No Buddy Left Behind: Bringing U.S. Troops' Dogs and Cats Safely Home From the Combat Zone

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No Buddy Left Behind: Bringing U.S. Troops' Dogs and Cats Safely Home From the Combat Zone Page 5

by Terri Crisp; C. J. Hurn


  -Eddie

  Now it was time to set a date. In order to avoid the upcoming Christmas holiday traffic and major snowstorm delays, we decided on February 13, 2008, for a departure flight from Iraq. Charlie would set foot in America on the following day which happened to be Valentine's Day. What a memorable holiday this Valentine's would be!

  Working from my office at home in northern California, I made what I hoped was my final list of tasks still required to put the trip into motion. At the top of the list was a call to United Airlines Cargo. John had recommended them for flying Charlie from Kuwait to Washington, D.C.

  "Who will be dropping the dog off at the airport in Kuwait?" the United agent asked.

  "No one," I said, beginning to anticipate that this reply was not what the woman needed to hear in order to book Charlie's flight.

  "So, how is the dog getting to the airport?"

  "He'll be flying from Baghdad on a charter airline. Once they arrive in Kuwait, the ground crew will transfer the dog to United Airlines."

  "Okay, that will probably work, but who is going to pay for the dog's freight charge?"

  "I am. I can give you a credit card number right now."

  "That's not how it works. Cost is based on the weight of the dog and the crate he's traveling in. We can't confirm that information until the dog is actually at the airport."

  "I can't pay in advance, even if we overestimate the weight?"

  "I'm sorry," she said. "It's the rules."

  Oh, my God, how much more complicated could this get? Just when I thought it was clear sailing from here. There had to be another way, but I didn't know what it was.

  Needing a break, I let my dogs out for a run around the three acres that surround our house in the Sierra foothills. While they gamboled about, I settled down on the squeaky porch swing, my favorite thinking spot. Usually I find the gentle back-and-forth movement calming, but nothing eased the aggravation I felt at that moment. All I wanted to do was cry.

  After chasing each other across the property, my dogs stampeded back toward the house, producing as much noise as they could, tongues lolling, ears flapping, and tails rotating like a collection of giant windup toys. Skyler arrived first, hopped onto the swing, and planted her soft Australian shepherd body next to me. Tabasco, a large spaniel mix, laid his head on my lap, while Millie, a Lab cross, began tapping her black, stubby leg on my foot as she scratched. Luke, our sweet-natured Rottweiler, plopped down on the deck between Morgan, the older black Lab, and Mica, a short-haired terrier cross, each of them vying for the next-closest space to me. They all sensed I was worried.

  "So, guys, what am I going to do now?"

  I don't know whether it was their collective gaze of trust or just the fact that I sink into a state of contentment whenever the dogs surround me, but something suddenly hit me. The porch swing froze at the back of its arc. As if a tape recording had been switched on by invisible hands, my own words, spoken weeks before, replayed in my head.

  "If Eddie is willing to risk everything to save his wartime buddy, I should be willing to take necessary risks as well."

  Was this my test? Was I willing to take that risk? Looking at my dogs, I found the answer, but now I needed the approval. It was time to call my boss.

  "JD, this is Terri. Sorry to call you after hours, but do you have a minute?"

  "Sure. What's up?"

  "I came up against another obstacle on Charlie's transport."

  "Well, that's a surprise."

  We spent nearly an hour discussing the options. It was all boiling down to one that left me feeling somewhere between really excited and scared as hell.

  "Are you sure you want to do this?" JD asked. All the kidding had stopped. "It is a war zone."

  Five minutes later I called United Airlines back to book a oneway flight for Charlie and a round-trip ticket for me between Kuwait and Washington, D.C. I then made reservations with Gryphon Airlines and e-mailed Eddie so he could begin to coordinate logistics with SLG.

  All I had to do now was break the news to my family that I'd soon be going to Iraq via Kuwait. My husband, Ken, and I had met in 1989 while responding to the Exxon Valdez oil spill in Alaska. And my daughters, Jennifer, Amy, and Megan, had grown up with a mom whose work involved rescuing animals on short notice during floods, fires, and other natural disasters. My family members had long since learned to live with the demands this kind of career can make. Totally supportive when I had to leave home, sometimes for weeks at a time, they would adopt routine B and enjoy hearing about my adventures when I returned. Even so, I had never traveled to a country at war. For the first time they might say, "Don't go!"

  When I got up the courage to tell them, they were too stunned to say anything at first. I quickly jumped in with assurances that I would be okay, but it took some convincing, particularly with my oldest daughter. Jennifer also worked for SPCA International, so she was more aware of the kind of dangers I might be facing, whereas my other two daughters were still in high school and less cognizant of the world outside America. Ken knew me too well to even try talking me out of it.

  Finally my daughters got down to the nitty-gritty: the most important questions. "What are you going to wear? Do you have to cover your hair? Can you show any skin?" I didn't know the answers, but, thank goodness, John Wagner from Gryphon Airlines did.

  "As long as you don't go wandering down to the beach in a bikini, you'll be safe," he laughed. "Just wear normal clothes, and don't shake hands with a man unless he offers his hand first. Rest assured that Kuwait City has everything-you'll feel like you're at home. They have American restaurants, upscale malls, and they even accept plastic money. What more could you ask for?"

  Charlie patrolling the streets of Baghdad Eddie Watson

  A guarantee that this isgoing to work? I kept that thought to myself.

  Usually when I leave for a disaster, Ken or Jennifer drops me off at the airport, but this time the entire family came and followed me into the airport. After we said our goodbyes, I went through security. When I gathered my stuff again and looked around for one last glimpse of my family, the post 9-11 screens blocked my view, so I took a deep breath, turned back toward the departure gates, and started walking.

  Stephanie, Bev, Jennifer, Barb, and Terri after Charlie's arrival in Washington, D.C. SPCA International

  ohn Wagner had been right. On February 12, 2008, when I exited the plane from Washington, D.C., and made my way down the crowded Middle Eastern airport concourse, the first thing I saw was a McDonald's. I laughed.

  Welcome to Kuwait.

  Military backpacks, muscled arms, shaved heads, and sandcolored boots were dead giveaways that the majority of passengers exiting my plane were probably contractors whose final destination was Iraq. The farther into the terminal I walked, the more they dispersed, and the crowd went through a gradual transformation.

  Gritty sounds ofArabic chatter began to fill the air. Dark-skinned men wore floor-length, brown or white long-sleeved shirts, perhaps better described as robes. (I later learned that the long shirt is called a disha-dasha.) White cotton fabric in red-stitched patterns covered their heads and draped down their backs just past their shoulders. These were held in place with a circular cord crown. Black-robed and veiled female figures also walked gracefully by, some wearing burkas, with only their dark eyes exposed. It was hard not to stare. A cluster of identically shrouded women walked toward me. How could they distinguish one from another?

  John had recommended the Safir Transit Hotel, located on airport property, for my overnight stay. Relieved that signs throughout the airport were written in English as well as Arabic, I found my way to the hotel shuttle. When we pulled up in front of the hotel, I was taken aback by its nondescript appearance. Boy, would Martha Stewart like to get her hands on this place!

  I had lost track of how long it had been since I'd Slept; I hadn't even napped on the plane, despite being in the air for fourteen hours. As long as there was a bed in my room, I'd be
happy. Walking down a dimly lit, second-floor corridor, I found the door that opened into my compact sleeping quarters. A twin bed with a gaudy floral bedspread hugged one wall, and a small, outdated TV perched on a rickety wooden table in the corner. One fluorescent light bulb hummed from its wall fixture. Gray light flickered across the hills and valleys of a well-worn carpet that landscaped the floor in various shades of red. Checking the bathroom, I found a shower and was relieved to see a modern toilet rather than a hole in the floor, a common option I had been warned about. I collapsed onto the bed, tour over. What now?

  Grabbing my phone, I called home, and my oldest daughter, Jennifer, answered.

  "I'm here! I made it!"

  "I cannot believe you're actually in Kuwait. Tell me what it's like; I want to hear everything."

  Her voice was so clear, as if she were just on the other side of town. Pushing aside the heavy floral curtain from a narrow, dustcovered window, I began to describe the scene outside.

  "Well, I'm definitely not in Kansas, but there are similarities. It's flat for as far as I can see. The buildings, cars, and pavement are all covered in sand, almost like a thin dusting of snow. There's no green anywhere. Even the leaves on the trees are tan with dust."

  "What about the people?"

  "They're not dusty."

  "Oh, Mom," she laughed, "tell me, what are they like?"

  "In one word? Extraordinary. I've never seen so many types of traditional clothing, and the faces ... some revealing years of struggle and making you wonder, `what's their story?' Then there's the blending of sounds and languages that I can't understand . . . it's like a parade of cultures from all over the globe. People are meeting and passing, going to homes and lifestyles totally different from ours. Oh, Jennifer, it feels amazing. This euphoria keeps washing over me-I'm actually here in the Middle East-and I want to run outside and immerse myself in it."

  "Just be careful, Mom. Don't immerse too much. We want you back again."

  In spite of my exhaustion, I didn't sleep well that night. I was too excited to close my eyes; the anticipation of the next day's adventure kept me rooted at my window, where I spent much of the night gazing at my limited view of Kuwait.

  After a breakfast of cucumbers, tomatoes, olives, feta cheese, and flat bread, I returned to my claustrophobic room with seven hours to kill. I was tempted to go back to the airport and get a visa so I could see more of Kuwait but decided to play it safe. I didn't want to risk missing my flight if something were to go wrong.

  Meanwhile I was bored. Nothing held my attention. I turned on the TV only to find the movie My Best Friend's Wedding playing in Arabic. I tried writing but couldn't concentrate. What really drove me crazy was not being able to communicate with Eddie and the security team. Without Internet or a way to phone them, I had no clue if Charlie had even been picked up.

  Only six hours togo...

  Five hours and twenty-two minutes ...

  Four hours, ten minutes....

  Finally it was time to return to the terminal! Once again the shuttle and signs were my allies, guiding me to the Gryphon passenger check-in counter. When I spotted "Baghdad" on the departure board, the realization hit me full throttle. I was about to fly into a country at war.

  As I greeted the agent and gave him my passport, my hand was trembling from excitement.

  "I need your DOD CAC, please."

  "My what? I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "You need a Department of Defense Common Access Card in order to enter Iraq."

  "I won't be staying in Iraq," I said, trying not to panic. "I'm only flying to the airport to pick up a dog, and then I'm coming right back. I won't even be getting off the plane."

  "Oh, you're the Dog Lady!" His reassuring smile washed over me. "I heard you'd be flying with us tonight. Glad to have you aboard."

  Promoted from a regular passenger to an expected VIP with the title "Dog Lady," I took my briefcase and my new status, proceeded to the gate, and settled on the plane.

  The flight attendant had just finished demonstrating the usual safety procedures with seat belt, oxygen, and flotation device. This routine was one I could deliver myself, having seen it at least a hundred times on journeys to and from major disasters.

  "When we begin our descent over Baghdad ..

  I gazed out the window.

  "... in order to avoid detection from unfriendly forces on the ground ..."

  Now the flight attendant had my undivided attention.

  "... we will turn off all interior and exterior lights."

  The next announcement was one I had never heard on any flight I'd ever taken.

  "As we enter Baghdad airspace, we will remain at eighteen thousand feet, beyond the range of weapons. Once we are immediately above the airport, the aircraft will begin a corkscrew landing, which involves flying a tight circle while making a steep descent. During the landing approach, which should take approximately ten minutes, all passengers must remain in their seats with belts securely fastened."

  As I visualized our plane descending the equivalent of a spiral staircase, I double-checked the tightness of my seatbelt and threw in a short prayer as an added precaution against surface-to-air missiles. "Please, God, if they shoot, let them miss."

  As I leaned back against the seat, the thrust of engines lifted us into the sky. It suddenly hit me-I was less than an hour away from meeting Charlie. I imagined that Eddie must be sweating bullets by now. If only he could sense that in the darkness of the star-filled sky above the desert, our souls were meeting somehow and wrapping a protective shield around his beloved dog.

  About fifty minutes into the flight, all the lights went out. Even the illuminated "No Smoking" and "Fasten Seatbelts" signs vanished in the dark. The sensation of flying in a pitch-black cabin reminded me of an amusement park ride. I nearly started to giggle, but when the corkscrew descent began, I knew this was no laughing matter.

  Only a few hundred feet down I could see what looked like a long stretch of tarmac. Seemingly out of nowhere, a white truck with mounted red lights appeared from the right. It was racing at an angle toward our runway and pointed in the same direction we were going.

  Was it planning to attack the plane? Surely this wasn't a suicide bomber. If not, what was the vehicle doing? The truck passed my window and disappeared from view as we came ever closer to the ground. My heart began pounding in anticipation of the impact.

  Suddenly the plane's spinning wheels hit the runway . . . ka thump, thump! As the reversed engines roared, my body was thrust forward, and the seatbelt strained against me. Tension easing, we slowed until we reached the end of the landing strip, then turned and taxied back past the infamous terminal originally named for Saddam Hussein. In the almost complete darkness, Baghdad International Airport appeared like a ghost of its former self. What a creepy sight.

  The plane seemed to take forever as it taxied first in one direction and then another. When we made a sharp right turn, I caught a glimpse of the white truck that we now seemed to be following.

  Oh, so he's notgoing to blow us up.

  Finally we came to a row of hangars, where the aircraft slowed to a stop. The idling engines of a C-17 transport aircraft created a deafening roar outside my window. In the semidarkness, military vehicles circled the monster aircraft as they went about the business of moving pallets, equipment, and other paraphernalia of war.

  A wide ramp at the back of the monstrous plane was the stage for a striking scene. Two lines of uniformed soldiers walked single file, up and down the ramp; as one line entered the plane, the other marched out. Side by side, soldiers passed each other in the dark. The strange exchange left one group marching into war and possible death or injury while the other, having survived, was going home. Heavy rucksacks covered their backs; camouflaged helmets and flak jackets protected their heads and bodies, and their arms bore M16 rifles that were held ready to shoot if trouble began. For the first time in my life, war was as close as my window.
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br />   A huge, imposing man, wearing a beige SLG security uniform, boarded our plane and spoke to the passengers over the PA system. "In order to get all passengers processed, please stay in your seats and have your DOD CACs ready for checking. We will then clear passengers to deplane."

  "I don't have an access card," I said when he reached my seat. "I'm just here to pick up a dog and return to Kuwait."

  "Oh, you're here for Charlie," he said with a friendly grin. "He's all ready, so you may as well go and meet him." The man stepped out of the aisle and motioned for me to pass.

  When I got to the front of the cabin, I stopped in the open doorway, remembering the instructions given at Kuwait that I must not exit the plane.

  Its so dark. Where are they?

  As if watching a movie with special effects where objects fade in and out, the figures I was seeking magically appeared into the dimly lit area below the plane. Four well-built men walked toward me, each one grasping a corner of the large crate that was cradled between them.

  Its Charlie. There he is. Oh, my God, it's him .. .

  I poked my head farther out the door and quickly scanned each side of the stairs to make sure no guns were pointed in my direction. Breaking the rule, I descended the stairs and stood on Iraqi soil, something I never imagined I'd be doing.

  Shaking hands amidst hurried introductions and roaring engines, I was unable to catch the names of the SLG guys, but I'll never forget their kind faces. Formalities aside, I squatted down to look at the guy I had flown almost seven thousand miles to save.

 

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