round landed at the far end of the compound, sending a bone-rattling shock wave throughout the place. That got Fred’s attention. He took off, kicking up a cloud of dust as he went, darting right into our shelter and wiggling his way to safety between our legs.

  In those early days, while Fred was becoming part of the team, I still worried if befriending the dog might be putting him at risk. If the command perceived him to be a distraction or threat in any way, he’d be cooked.

  In the compound, I kept my eye on Top, the command master sergeant, who I saw watching us play with Fred. Top was a huge, silent marine who I’d probably only ever exchanged about four words with. One night, on the previous mission, I’d helped him carry his rucksack across a canal during a patrol. I was standing hip-deep in water, in the middle of the canal, so the guys could pass me their rucks, then leap across. Top walked up and looked at me. Holding out his pack, he said, “It might be heavy,” then dropped it into my arms. The weight of the thing sunk me and my boots four inches into the mud. It must have been ninety pounds, almost twice as heavy as the others, full of radio gear and two weeks’ worth of backup batteries the size of bricks. I thought it was going to crush me like a paperweight before a teammate on the other side helped take it from me. Then Top leapt across the canal, picked it up, and flung it across his back like it was a lunch box.

  He was that strong. I swear we never saw him eat or sleep. Top had been in the corps since the nineties, deploying twice to Iraq and once to Somalia. He was a real leader, and we all respected him. I knew he’d do what he needed to in order to keep us safe. That included making sure a stray dog didn’t compromise what we were here to do.

  I had all this on my mind one afternoon as I sat in the shade, eating the last bites of my lunch. Fred was shuffling around, sniffing our stuff, and I watched him drift about, looking like he was after a shady spot to settle down in. Across the compound, Top leaned in the doorway of the command center, finishing off his MRE. Fred started to walk toward Top, panting slightly in the heat. The bugs had left him alone since we’d plucked them away, but his fur was still caked in dust. Some of it poofed off his back as he walked.

  Fred got to where Top was standing and looked up. They met eyes for a minute, then Fred dropped his hind legs and sat down next to the big marine. The two of them gazed across the compound in the same direction, almost like they were chewing on the same thought. I wondered how this was going to play out. Before then, I hadn’t seen Fred and Top interact with each other.

  Top scooped one last bite of whatever he was eating into his mouth, then squatted next to Fred. He put the plastic MRE container in front of Fred’s mouth, as if to say, “Here.” Then Fred leaned in, wiggled his nose, and started licking up the last bit of Top’s meal. Top wore sunglasses, so it was hard to make out his expression, but I thought I saw a hint of a smile.

  Atta boy, I thought. Fred was making friends in high places.

  In Sangin, the RECON marines were discretionary shooters. That meant they had the authority and responsibility to decide when to shoot first. Most of them were higher ranking and had been in the military for years. They could handle those rules of engagement, which not only sent a message to the Taliban that we were serious, but ensured that we didn’t get overrun in an area where the Taliban had total control.

  As a result, after those first few days, the fighting became less frequent. There was talk of starting night patrols into the Green Zone. We could scout out the area, talk to any villagers who were still over there, and try to get a better idea of what was going on. It was time for me to do my job.

  Twelve of us would go out on a carefully premapped route. The first cluster of compounds we planned to approach was only about a mile away, but our route there would be three. Taking roads, paths, and bridges was out of the question. There was almost certainly a network of IEDs encircling us, as well as ones planted along walkways. Instead, we’d cut through fields and wade through canals, moving in a single file and creating our own path. And we wo
uldn’t return on the same route we took out. Meanwhile, Top would stay near the radio to receive status updates as we went. We’d leave in the dark and be back before the sun came up, staying out no more than eight hours.

  As the sun set, the twelve of us lined up our kits along the wall—body armor, helmets, bandoliers, magazines, night vision. I added a notepad and a small, battery-powered camera to my pile. We’d only been in the compound a few days, but it had become our safe haven. Leaving it to walk straight into Taliban territory made my stomach churn.

  I took a seat on an ammo crate and ate dinner: a spaghetti MRE. It was my favorite among the other choices of beef stroganoff, chili mac, and chicken and rice. My paternal grandparents were Italian, and I used to smile thinking about how Nonie and Pop-pop would have shaken their heads at these limp noodles and condensed sauce. Beside me, Ali drank chai and used my satellite phone to make a quick call to his family. I wasn’t supposed to let anyone use my phone, but it was worth it to bend the rules for Ali, who had a family back home.

  When Ali wrapped up his call, he pointed toward my gear and smiled. “Fred’s keeping track of you,” he said.

  I looked up. Fred had made a bed out of my stuff, curling up right on my flak vest.

  “He’s your boss,” Ali said with a laugh.

  I smiled. “He wants to know when I leave so he can jump into my sleeping bag,” I said. Secretly, I wondered if the dog was getting attached to me. Fred was winning over all the marines one by one, but I felt like we had a special connection.

  The sun disappeared on the horizon in an orange blaze. After a few hours, when the sky was black, we lined up at the wall and started suiting up. Fred had gone off somewhere, and I tried to stay focused. Top stood by the tiny tin door that opened in the direction of the Green Zone. One by one, we ducked through and stepped out, Top counting us as we went.

  The night was cool and quiet. Through my night vision, the desert looked like the surface of the moon cast in shades of green. Each time my boot hit the ground, a little poof of dust erupted around it. The looseness of the dirt made it easy for the Taliban to plant IEDs. I looked ahead to the guy in front of me, then glanced down to watch where I was stepping, then scanned the horizon and checked my flanks through the night vision. Pashto phrases ran through my head. I thought about how I’d introduce myself to villagers and the questions I’d ask.

  At the edge of the desert, we came to a ridge that overlooked the lush fields below. I could feel the change in climate. The air was moist and dank, and I thought I could make out the sound of water flowing below. As we walked along the ridge, I suddenly caught a glimpse of something moving off my left flank. Instinctively, I turned, gripping my rifle. But what I saw wasn’t a person.

  Dumbfounded, I realized it was Fred. There he was, scampering along the way he always did, with light feet, head held high. His tail bobbed up and down. He had the air of a tour guide showing a group of visitors around his turf, even though none of us had ever seen him leave the compound. The other guys had noticed him, too, and we all just smiled in disbelief.

  This dog’s full of surprises, I thought.

  At the planned location, two marines made their way down the ridge. There was a canal at the bottom that looked pretty wide, and they’d evaluate how to best cross it. The rest of us formed a protective circle, took a knee, and scanned the horizon. Fred, who until then had kept his distance, came up and nudged me on the hip. I gave him a quick scratch behind the ear, feeling the familiar dingy fur on his warm neck, and then watched as he went up to the next guy. He moved along quietly, offering nudges and receiving pets. Our little field dog was herding his marines.

  The guys at the bottom of the ridge radioed for us to follow. We were officially crossing into the Green Zone. I drew a deep breath.

  We filed down the steep cliff and prepared to cross the canal. One at a time, we slid down a muddy bank and waded through. The water was cold and deep; it came up to my waist. I held my rifle overhead and put my notebook in my mouth. The mud on the bed of the canal suctioned the soles of my boots with each step, so I tried to move quickly to keep from sinking. At the opposite side, the guys pulled me out, then I waited to help the next guy. As I turned around, I looked back to see that Fred was in the canal, swimming across to us. His snout and tail were high above the water, and I could see the effort of his little legs paddling along. No fucking way, I thought. He really doesn’t want to miss out on anything.

  The terrain in the Green Zone was immediately different from the desert. The ground was muddy and damp, and on the horizon, corn and poppy fields shimmered in the moonlight. The only sound was of our boots slapping the mud.

  We made our way past a small village with a few abandoned compounds. A pack of dogs began howling and moaning when we walked by. They were big, much bigger than Fred, and their sharp barks rattled off the walls of the compounds behind them. A few came close to our patrol, their heads hung low and their fur raised in ridges along their backs. They looked like wolves mixed with hyenas. We moved quickly so that they’d quiet. I looked around for Fred, anxious that he’d start barking or that he’d somehow instigate the pack. I glanced behind me and there he was, moving along quickly at my heel in silence, head down, eyes ahead. Later, when the guys and I talked back at the compound, it was that moment—on top of everything else—that truly blew us away. It was as if Fred knew how to be a marine. He had ignored any instinct he might have had to bark back at the pack of dogs. We were quiet, so he was, too.

  We made our way through, carefully crossing three more canals, until finally we reached our destination village. I was soaked and muddy, and the night was cold, but my nerves and our trek kept my blood warm. It was time for Ali and me to get to work.

  The first compound had a big green metal door. It was too risky to walk right up to it and knock. The marines covered our position, looking out, as I tossed clumps of dirt at the door. The metal vibrated in response, creating a high-pitched sound. Ali called out in Pashto that we wanted to talk.

  The door opened, and an older man in a white robe leaned out. Ali spoke to him, quickly and quietly explaining who we were and asking if we could talk. Because he was so receptive, Ali asked if he could gather some of his neighbors so we could have a shura, a meeting typically conducted between village elders. He stepped out from behind the door and together we walked to the next compound, then another, recruiting a few neighbors. One of them rolled out a blanket in a nearby field, and we sat to talk. The RECON guys fanned out wide, almost out of sight, standing post. Fred walked around at a distance, sniffing the ground and looking out.

  The conversation was brief. The men were kind and answered our routine questions about what tribe they were part of, their ages, and their names. They didn’t have much to say about the Taliban, which we respected. It was possible that they really didn’t have any information, or maybe they didn’t want to get involved. I took pictures of each person for my report, and we thanked them for gathering with us.

  We went to one more village before making our way back, taking a long, circuitous route to the compound. The terrain in the Green Zone was complex and exhausting, but we were safe. As we ducked through the doorway, Top stood waiting as he had been when we left. He greeted us each by name. “Well done, Craig,” he said to me. Fred, who had stayed with us for the entire journey, scampered through. Smiling, Top said, “Well done, Sergeant Fred.”

  We assembled in Top’s command center to compare notes. I took a seat in the back on a bag of rice. The red glow of a lantern lit up our tired, mud-smudged faces, and the green glimmer of the command radio flickered in the corner. Top looked around and counted heads. Someone joked, “Where’s Fred?” As if on cue, he came trotting into the room, winding his way through our boots. He found his way to Top, lay down using Top’s boot as a headrest, and let out a sigh as if to say, “I’m here.”

  Afterward, Fred showed up right as I sat down on my sleeping mat. I untied my boots and left them beside me, s
tacking my pants on top so I could jump in at a moment’s notice. Next to them were my body armor, my helmet, a bandolier, magazines, a rifle, and my camera. I took off my watch, laying it next to my pillow, and when I swung my legs around to lie back, Fred leapt in, too, and made himself at home. He took a couple of turns, pawed at the sleeping bag a little, then eventually settled in between my legs, resting his head on my thigh. As a kid, sometimes our family cat, Patches, would sleep in the same spot, curled between my knees. Having Fred there felt familiar, like a little piece of my old life.

  In Sangin, that’s what Fred offered all of us. Each time he curled up in one of our sleeping bags—there were a few times he cuddled up with Top or Dave, an EOD guy—or trotted across the compound or let us scratch him behind the ears, we got an escape from the combat zone we were in. In those moments, it was just you and Fred.

  The next day, I was on a rooftop post looking through my binoculars into the green fields in the distance.

  One of the guys said, “Hey, look.”

  I pulled my binoculars away and looked down to where he was pointing. A man and woman were walking right by our compound, maybe thirty feet away. He was walking in front of her, and she was following behind, leading their donkey, which carried bags of rice, rugs, and buckets on its back.