Today’s US military strictly prohibits the “adopting as pets or mascots, caring for, or feeding any type of domestic or wild animal” as it is written in General Order No. 1 Regulations issued by the Department of Defense.17 But in the outer reaches of war, where regulations are slackly enforced, dogs and other animals are still taken in. The reasons are the same as they were centuries before: these animals quell the loneliness for home, and their company offers some much needed levity. Sasha, Rufus, and Target are more than just proof of this natural inclination dogs have to protect and defend; they are the latest in a long-standing combat zone legacy. War dog history is built on canines who, though their bravery and solidarity was unsolicited, offered it anyway, becoming the very first canine soldiers.
That was certainly the case in the United States during the Civil War. As early as November 8, 1862, Harper’s Weekly published a dispatch from Fort Monroe, a military outpost located on the Virginia Peninsula that did not fall into the hands of the Confederates. A mastiff, described as having a “jetty blackness” save the “white breast and a dash of white on each of his four paws,” had abandoned his Confederate “rebel”-jailer owner at Front Royal and followed home a band of newly released Union soldiers who had been taken prisoner. Jack, or Union Jack as the paper called him, proved himself worthy by leading the thirsty soldiers to sources of water and when one “sick and exhausted Union soldier was left behind, Jack staid [sic] with him for several hours until a wagon took him up.” During his first cannonball attack, Jack ran toward the shell spray, barking as if he was chasing them down instead of retreating in fear.
Some eight years later, on September 2, 1870, the Iowa State Register ran a story titled “That Patriotic Dog” featuring the exploits of Doc, a dog with dark ears and dark spots, who accompanied the men of the 23rd Iowa Infantry as their mascot on whatever battles and arduous foot marches they endured during the Civil War.18 Doc could be counted on to hunt down the occasional chicken and received no fewer than two war wounds—one to the foot, the other directly to the chest.
On Bastille Day in 1918, American Private Jimmy Donovan picked up a “gutter puppy” in the streets of Paris and brought the shaggy Scottish-Irish terrier to the front with him, calling him Rags. Donovan put Rags to work, training him to run messages pinned to his collar back and forth when incoming shellfire rendered easier communication impossible. In addition to leading medics to wounded soldiers in the field through smog and bullets, it was said the dog would, at the sound of incoming shells, flatten himself to the ground, signaling the danger to anyone around him. Along with the soldiers in Donovan’s infantry unit, the little dog was gassed, and even lost an eye in battle.19 Donovan was eventually fatally wounded, succumbing to mustard gas exposure. After he was injured Donovan’s fellow soldiers made sure Rags traveled home with him, sneaking the dog on his stretcher and through field hospitals until they reached the United States together. Even after Donovan died in 1919, Rags continued to make his visits to the hospital, sleeping on Donovan’s empty bed.20
Military service dogs started to edge their way into the war-front headlines during World War I. In October 1917, Mrs. Euphistone Maitland, secretary of the Blue Cross Society, told the New York Times about the heroics of the dogs in the trenches, their unflappable will to work, and their ability to pick the wounded men from the dead. “They know their men,” she said, “and possess an instinctive love for them.” Each dog, in her mind, had a favorite soldier for whom he showed preference. “Dogs,” she said, “have been known to shield wounded men and so save the lives of the soldiers at the loss of their own.”21
During World War II, the Associated Press sent out a dispatch from Guam island. “War Dogs Make Japs Miserable,” the headline read. The report told of one of the Marine Corps’ trained “battle-hardened devil dogs,” a Doberman named Lucky. After a successful mission of uncovering “10 Jap snipers,” Lucky was “found crouched close to his wounded handler in a gully near a concrete bridge over Asan River. . . . When the marines started to give first-aid to the wounded handler Lucky growled. But he let them work on his master. When the latter died Lucky moved to the side of the body and would not permit any to approach.” The sergeant who finally had to pull the dog away with what the paper described as a “noose” said, “That’s the way these war dogs are—one man dogs.”22
On a December night in 1966, members of the Vietcong infiltrated Tan Son Nhut Air Base just outside Saigon, inciting what would be the biggest skirmish involving US canine teams—one that ultimately claimed the lives of three sentry dogs and one handler.23 While patrolling a cemetery with his dog Nemo just inside the base the following evening, handler Robert Thorneburg, airman 2nd class, was attacked by Vietcong still hiding on the grounds. Thorneburg sent Nemo to give chase and the dog ran off ahead. The sound of shots was quickly followed by the sound of Nemo’s yelps. The dog had taken a bullet to the face, and as the firefight continued, Thorneburg was also hit. Despite his injury, Nemo found his handler and maneuvered himself on top of Thorneburg, guarding him until help came. Nemo lost an eye to that bullet, but both dog and handler survived the attack.24
Forty-five years later, a black Labrador retriever named Eli would shield his young Marine handler, Colton Rusk, in exactly the same way during a firefight with the Taliban.
The two were inseparable. If you’d have glanced over Rusk’s Facebook page in 2010, the first thing you’d have seen was Eli, a big black Lab with honey-colored eyes and a wide pink tongue.25 With another click you could see more photos of Eli and Rusk, an infantry machine gunner, posing with the other Marines in Rusk’s unit in Afghanistan, or sprawled out on Rusk’s army-green cot, two bellies exposed, the air above them a mess of paws and arms. Handler and dog—both at the beginning of their military careers—appeared playful and fresh-faced, dark and handsome.
Rusk and Eli had only been in Afghanistan for a few months when, on December 6, 2010, Rusk was hit by Taliban sniper fire. He fell where he was standing. As the bullets continued to fly, Eli crawled on top of Rusk. When the other Marines rushed to Rusk’s aid, Eli snapped at them, refusing to allow anyone to breach his protection, even biting one of the other men to keep him from touching his handler. The other Marines were able to distract the dog away from Rusk’s body without harm coming to anyone else, but nothing could be done; Private 1st Class Rusk died that same day.26
In a way, military dogs are trained to be brave. They’re exposed to rifle fire, machine gun fire, and the sound of explosions—simulated as well as live fire. They learn to navigate underground tunnels, climb ladders, and even scale walls. “The War Dog,” Lieutenant Colonel E. H. Richardson wrote, “has to have all fear of explosions and firing, smoke clouds, water obstacles etc. eliminated.”27 But he also felt that the behavior in dogs that drove them to exceed even the highest expectations, and, say, cover their handlers’ bodies during an attack, was an impulse of their intrinsic character, and a distinctly canine sensibility. “Apart from this trained courage,” he continued, “we can all recall instances of natural pluck and real bravery in dogs, defending some person, or thing they valued, and believed to be in danger.”28
It was an instinct that Richardson believed an adept handler might pull out of the dog during training, but not one that every dog possessed or even could be trained to feel.
As the sun descended, the desert air began to cool, its temperature no longer resembling the sweltering heat of the afternoon. The June night would be clear, offering good visibility. There was nothing remarkable about the smell of the coming night air, nor the feel of his gear, as Staff Sergeant John Mariana pulled on his Kevlar vest, just as he’d done time and time before. He looked down at Bronco, taking in the top of the dog’s head with its marble rye blacks and browns. The dog looked up, returning his gaze with the dark eyes Mariana had found so reassuring during their eight months in Afghanistan.
Mariana and Bronco had been in-country sinc
e October 2010. The pair had carved out a well-honed pre-mission ritual that Mariana began by giving the eight-year-old Belgian Malinois an IV drip. The fluids would keep Bronco well hydrated while they were out on long missions. When the drip was done, Mariana ran Bronco through a few quick explosive-odor recognition drills—just enough to get the dog clicked into a working mindset. Finally, Mariana took hold of his weapon and sat with Bronco on the ground, waiting together until it was time. It was how they found their meditative calm before the storm of combat.
That night, Mariana and Bronco waited for the mission to begin, along with the Special Forces (SF) team they’d been with since November. Typically, dog teams are not assigned to a single unit for any extended period of time; they operate more like moonlighters, setting out from their main station for short stints on smaller patrol bases (PBs) and joining up with units for mission-specific operations. When a handler and his dog are assigned to work with Special Forces, it’s a trial by fire, and the window for a handler to prove himself and the worth of his dog is only open for a short time.
Mariana looked like a Special Forces guy, tall and brawny, with a sleeve tattoo wrapping the length of his right arm. During the months of their deployment, his dark hair had grown out to match the beard on his face, full and thick as the sound of his New York accent. A thrill seeker, he was up for anything. On their first night with this new team, Mariana and Bronco had uncovered four explosives, three of them IEDs. They’d been with the same SF guys ever since, putting some 80 missions behind them.
Under the cover of dark the team began the first leg of their mission. As usual Mariana and Bronco took the lead, working out in front of the rest of the patrol. Bronco searched ahead off leash. They’d been moving steadily for about an hour and had entered a village. Mariana took off his night vision goggles, as he often did on a night like this one, preferring to let his eyes adjust to the natural dark in case he was forced to rely on his own vision.
When they neared the first objective of their mission, Mariana clipped Bronco back onto the leash at his waist to keep him close. Fully engrossed in his sniffing, Bronco had his head low to the ground. Mariana locked a careful eye on his dog, waiting, watching for the signal that Bronco was on odor. And then suddenly a man was standing just ten feet in front of them, catching Mariana by surprise. He blinked; the man was pointing an AK-47 straight at him.
The command that sent Bronco to attack burst from Mariana in pure reflex, as he popped the leash, freeing the dog from his side. Bronco bolted forward toward their attacker and Mariana raised his flashlight, flooding the man’s face with blinding white light. The dog cleared the short distance between them, catching the man’s upper torso with a strong bite. There was a blur of limbs and fur, but Bronco’s teeth held their grip. The man struggled, fighting off the 65 pounds of dog that’d just attacked him. Then, Mariana saw the barrel of the rifle flash down toward Bronco’s head.
A gunshot rang out, a single round fired. And then everything that had been happening entirely too fast for Mariana to comprehend began to slow, passing before his eyes in freeze frame. Mariana could see the force of the bullet as it hit Bronco; he watched the dog’s head shake in a slow-wrenching wave.
As soon as the ring of the gunshot was over, time caught back up to tempo. There was a rush of movement; the scene around Mariana erupted in chaos. Within moments their attacker was no longer a threat. But Bronco was gone.
Mariana’s mind raced. Bronco had run off, somewhere, but whether in pain or fear he couldn’t be sure. He was certain Bronco had just taken a bullet to the head. There was blood splashed on the ground, and along with another soldier, Mariana rushed to follow its dark-spotted trail. His heart thudded, adrenaline pulsing through his muscles, ramping up, building into panic.
They moved quickly, Mariana calling out for Bronco—there was no need to keep quiet now. After a few yards the trail started to thin, becoming more difficult to see. If Bronco was still alive, his wound would likely be hemorrhaging blood. There’d be no way the dog could survive it. Then, about 100 meters out, the two men rounded the corner of a building and there was Bronco, sitting quiet and still. He was covered in blood but sitting all the same, waiting for his handler as if it’d been the plan to rally at this safe spot all along. Mariana flew to him, inspecting the wound. Bronco had been hit in the face: the bullet had entered on the left side of his mouth, going straight through, virtually dissolving the right side of the dog’s muzzle, shattering the bone in the front part of his nose, and fracturing teeth along his upper jaw.29
They called in a medevac. Mariana pressed gauze to the wound, each cloth too quickly absorbing the blood. The passing bullet had done something to obstruct the dog’s nasal passages and Bronco was having trouble taking in breath. He began to sneeze over and over, and with every sneeze came a new spray of blood as the force of air burst the clot that had just congealed. Though Mariana did his best to stop the bleeding around the wound, he realized there was little he could do. Bronco needed to breathe through his wound; covering it would suffocate him. Mariana could only mop up the blood.
After more than a few minutes of this, Bronco slumped to the ground, sprawling over on his side. Mariana’s heart stopped. He stared hard into the dog’s eyes, and then a terrible kind of relief washed over Mariana as he realized Bronco hadn’t just bled out in front of him—he’d rolled over to offer his belly up for a scratch. He exhaled, marveling at the strength of his dog. “You little shit,” he told him. “Don’t do that.”
But the lifted feeling was only temporary and guilt soon took hold. He pulled Bronco into his arms and leaned down over the dog’s ear. “I’m sorry, buddy,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.” With one hand he massaged the inside of Bronco’s ear, the way the dog liked it, trying to soothe and comfort him, reassuring him that he was safe. “If we make it through this,” Mariana whispered, “if we make it home, I’m going to take care of you.”
It seemed like hours, but within 45 minutes they were in the medevac. As they moved across the sky, Mariana allowed himself for the first time that night to catch his breath. He looked up. The stars were so bountiful and so bright they felt too close, like the lights of some floating aerial metropolis.
By the time they reached Kandahar almost another hour later, the first rays of morning light were showing. The medevac descended, but there wasn’t an ambulance on the ground standing by as promised over the radio. Mariana scanned the area, but there was neither sight nor sound of an approaching engine. No one was waiting for them, and as far as he could see, no one was coming.
“Fuck it,” Mariana said. He wasn’t going to wait. Pulling Bronco from the floor of the helicopter, he hoisted the dog over his shoulders and began the 250-meter stretch from the landing site to the hospital on foot. Bronco rode along uncomplainingly, his furry side pressing heavily into the back of Mariana’s neck. Exhausted, Mariana felt that at best his speed registered no faster than a walk. But in fact he was running with all the strength he had left.
When they reached Kandahar’s main hospital, the staff inside the front door took Bronco and sent him on a stretcher to emergency surgery. However, they refused to let Mariana, who was still wearing his weapon, stay inside. Furious and frantic, he went back outside, pulled off his Kevlar and threw it on the ground. He was forced to wait. He didn’t sleep; he didn’t eat. A friend came to keep him company, bringing cigarettes. Though he rarely smoked, Mariana burned through almost the entire pack. Nothing helped.
Five hours later, the doctors finally delivered a groggy Bronco from surgery. Bronco was in stable condition and the prognosis was positive. Still, they could only do so much for a dog at the human hospital; they were going to transport Mariana and Bronco from Kandahar back to Bagram, one of the largest US bases in Afghanistan, where the veterinary technicians were stationed. Mariana asked for some blankets and set up a bed on the floor. Bronco’s nose was so swollen that he was b
arely able to breathe. Mariana lay on the floor with him, taking the dog’s head onto his chest, so he could hold the dog’s mouth open.
When they finally got back to Bagram, Mariana was still wearing his bloodied clothes. He’d left everything of his own behind. The only things he had carried out of that night mission—gauze, IVs, toys, water—had been for Bronco.
In the two weeks that followed, Bronco underwent two additional reconstructive surgeries while in Afghanistan in an attempt to repair the damage. Sections of his nose had to be removed and replaced.
While they were in Bagram, Mariana never left Bronco’s side, listening to his shifting, choppy breathing, always with one hand on the dog’s mouth to keep the airway open. But even that wasn’t enough, and within a few weeks Bronco and Mariana were sent back to the States, to the hospital at Lackland Air Force Base for more surgery. Soon after they returned from Afghanistan, the pair was separated.
The time apart from the dog that had saved his life wore on him, and Mariana dealt with it terribly. He was tormented with thoughts of bad, wicked things. It didn’t matter that he was back at his home station and back with his family or that his wife was about to have a baby; he wanted to be with Bronco. Mariana was losing sight of himself.
It would be a long time before Mariana would see Bronco again. The dog wasn’t able to do detection work anymore and would be retiring from service. Mariana had to fight to get the dog back, and even with the support of higher-ups, it wasn’t easy—the battle spanned five long months. On the day they were reunited, the effect was instantaneous: Mariana felt the weight break and fall away like the cracking of a glacial crust of ice. He saw Bronco in the kennel and grabbed his dog, crying freely. In his joyful frenzy at seeing his handler, Bronco’s nose, which would never be quite the same again, whistled like a teakettle.
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