Top Dog

by Maria Goodavage

  “Last I heard he was still at Fort Campbell with Barriere. That poor dog needs to get dispo’d and become somebody’s couch potato. Not like your beast!”

  He looked down at Posha, who was nodding off. “What are you up to that he’s so tired out?”

  Willingham had handpicked Soutra to deploy in support of MARSOC. Both Soutra and Posha had the strength, skills, and unflappable nature to do well with MARSOC. They also had the kind of bond Willingham knew could help them get through a challenging deployment. Like other great dog teams, it was hard to think of one without the other. Kind of like partners in a good marriage, Willingham figured.

  Soutra and Posha had flown out with their elite marine unit a couple of months before Willingham and his thirty dog handlers had left Pendleton. He told Willingham about some of the action they’d already seen. Almost every mission, they took casualties. Firefights, IEDs, explosions of all kinds. Nothing they couldn’t handle. Quite the opposite.

  “It’s just what Posha and I are meant to do together.”

  TWO WEEKS LATER, on the night of July 12, Soutra walked over to Willingham’s quarters from the MARSOC compound adjacent to Leatherneck. He was without Posha. Willingham could see something wasn’t right.

  “What’s up, man? You OK?”

  “A rough couple of days out there. Bad.”

  Willingham thought the worst but didn’t say it.

  Soutra could read his friend’s expression and laid the fear to rest.

  “Posha’s fine. I just left him in the kennel over there because of all the dogs you got here.”

  “I figured he’d come through anything, that dog of yours,” Willingham said. “You OK talking about what happened?”

  Soutra sketched out the events of the previous two days. It started with a critical mission to capture an IED factory and a Taliban command center and to clear compounds where insurgents were known to be sleeping. Soutra, Posha, and their MARSOC team flew to the area in a helo for a night operation. Posha got right to work under cover of darkness and quickly located IEDs and other explosives.

  The marines and Afghan commandos took over the factory, but by dawn more than fifty insurgents were attacking them with a variety of weapons, from heavy DShK machine guns to command-detonated IEDs. Their attack was relentless. It was two days of hell, with ammo and water running low and their element leader, Staff Sergeant Christopher Antonik, mortally wounded by an IED. Eventually the marines got the upper hand, but the loss of Antonik, a close friend and great warrior, was devastating.

  Soutra didn’t talk much about his role. But he was happy to talk about Posha.

  “Posha was a hero. With everything going on nonstop for two days, he never hesitated. He was right at my side, doing everything exactly with me. He performed perfectly. He’s like a part of me. Hard to explain it.”

  Willingham understood it, although he’d never been in such a ferocious battle with Lucca. But he didn’t fully understand Soutra’s role until a couple more weeks went by, and Soutra told him he was being put in for the Navy Cross—the second-highest combat award in the nation. He mentioned it as an afterthought, and he seemed almost embarrassed about the accolade.

  “I was just doing what I was trained to.”

  Willingham read some reports and found out more about Soutra’s role in the battle. He led counterattacks. He pushed into the enemy position. After an airdrop of water, ammo, and medical gear landed in a creek, he volunteered to locate another platoon that could give them some supplies. When Antonik went down, Soutra took charge and via hand signals got his men to fire in one area while he and another marine ran through enemy rounds to get to Antonik and some wounded Afghans. He applied a tourniquet to one man, preventing him from bleeding out. Then he organized a quick-reaction force to subdue the enemy so a medevac helicopter could land. He fired on the insurgents and got the wounded to safety.

  The team leader said Soutra “performed flawlessly” and never hesitated in any of his actions. Willingham wasn’t surprised about the description. It was almost exactly how Soutra described Posha’s actions that night. Willingham knew that the best dogs and handlers became more like each other over time. Being in synch helps them survive the life-or-death situations they face every day.

  Even the most outstanding dog teams can’t bring everyone home alive. He knew Soutra’s torment at losing Antonik all too well. It was the collateral damage of IEDs, which don’t have to touch you physically to cause indescribable pain. He realized it was a lot like what his dad had gone through in Vietnam.

  You can’t lose anyone, and then you do.

  9

  All for One and One for All

  THE SECURE PHONE line at Willingham’s desk rang just as he was sitting down to go through a growing pile of reports the morning of August 4. He had been out with his handlers on missions more than usual lately, pulling security for them and making sure they were as ready as possible for whatever the Taliban might have in store. But now he had to face the paperwork before falling too far behind.

  He picked up the line, hoping it wasn’t a request for reports he hadn’t yet finished compiling. On the other end of the phone, a unit marine master sergeant identified himself, calm, grave.

  “Staff Sergeant Willingham, one of your men has been severely injured.”

  “What happened?” The air went out of him. “Who?”

  In a flash he felt the weight of Kory Wiens on the morgue stretcher, saw the body bag as he loaded it into the Black Hawk.

  “I need you to confirm some information.”

  Willingham clicked on the “secret” computer to open the file with the list of his men who were on an intensive clearing operation in the area of Safar Bazaar, in southern Helmand Province. Within the last couple of weeks, marines had made their presence there known, and the Taliban decided to hightail it out of the once-thriving open-air marketplace. Willingham sent two combat tracking teams to catch any remaining Taliban if they pulled nonsense and then tried to run away. The term for bad guys who flee is squirters, and the dogs would have been all too happy to chase after them and prevent them from squirting away to do more harm on another day.

  Willingham also assigned six bomb detector teams to begin the painstaking process of helping to sweep the extensive market area for explosives. Insurgents had hidden them everywhere at night, after they violently enforced their 7 P.M. curfew on all residents. Intel was weak there because few locals could point them to where the bombs had been planted.

  Willingham had been there just days earlier, watching the backs of some of his teams as they walked through the dangerous main street of the market. He knew firsthand what they were up against.

  “OK, I’m ready,” Willingham said when the document opened. The list contained vital information on the marines, including their social security numbers and blood type. It was known casually as a “kill roster.” It was used, in part, to compare and confirm identification information from dog tags. The U.S. Marine Corps was the only branch of the armed forces whose gas mask size was on its dog tags. But that bit of info wasn’t on his roster. Just the basics.

  The master sergeant read the birth date and the last four digits of the social security number, and Willingham’s eyes skimmed the list. He didn’t want it to be any of his marines. But he found the numbers and with his finger traced the line back to the name.

  Corporal Max Donahue.

  The master sergeant confirmed.

  Willingham had pulled security for Donahue and his PEDD, Fenji, in the Safar area less than a week ago. Donahue had everything going for him: He had deployed before, he was smart, he was a great handler, he would do anything for anyone who needed help, and his dog was an excellent explosives detector who would do anything for him. Beyond this, Max was funny. Bad boy in that young marine way, only twenty-three.

  “They were on a search with Third Battalion, Firs
t Marines, walking point. They found some IEDs but something happened, probably a command wire, at the last one.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’s lost some limbs. I don’t have details. His dog is being treated, too.”

  Willingham got the location where Donahue had been flown.

  “I’ll be there on the first bird possible.”

  He opened a large map of Helmand Province on the computer and searched among dozens of icons for the one indicating an IED had gone off. He found one at Safar Bazaar and clicked on it to see what other information was available. Social security number, bird dispatched, transferred to FOB Dwyer, triple amputee.

  He told himself Donahue would be OK. There are all kinds of advances in prosthetics that could let him lead a close-to-normal life. Besides, he was Max. That spirit would take him through anything.

  It took an act of will to believe what he was telling himself.

  STAFF SERGEANT AARON Nuckles stood on one side of Donahue’s hospital bed, Willingham on the other. Lieutenant Shaun Locklear, the platoon commander who had raced down from Leatherneck with Willingham, had left the bedside to let them have some time alone with Donahue.

  If they just looked at his face, it was as though Donahue was simply sleeping. Willingham let his eyes travel to where Donahue’s legs should be, but there was nothing between the top and bottom sheets. The doctor had told them that one arm was so badly maimed that they had to amputate. Anywhere his flak had covered looked unscathed.

  They talked to each other, tried to be optimistic, for Donahue’s sake, but also for their own.

  “We’re gonna be here for you, Max. We’re gonna see you through this all the way,” Willingham said. “We’ll take good care of Fenji ’til you’re better.”

  They all wiped their eyes and Willingham prayed there standing by the bed.

  On August 6, he got the call. Donahue had been transported to the military hospital at Landstuhl, Germany. Tests showed that the injury had left him brain-dead. There was nothing more to do. There would be no recovery.

  Donahue had wanted to be an organ donor. In his final act of being there for others, his kidneys and liver went to save the lives of two men and one boy.

  It occurred to Willingham that Lucca had always been there during the worst times. He went to the kennel where the handlers had been taking turns looking after Fenji. The blast had ruptured her eardrums and propelled debris into her eyes, but she was going to be OK.

  “Fenji, we’re gonna be here for you. Don’t you worry,” he told her as he opened the kennel gate and took her for a walk. “Marines take care of their own.”

  Nuckles had returned to Leatherneck because they were gearing up to clear sites for the upcoming elections. When Wiens died, Willingham had no one to talk with except Lucca. He didn’t even tell Jill because she was pregnant, and somehow it just didn’t seem right. But Nuckles was a friend, someone he could talk to if it hit him hard.

  Willingham let his handlers know about what happened. “Don’t post anything on Facebook,” he told them. Handlers still out on ops and loved ones who didn’t know yet wouldn’t find out through social media. He wanted to tell the handlers himself, face to face. And he needed to give them something he didn’t have when Wiens was killed. Someone there to listen.

  “Don’t bottle it up. It’s the worst thing you can do—trust me. I’m here if you want to talk. Nuckles is, too. We can get you the chaplain or any help you need.

  “Also, if you’re not ready to go back out when I send you, just let me know. There is no pressure. I won’t think any less of you.”

  Because there were so many handlers, he knew they’d help one another grieve in a healthier way than he had. He saw it at the memorial at Leatherneck. Toward the end of such ceremonies, it’s customary for everyone to walk up to the memorial and pay respects before departing the area. Most will touch the Kevlar or the dog tags and say a quick prayer before stepping away.

  Once the general who attended Donahue’s memorial had paid his respects, the first marine handler walked up, put his hand on the Kevlar, and broke down. At seeing their brother grieve like this, all eighteen handlers who were able to attend instantly surrounded the memorial and took a knee—no words needed. They put their hands on the shoulders of the handlers next to them and grieved together, praying silently before collectively walking back to the kennels.

  After the memorial, they recounted stories of their friend—the funny ones, the heroic ones. Some marines laughed, some stared off quietly, a couple cried. Willingham saw the benefits of not being alone, of at least knowing that if his handlers needed someone to talk to, they’d have plenty of support.

  Willingham was experiencing this himself. He missed Lucca’s unconditional comfort. But now he had Nuckles and Locklear to lean on if he needed to talk. Billy Soutra also came to check in on him at the memorial.

  “How are you, man?”

  “It’s tough, man,” Willingham told him. “But we’ll push through.”

  It was decided that the military working dog area of Leatherneck would be named in honor of Donahue. That Max W. Donahue and military working dog shared the same initials was a nice coincidence. The handlers worked together to build a kiosk with CAMP DONAHUE in large red letters at the top. Under it, on a concrete barrier, they created a memorial mural featuring Donahue and Fenji, with marine and military working dog logos to the sides. Corporal Alfred Brenner, who would have gone to art school if he hadn’t joined the marines, drew them in pencil. He went through a whole pack of pencils.

  To see his marines working together so well on something that would keep Donahue’s memory alive made Willingham feel good about his tight-knit group and more confident they would get through anything that came at them.

  Corporal Juan “Rod” Rodriguez was one of the last to find out about Donahue. He arrived back at Leatherneck two weeks after Donahue’s death. He and Rrolfe had been on a thirty-day operation with First Recon Battalion in an isolated outpost with no phone or Internet. He heard about Donahue’s death from a marine he met at an unexpected stop, but it hadn’t seemed possible. When Willingham confirmed the story, the ground collapsed under him. At least it felt that way. Not only did he lose a friend and someone he looked up to; he lost his sense of immortality—something shared by many twenty-year-olds, even in the middle of a war in Afghanistan.

  “The reality of this happening never crossed my mind,” he eventually told Willingham. “I never thought I’d have to experience something like that. You think about it in your head, but it’s just not real until it happens.”

  No one took Willingham up on his offer to stay inside the wire when they were assigned to a mission. Handlers no longer took it for granted that everyone was going to make it back from these missions. Willingham could see the subtle change in how they said good-bye. It was more serious. “Take care, brother,” took on some gravitas.

  “It’s always in the back of your mind after something like that,” Willingham told Rod. “You can’t put Pandora back into the box.”

  “That’s exactly it.”

  “You can’t think about the reality too much. It’ll paralyze you,” Willingham said.

  The genie was definitely out of the bottle, and they were going to run with it.

  TWO CH-53 SUPER Stallion helos hung several feet above the landing area and gently touched down at FOB Wilson in Kandahar Province. Twenty-two dog teams streamed out and onto the gravel, one after another, disappearing momentarily in the dusty rotor wash and reappearing a few seconds later, farther away.

  Willingham had been tracking the birds’ progress and was there to greet them at the flight line. He’d been at FOB Wilson for five days, giving capabilities and limitations briefings so the unit leaders would know how to best use the teams for a large-scale clearing op that was getting under way.

  “Looking good, men! Welcome to
FOB Wilson, your new home away from home! Let’s get you settled in, give you the grand tour, and I’ll tell you what’s going down.”

  They set up in large tents and let their dogs rest in Vari Kennels beside their cots while they met up. Willingham spoke confidently, his authority sitting comfortably in his voice. They would be supporting five army units over the next few weeks. Two were located at FOB Wilson. They’d all be here for the first four days, conducting training, and then the handlers would be broken into five teams. Three teams would move out to other FOBs with their units. Some missions would be just a few hours, others a week or more.

  “You will be supporting several major clearing operations throughout Kandahar,” he said. “I’ll be bouncing between each of the units during these ops. The supporting units know you’re coming and they’re looking forward to working with you. As always, let me know if you need anything while you’re out there.”

  Several days later, Willingham joined Rod and his Malinois PEDD as they walked point through farm fields and past compounds. Willingham walked behind, working as his spotter, hands poised on his rifle, and helping him watch for signs of IEDs.

  Rod worked Rrolfe well. It didn’t surprise Willingham, but he hadn’t previously witnessed directly how Rod interacted with others on a mission. He’d only heard the excellent First Recon reports. What he saw confirmed everything they said and everything he’d seen during training. Rod was positive, confident, and humble, never complained, and had a quiet humor Willingham loved. Reminded him of Wiens, in a way.

  Their patrol took them through marijuana fields. The plants were lush, and in a couple of fields, they towered taller than the men. Rrolfe sniffed his way through the pot forest as if it were just another overgrown place.

  “Good thing he’s not a drug dog!” one of the soldiers shouted over to him.

  The platoon stopped for a short break near a protective wall at the end of an empty field. Rod took out his water bowl for Rrolfe, who drank thirstily.