Craig & Fred

by Craig Grossi

  “We were really lucky,” Mark said, downplaying any credit I tried to give him. After our deployment together, Mark had retired. I could only imagine the impact he’d made on the lives of so many other marines like me.

  Driving back to L.A. that night, in the quiet of the car, I thought back to Kyle in his smoky, dark apartment. From our short time with him and then with Mark, it was easy to get the impression that maybe Mark’s life post-Afghanistan was going more smoothly than Kyle’s. But I also knew we’d only gotten a glimpse, and there was really no sure way to tell how either of our buddies were processing their own combat experiences. For Mark, did having a family and a big house help, or could it make it even harder to readjust? Did Kyle’s relaxed lifestyle, with fewer responsibilities, help him ease back to post-army life, or did he feel isolated?

  I didn’t know the answers. Everyone’s reaction to combat is different. For me, I struggled to feel anything when I came home. The bar for what excited and moved me had been set impossibly high from my time in Sangin. I had seen death up close, and it gave me a sense of how fragile life was while also making me somewhat indifferent to people’s feelings. “It could be worse” became a common phrase of mine. I didn’t elaborate on my feelings because I didn’t realize I was having any. I carried on with my life, went to my ten-year high school reunion, and reconnected with my friends from home. Inside, a part of me was screaming out for help, but I didn’t listen. I had too much to be thankful for to be messed up. I had come home, and I had all my body parts, a great dog, and a fun group of friends.

  The attitude we had in the field was that anything could be fixed with Motrin and water. Like the marines around me, I had a lot of pride. Once I got home, I didn’t want to be told I was “sick” with something like post-traumatic stress. I didn’t want to feel like a victim or be treated like one. I knew PTS had nothing to do with being strong or weak or with having enough willpower or not, but it still took me a while to listen to that voice inside me and find my way.

  CHAPTER 10

  Leatherneck

  When the helicopter touched down at Leatherneck, we took turns helping each other up, and I lifted Fred in the duffel bag, carefully tucking him under my arm. It was strange to be able to walk down the ramp, not run. The flat asphalt of the tarmac was so solid and smooth that for a moment I felt dizzy, like I was stepping on land for the first time after a month at sea. The sun was bright overhead, and as we walked across the flight line, the wind from the rotors shook loose a cloud of dust from our uniforms.

  There was a big welcome reception for us right there on the airfield, complete with pizza and cold Gatorade. I hadn’t had a cold drink in weeks, but I was going to have to wait a little longer. With my four-legged contraband tucked under my arm, I broke off from the guys and ducked between a row of HESCO barriers—huge, dirt-filled barrels—that lined the flight line, making my way toward the road I hoped Sergio would drive in on.

  Behind the barriers, I took a knee and looked anxiously into the distance. Fred shook and squirmed in the bag. I opened the zipper and let him pop his head out. He sniffed the air and scanned around, panting and blinking under the hot sun.

  When I first arrived on base, months earlier, the sheer size of Leatherneck had shocked me. There were three different chow halls at least, a hospital, clinics, a post office, and rows and rows of office buildings, tents, and barracks. Big enough to drive around and get lost. There were four state-of-the-art gyms, too—that was important. Marines don’t mind sleeping in the dirt, but they want a nice gym. There was a huge Internet lounge where you could get a cup of coffee and play video games like Call of Duty—you know, in case you needed a little more “modern warfare” in your life. Camp Bastion, the British-run base with an airfield, was connected to Leatherneck, too. That’s where all the helicopters, Osprey, and drones came in and out of. The whole place was so extensive, you could almost forget you were in Afghanistan altogether.

  At Leatherneck, you felt pretty safe. You could move freely. You’d see civilian contractors walking from building to building and marines driving around in civilian vehicles. You were supposed to carry your rifle with you at all times, unloaded, with one magazine of ammo in your pocket, just in case. The way guys carried them, though, you’d think they were yoga mats instead of weapons. Some even taped over their magazine wells to keep dust out because they didn’t want the hassle of cleaning them.

  A lot of marines spent their entire deployment on Leatherneck. If you worked in supply or if you were an intel analyst, like many of the guys I worked with, Leatherneck was probably the only piece of Afghanistan you were ever going to see. Every job was important, but I was grateful to have spent as much time in the field as I did.

  Finally, from behind the HESCO barriers, I caught sight of a little black Toyota pickup bopping down the dirt road, kicking up a dusty cloud in its wake. It had to be Sergio and Mac. As the Toyota came nearer, I spotted Sergio behind the wheel and McGuire with his oversize cowboy grin beside him. They started to pull up next to my hiding spot, and before they pulled to a full stop, I grabbed Fred and threw him and myself over the side of the truck bed.

  The diesel engine let out a groan as Sergio shifted gears and we lurched forward, speeding away from the flight line toward our barracks on the opposite side of the base. I unzipped the duffel bag all the way, letting Fred venture out. He struggled to keep his balance as we bounced down the road. I chuckled to myself as I realized that he’d flown on a helicopter before riding in a car.

  “You look like hell, man!” Sergio shouted from the cab, grinning and handing me a bottle of water. I took a swig and was shocked by how strange it felt to drink something cold. I found a plastic cup rolling around in the back of the truck and poured some for Fred.

  Leatherneck was always expanding and changing. When I’d gotten back from Trek Nawa, I noticed a Pizza Hut had opened up while I’d been away. The whole place seemed to grow by the day. This time, as we drove toward the barracks, I spotted a compound off to the side of the road that hadn’t been there when I left. In bright red letters against a yellow background, a small sign near its entrance read: DHL.

  Sergio pulled up to our barracks. The long white trailers were lined with bunks and slept about ten guys each. Ours was pretty empty at the time, which worked in my and Fred’s favor. Plus, I knew I could trust my teammates.

  I plopped Fred down on my bunk.

  “Hey, Freddy, here’s your first bed,” I said. Impressed, the dusty dog curled up right there, blinking his eyes sleepily and letting out a sigh.

  Sergio, Mac, and I stood around looking at him. The guys laughed, and so did I. Here we were with a dog in our barracks. After talking for a few minutes, Mac said, “Hey, man, go get a shower. We’ll stay with the little guy.” It was his polite way of telling me I smelled like hot garbage.

  The water felt amazing. I turned it as hot as it would go and stood under the faucet, letting the pressure rinse the sand from my hair. Brown water pooled at my feet. Afterward, I scraped away my beard and put on fresh cammies. The starchy pants were so clean they felt stiff, the weight of them foreign against my thighs.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon camped out in the barracks with Fred. Mac brought us some food from the chow hall, and we watched a few movies on my laptop. I found some rope and planned to use it as a leash for Fred. Once it was good and dark, Mac kept a lookout while I escorted the dog outside.

  “My dog back home would’ve peed in my boots by now!” Mac joked as he opened the door for us.

  The night was clear and cool. Our barracks were at the end of the row, so we didn’t have to go far before we could duck behind some HESCO barriers and walk into a field where we were relatively covered. Not many people drove around at night. Fred was calm; he didn’t struggle against the leash or make a sound. In the dark, his white fur seemed to almost glow against the moon-dusted earth. I watched as he sniffed around, nose to the ground, finding places to mark. Once he was done, we wen
t straight back inside. Sometimes, with Fred, I had this feeling that he knew what was going on. He had a way of cooperating.

  That night, lying in bed with the dog between my knees, I was too anxious to sleep. I would be going back to Sangin after a two-week break on base. The clock was already ticking for Fred. I needed to get him out before going back into the field. The image of the DHL compound I’d spotted on our drive came back to me. The shipping company had likely popped up to fulfill the growing commercial shipping demands on Leatherneck. We already had a post office, staffed by military members, but they mostly handled troop mail and care packages. DHL, though, was its own company. Instead of military staff, they’d have their own civilian workers, just like plenty of other facilities on base, from the chow halls to construction projects. Getting civilians to help me seemed safer than involving other marines. The place was crawling with military police, but the civilian-run contractor buildings were sort of off the radar. If Fred was going to get shipped home, DHL would be his ticket out.

  The next morning, with Fred stowed away in the barracks, I pulled up outside the DHL compound. The whole area was surrounded by a twelve-foot chain-link fence, concealed with green mesh. I walked up to the gate, which was closed but not locked. I pushed it open just enough to squeeze through.

  The place looked as if it had been abandoned. There was no one around. A forklift was parked just inside the gate, unoccupied. In the back, a few trailers sat quietly in a row—probably sleeping quarters. Propped up against one of them, I spotted a small yellow sign that read OFFICE in red letters. With low expectations, I made my way over.

  I tapped on the door, and it swung open. Directly inside was a cheap, wobbly-looking desk with a computer monitor and keyboard. From underneath it, I heard a man with what I thought was a thick Ugandan accent. “Come in!” he said as he lifted his hand above his head and waved it in the air.

  The DHL worker picked himself up off the floor with a groan and wiped his forehead with a white towel. Without looking at me, he pressed his index finger against the power button—tapping incessantly—until the computer whirred to life. A satisfied smile on his face, he finally turned to me.

  “Yes, Sergeant. What can I do for you?” he said.

  “Please, call me Craig,” I told him.

  The man smiled and nodded his head as he came around the desk with his hand outstretched.

  “Okay, Craig. My name is Tinashe. It is nice to meet you. And what can I do for you?”

  Tinashe was about five foot eight, and I’d guess in his forties. He had a bald head, bare face, and dark skin. With his blue DHL polo shirt tucked into his belted khakis, he looked sharp, and he smiled generously.

  “I’m thinking of shipping something, but it looks like you guys aren’t quite up and running yet,” I said, scanning the room.

  Tinashe smiled even bigger and said, “Oh, don’t worry, my friend! We’ll be up and running within twenty-four hours. Things move quickly here, I make sure of that. What were you thinking of shipping?”

  I took a quick breath and tried to sound smooth. “If someone had a dog—hypothetically—would that be something you could ship?”

  Tinashe looked at me, not letting the smile drop from his face. “How big is this dog?” he asked, crossing his arms across his chest.

  “Oh, I’m just curious if—” I started to say, but Tinashe, starting to laugh, cut me off.

  “Bring him over! I want to meet this dog!” he said.

  “Okay, man,” I said, giving in. “I’ll bring him over here tomorrow.”

  “I can’t make any promises, but I will promise you I’ll do what I can,” he said.

  First thing the following morning, I snuck Fred into the pickup, making him ride on the floor of the passenger side. We drove toward DHL, cautiously passing by a military police SUV parked outside the chow hall.

  When we pulled into the gate of the compound, I was shocked to see it had completely transformed. It was as if everything had come to life. The forklift operator lifted a pallet of water bottles onto a flatbed truck. Tinashe stood, wearing the same blue polo, clipboard in hand, giving orders to workers as they zipped around. When he saw me, he waved me over to a parking spot by the office.

  Fred had popped up onto the passenger seat now, and when Tinashe got a look at him, his face lit up. He went over to Fred’s side and opened the door for him.

  “Look at this funny guy! You didn’t tell me he was such a good-looking dog!” Tinashe said as Fred spilled out onto the dusty ground, excitedly prancing around Tinashe’s feet.

  We walked into the same office from the day before, and Tinashe handed me a printout.

  “That is a list of forms that you’ll need to get this guy home,” he said, bending to rub Fred behind the ears. “What is his name, by the way?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry—this is Fred,” I told him.

  Tinashe erupted in laughter.

  “Fred!” he roared. “Fred the Afghan with the American friend!”

  I couldn’t help but laugh, too. A couple of the DHL workers wandered in to see what all the commotion was about. One of them introduced himself as Peter, and we got talking. Peter was from the Philippines, here in Afghanistan to make some cash and send it home to his family. He said most of his coworkers were Filipino, too. Well-paying jobs in the Philippines were hard to come by, and Peter had traveled half a world away to support his loved ones. Most of the bases I’d been on were staffed by third-country nationals (TCNs) like Tinashe and Peter. They were people from one country—like the Philippines—working in another country—like Afghanistan—for a company from a third country—like the U.S.-run DHL. During my time at Gitmo, most of the TCNs on base were Jamaican. I made friends with a few guys who drove the buses. Before I left, we swapped T-shirts: I gave them my unit T-shirts and they gave me work shirts. I had immense respect for the sacrifices they were making to survive and support their families back home.

  Tinashe pointed to a huge chart on the wall. It was a long list of things they weren’t permitted to ship—mostly obvious stuff like grenades, rifles, bullets, spent cartridges.

  “There’s nothing here about live animals, my friend,” he said to me with a wide grin.

  I was grateful to Tinashe, overwhelmed by his willingness to be so helpful. Excitedly, I thanked him, and Fred and I made our way back to the barracks.

  Back in the room, my heart sank. Tinashe’s list was long, including forms that sounded near impossible to obtain—like serialized customs forms and multiple veterinary certifications, one of which required proof of a rabies vaccination and a thirty-day quarantine supervised by a veterinarian. How the hell was I going to get that?

  I pulled out my satellite phone and called Sarah, but she didn’t pick up. Rambling nervously, I left a long voice mail describing each of the forms I needed, asking her to find out if she could get her hands on them and mail them to me.

  I looked at Fred, sitting on the bed. He looked back at me with raised eyebrows as if asking, “What now?”

  Over the next few days, I corresponded with Sarah, who was making all the phone calls she could back home, trying to find someone who knew anything about getting a live animal shipped from Afghanistan to the U.S. Meanwhile, hiding Fred in the barracks was becoming increasingly stressful. There were rumors going around that rooms were being inspected. First sergeants were coming by looking for booze and other contraband, making sure our rooms were clean and beds were made. Under normal circumstances it would have pissed me off—we weren’t in boot camp anymore—but with Fred in our room, I was terrified. There were no locks on the door; anyone could come in at any time.

  After a few days of hiding Fred, I thought, I can’t do this anymore, I’m going to get caught. I went over to the EOD compound and talked to Matt and Dave, who had told me they’d help hide him. Their compound was farther from most of the activity on Leatherneck, and their command was a little more lax. We all agreed it would be easier for Fred to be stowed away with the
m, and I drove him over that night.

  The next time I talked to Sarah, though, it was becoming clearer that shipping Fred back to the States was going to be more time consuming than I imagined. She hadn’t had any luck with the forms yet, and once she did, it was going to take time to mail them. The days were slipping by. I realized I had to shift my focus from sending Fred home to finding a way to keep him safe while I went out on my next mission. I hated the thought of leaving him on Leatherneck without me, but I didn’t have any other choice.

  The safest place on Leatherneck would be with civilians. If Sergio or Mac had to hide Fred in the barracks for weeks, it would only be a matter of time till someone caught them. Same with the EOD guys. Plus, Dave and Matt were both finished with their deployment. They were going home. The more I considered the options, the more it became clear: I had to ask Tinashe if he could hide Fred at the DHL compound.

  Around dusk one day, I put Fred in the truck and we drove to DHL. The setting sun and desert haze turned the sky yellow in its last breaths of daylight. When we pulled up to the compound, Fred and I hopped out and met Tinashe in the office.

  The words came tumbling out.

  “Tinashe, I’ve got a problem. I’m going back out in another week. I’ll be gone for a while—like a month—and I don’t know what I’m going to do with Fred. We’ve been trying to hide him, but if we get caught, he’ll be put down,” I said. “My sister is working on the customs forms, but she needs more time . . .”

  Tinashe stood from petting Fred and placed his hand on my shoulder.

  “My friend, didn’t I tell you I would do what I could? Fred will stay here with me while you are gone. This is a special dog, and I want to do my part to make sure he gets to America.”

  The way he said it, it was like I didn’t even have to explain. I leaned in and hugged him. Tinashe walked outside and, moving like a hummingbird, quickly put together a plan. He picked up a long ratchet strap. “Here,” he said, tying it to a metal pole. “While we’re working all day, Fred can stay here.”