Craig & Fred

by Craig Grossi

  We got a seat at the bar and ordered two Budweisers, which came frothy and cold in glasses. I put the beer to my lips and looked around, taking in the place. The walls were covered with license plates, strings of colored lights, guitars, flags, and an assortment of signs. Beneath all that were handwritten signatures scrawled onto walls by visitors with black Sharpie pens. Everything was made to look a certain way—old, authentic, rugged—but I could see how each item had been arranged intentionally. It was all more themed than authentic, kind of like a Hard Rock Cafe. Around us sat older retired couples, tapping their feet and swaying awkwardly. I was starting to feel like we’d stumbled upon an AARP retreat in a chain restaurant.

  The band onstage, however, was the real deal. Under colorful lights that hung overhead, the musicians hummed together like a well-oiled machine. The lead singer and guitarist, with his deep, soulful voice, looked like he’d been at it for a long time. Josh and I didn’t know much about blues, but we knew what we were hearing was good. As we worked through our second beer, I looked at Josh, like, “You good?” and he nodded. We were tired, and a clean motel room with basic cable sounded pretty nice.

  As we walked down the alley toward the Land Cruiser, the muffled music from behind us was replaced by the sound of another band coming from somewhere up ahead. It was late, but the one thing we’d wanted to do in Clarksdale was to hang out at a juke joint, and neither of us had been satisfied with the canned atmosphere at the last place. So we followed the sound to its source, just to see where it led. Making our way down the alley, we found the squat brick building that was home to a howling guitar. No one was around, but an old meat smoker sat out front, under a red light that hung over the metal door. When I pulled the door open, music and light flooded out, casting shadows onto the pavement.

  The bar was a single, small room where everything glowed red. Metal chairs with red vinyl cushions and a few shabby tables were scattered around, and the walls were covered with posters and signs that looked like they’d been there a long time. The sagging ceiling was low enough to reach up and touch. There was no stage—just a rug on the ground where an old guy in a blue suit and tie leaned back in a wobbly chair, plucking away at the guitar. He must’ve been in his eighties, but his fingers moved like lightning over the strings as if the instrument were a part of him. Behind him, a drummer played along.

  There couldn’t have been more than a dozen people inside, and everyone turned as we stepped through the door. Once inside, though, we were committed. We walked over to the bar, where a big black guy wearing sunglasses stood behind the counter.

  “Hey, man. Can we get a couple beers?” I asked.

  From behind the bar, he opened a plastic Igloo cooler, pulled out two forties of Bud, and placed them in front of us. It was a taller order than expected, but it didn’t seem like the kind of place to dispute what you’d been given. I paid the three bucks for each, smiling and thanking the man. “This is a great spot,” I added. “Glad we found it.”

  Knowingly, the bartender grinned. “Y’all come from that other bar?”

  “We did,” I said. “Didn’t really feel like sticking around.”

  “This is my place. The name’s Red,” he said.

  Josh and I extended our hands and introduced ourselves. Then Red got a look at Josh’s prosthetic. His face changed, and with genuine awe, he said, “You’re wearing shorts?”

  Josh smiled. “Yeah, man!” he said. “It’s hot as hell down here.”

  Red told us he had a cousin who’d also lost his leg. But he’d been too embarrassed to wear anything but long pants ever since, no matter how hot it got.

  “If I got him down here, would you talk to him?” Red said, looking at Josh.

  “Of course,” Josh said. Within a few minutes, Red’s cousin showed up. He was much taller and looked younger than Red, with dreadlocks that fell below his shoulders. He seemed a little uncomfortable on his prosthetic and used a wooden cane. We got the impression that maybe he was still getting the hang of life with one leg. Coming through the door, he spotted us right away and introduced himself as Riley.

  Red pointed to Josh and said, “See? Shorts!”

  Riley shook Josh’s hand. His smile and eye contact were so sincere—almost nervous. I wondered if, living in this small town, he’d met many other people with prosthetics before.

  “How’d you lose yours?” Riley asked.

  “My vehicle hit a roadside bomb in Afghanistan a few years ago. Haven’t seen it since,” Josh replied.

  Riley paused for a moment, looking slightly uncomfortable. But Josh quickly added, “Let’s see what you’ve got going on. Red says you’re a fellow member of the peg-leg club.”

  Riley smiled and bent forward, gently rolling up the leg of his jeans. Unlike Josh, you could see that he had his knee, but below it was a carbon fiber tube attached to a shock absorber ankle and a foot that went into the black sneakers he wore. Airbrushed right onto the shin of the prosthetic was the unmistakable blue and silver star of a Dallas Cowboys logo.

  “Aha! I see why you wear pants all the time with that thing painted on your leg,” Josh teased. Red and Riley both laughed.

  Josh asked Riley about his experience with his leg, then offered his advice on prosthetic maintenance and care. Josh sat right on the floor and removed his leg completely to show Riley the kind of sock he used to help stop chafing and irritation, as well as telling him about the kind of cream he found worked best. Even though Josh had had his prosthetic for over five years and had plenty of tips, he knew from experience how vulnerable a single leg could make you feel, especially with follow-up surgeries that made it difficult to gain momentum. “Healing can mean two steps forward, one back,” he said.

  As Josh and Riley exchanged the quick back-and-forth banter of two men who truly understood each other’s situation, I could tell they had a real connection.

  “Seeing you walk around . . . it’s unbelievable,” Riley said. “I never would have thought I could wear shorts.”

  “It’s a hundred degrees here!” Josh said. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Josh sat on a chair next to Riley and demonstrated how his prosthetic could swivel 360 degrees at the knee so that, sitting down, he could spin the foot into the air and rest his beer on the sole of his shoe.

  By now the band had wrapped up for the night and most of the patrons had shuffled out. The four of us stayed and talked well past closing.

  When we finally got ready to go, we shook the guys’ hands, and Red said with sincerity, “Y’all are welcome back any time.”

  Like Fred, Josh’s prosthetic was a way to talk about war. Unlike me, though, war was visible on Josh’s body. Anywhere he went, he’d get questions about what happened to his leg. Even if his time in Afghanistan wasn’t overtly discussed every time, there was an opening to talk about it, if Josh wanted to. That’s what Fred did for me, too. If I didn’t have him, no one would guess that I was a combat veteran, and there wouldn’t be that chance to connect with people in quite the same way. I loved talking about Fred and how we found one another—the fact that it happened in a place that a lot of people are unfamiliar and uncomfortable with made it more fun to share.

  Coming home, one of the biggest challenges vets face is this overwhelming sense of isolation—feeling like you’re alone, like no one gets it. For those of us who separated from active duty, it was easy to suddenly find ourselves without direction. Even if you found a job or went to school, what could compare to the camaraderie and sense of purpose that came with serving during a time of war? Where do you go from there? Trying to figure that out was a big reason Josh and I were on the road. But the more people Josh and I talked to, the less isolated we felt. Even if the people across from us didn’t know much about Afghanistan—even if we were the first vets they’d met—for a short time, we shared something, and it felt good. One of the symptoms of isolation is a feeling that people just don’t care, that they aren’t interested in your experiences or yo
ur pain, but we were starting to see that that just wasn’t true.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Green Zone

  We continued to patrol at night, falling into a routine. Our three platoons rotated duties. One platoon would keep post on the rooftops; another would rest, prepared to be a quick reaction force (QRF) if anything happened; and one would go out into the Green Zone. Meanwhile, Ali and I patrolled every night; I wanted to build relationships with as many villagers as possible. It was strategic for us to have positive face-to-face interactions with these families so that if and when they acquired information about the Taliban, they’d be more likely to tell us. We didn’t want the villagers to think of us as a mysterious, robotic force sitting behind weapons up on a hill. On patrols, we had a chance to introduce ourselves as real people, here to help.

  Once, Ali and I climbed into a compound, using a ladder, and startled an older man as he walked across the courtyard. “It’s okay, Grandfather,” Ali said in Pashto. “We’re here to talk.” We came over the walls, with a few other RECON guys on the roof, and the old man brought his family to the courtyard, where we all sat in a circle. There were nine or ten people gathered. I took the night vision from my helmet and handed it to one of the kids. She was amazed by how it worked. She lifted it to her face, then pulled it away, then looked through it again, smiling in disbelief. One of her brothers took it and started doing the same. A teenage boy passed around chai tea. From my pack, I took out photos of my family, explaining that they were my parents and sister. I had this one picture of my sister, Sarah, holding her dog, Herbie, a little terrier mix with short, shiny brown hair, a smooshed snout, and a peppy personality. For whatever reason, the Afghan villagers always found the picture of Herbie hilarious. This group was no exception. The kids giggled at the little dog, cracking up till they lost their breath.

  I told them we were here because we knew the Taliban were making their lives difficult, and we wanted to help—we wanted them to be able to open schools and shops again, to live normal lives. We knew that in small villages like this, the Taliban spread insidious rumors about us. Sometimes, if villagers had any awareness of the September 11 attacks, their understanding was that they were in retaliation for our presence in the country, not the other way around. I’d first heard about this piece of Taliban propaganda in intel reports. It shocked me. I realized the extent to which the Taliban were manipulating people—not just through horrific violence but through heinous misinformation, too.

  When we had a chance to talk with people like this family, though, I was always amazed by their kindness and understanding. They were receptive; they listened and asked questions. And they were grateful. It gave me hope that our mission was meaningful and would have a real impact on people. The conversations helped me, too. I enjoyed them. Even with the language barrier, I found I could connect with people. Sometimes, just talking with villagers, I no longer felt like we were in a battle zone. Even though their houses looked different from my own, I felt welcomed, and the feeling of being in someone’s home was familiar and comforting.

  As the patrols went on, the days started to run together. I wrote reports each morning after returning from patrols and recorded the villages we visited, most of which weren’t on any map. I’d try to nap, but between the heat and Taliban attacks, I was often interrupted. The day would slip by, and when the sun would set, I’d line up my gear along the wall and get ready for the next patrol. By the time I returned to the compound each night, in the late hours just before morning broke, Top would gently tease me as I walked through the door. “Here comes the mayor!” he’d say, because I was always patrolling.

  After his first expedition out, Fred continued to follow me on night patrols. He’d silently trot alongside our patrol line, about thirty feet to our left or right, stopping when we stopped, crossing canals when we crossed canals, and struggling up muddy banks right alongside us. He was so quiet and agile that no one questioned his company. He didn’t distract us or interfere with our work. Instead, he was a comfort, our little patrol dog looking out for us.

  One night, however, that changed. On our way to a village in the Green Zone, the patrol cut through a cornfield. The corn in Sangin was American corn, and the stalks were twice our height and as close together as the hair on our heads. It was perfect cover for moving around undetected. It was also perfect for getting lost in. As we walked through, each member of the patrol had to keep an eye on the guy in front of him; otherwise, you could easily get disoriented or even lost among the stalks. Because the corn was so dense and difficult to navigate, Fred didn’t follow us in. Instead, he found a path around the field so he could meet us on the other side. It made me nervous. One wrong step and Fred could go up in pieces.

  As we emerged through the corn, we confronted a wide expanse of barren fields. The fields must have stretched out for a hundred acres, arranged in a grid, each section bordered by narrow raised pathways. The open space was less than ideal. There was nothing to cover us, and the moon shone in the sky, making the night brighter than usual. Out in the open, we were pretty much sitting ducks. A single Taliban fighter would have no problem taking out multiple members of our patrol. We got on the move, quickly.

  Fred, meanwhile, safely materialized off our flank, trotting along on his own path. But as I watched him, I heard a strange, unfamiliar sound shatter the quiet of the night. It took a second for me to register what it was: Fred barking. Stunned, I watched as his trot turned into a bolt and he came barreling across the field. He zipped through our patrol line and kept going, howling at something up ahead.

  Instinctively, we all took a knee, raised our guns, and scanned the horizon. Not only were we totally exposed, but now we had a dog calling attention to our position. One of the marines raised his rifle and aimed it at Fred. Through my night vision, I could see the infrared light from the end of his gun illuminate the dog in the dark.

  Frantically, I reached into the dirt around me, searching for a stone or clump of soil to throw at Fred to get him to snap out of it and shut up. My fingers found only dust. Fred kept barking.

  Then, with the infrared light shining on Fred, we could see something beyond him that must’ve been the reason for his barks. In the next field over, I made out a dark wool blanket stretched out across the ground.

  I looked over at Ali, who saw it, too. “Let’s go,” I said, and we moved toward it as the marines fanned out, some with their rifles aimed toward the blanket, others scanning the horizon. Ali and I jogged past Fred, who stood back, growling.

  One of the guys grabbed Fred by the scruff to make sure he stayed put. Reaching for a dried cornstalk lying on the ground, he picked it up and used it as a tug-of-war toy to distract the dog.

  As Ali and I got closer, it was clear there were people underneath the blanket. Ali shouted for them to come out, and two young men stood up. We separated them for questioning. They claimed to be farmers, showing us the small hand shovels they were carrying. But they couldn’t answer any of our simple questions about the fields, like what they were planting or how long they’d worked in the village. It was obvious they were IED emplacers sent to plant bombs at night. We took their pictures, then released them. We weren’t equipped to take prisoners, and they didn’t have anything incriminating on them for me to justify the risk and effort to detain them.

  The encounter made me worry that the Taliban knew about our night patrols and were keeping track of our movements. If they knew we were avoiding paths and cutting through fields, they’d lay their booby traps accordingly. One thing was definitely clear: Fred’s time patrolling with us was over. I couldn’t have him putting us—and him—in that position again if we were all going to survive this mission.

  The next night, when we lined up at the door to head out, Fred scampered between us excitedly as he always did, ready for his nightly outing. As we ducked through our tiny doorway, Top counted us one by one, tapping us on the back as he always did. When I came through the door with Fred on my heels, T
op reached down and grabbed him by his scruff. “Not anymore, buddy,” he said. “You’re on radio duty with me now.”

  For the rest of our time in Sangin, Fred waited in the compound each night with Top, assuming his new position as greeter in chief.

  In the Green Zone, canals crisscrossed through the fields endlessly, like a maze. Usually the canals were obstacles—we’d have to find a way to cross them, either with two long wooden posts side by side, shimmying across like the farmers did, or by wading through. Sometimes, though, we’d encounter empty canals that could be used as pathways. At about five feet deep, they provided great cover, and they were unlikely to contain IEDs since they were frequently flooded with water.

  One night, we were cutting through a dry canal when we spotted people moving above us in the adjacent field. We were shocked. We rarely saw anyone out in the dead of night, and if we did, more often than not, we had reason to shoot them. Through our night vision, we watched a military-age man walking swiftly, followed by five or six young boys. The man carried a pillowcase sack over his shoulder, and the whole crew had the same sort of posture—bent forward as if sneaking around, moving quickly. Taliban IED emplacers, we thought.

  The Taliban routinely used kids to place IEDs. On my previous mission, in Trek Nawa, I once watched from our rooftop post as a Taliban fighter drove into a neighboring compound on a motorcycle, a young boy sitting in front of him and another sitting behind. Hanging over the side was a bag with a soccer ball inside. Once they drove into the compound, they were obscured from sight. Next thing I knew, five kids came bounding out, excitedly kicking the soccer ball between them. As they played, I watched one of the boys from the motorcycle start to dig a hole using a small garden trowel. Inside, he dropped a jug—a telltale canister of homemade explosives—and covered it up. The other boy from the motorcycle carried the pressure plate. He dug a shallow hole right next to the jug and carefully connected it with wires. The whole thing only took a couple of minutes; it was clear they were well trained. With the job done, the guy on the motorcycle emerged from the compound again. The boys quickly got on, and they drove away. Not only did the Taliban use the kids to do their work and serve as their body armor, but the whole method made it impossible for us to interfere. If we shot that Taliban fighter, it would have been in front of a group of young kids who probably viewed him as a good guy—someone who’d given them a soccer ball.