War Dogs

by Rebecca Frankel

  Ron Aiello, the Marine handler who served in Vietnam with his scout dog Stormy, remembers how the canine program was dismantled after the war. First they got rid of the Marine Corps scout dogs, the mine dogs, and the booby trap dogs. Then the Army got rid of its tracker dogs. All their combat readiness disappeared. He knew then it was a mistake.

  After 9/11 happened and the Iraq war began, Aiello watched the news reports on television, and saw military dogs working checkpoints or sniffing cars as they crossed gates. It infuriated him. He found himself shouting at the television set: “Have them out on patrol! Use them for IEDs!” But he knew the dogs weren’t trained for that kind of work because building up those kinds of programs again from scratch would have taken years.

  There are many parallels to draw between the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and that in Vietnam: the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan have not been popular ones, and there is a rush to push our military’s attention elsewhere. As the United States closes shop on two wars, the urgent need for dogs is already depleting and will likely continue to lessen over time.

  In response, the military working dog program is already downsizing its combat-ready dogs accordingly. All branches of the military are seeing budgetary cuts. The programs that produced the “Dog Surge” of the mid-2000s—the Marine Corps’ Improvised Explosive Detector Dogs and the Army’s Tactical Explosive Detection Dogs—have already reduced their numbers and will certainly be disbanded. The need for dogs has not been extinguished, but it is no longer urgent now that the United States has withdrawn from Iraq and is preparing to withdraw its troops from Afghanistan. As one of his final acts as program manager at Lackland before retiring, Sean Lulofs was ordered to investigate cutting the program by one-third. In fact, he found a way to cut it in half.

  There’s no way that what happened in 1975 would happen now. The United States military will never again leave its dogs behind as they did in Vietnam. This is in part because of the government’s interest in monitoring the dogs’ exit from the military, manifested in the Robby Law, which mandated diligent record-keeping and turned a watchful eye on how the dogs leave service, but also because there is simply too much public visibility for such gross neglect to exist on such a grand scale. But just how far the programs will diminish, and whether or not war dog lessons of the past, which is to say our present, will be remembered, remains to be seen.

  Aiello sees the changes happening today—the troop drawdown, the program cuts, and the thinning of dog teams—and he sees the heavy curtain of past mistakes dropping again.

  But what is far more likely to make an impact than a tally of numbers at the end of the war are the efforts and living memories of handlers—like Aiello—who, after their tours of duty ended, became the watchmen of the next generation of dogs, handlers, and war. They are the ones now building memorials and keeping track of the handlers and dogs killed in action. Their memory is institutional and it is long. And just like Aiello and his handler buddies from Vietnam followed in the footsteps of the World War II handlers, so too will the war dog handlers of Iraq and Afghanistan.

  When, in 2010, Gunnery Sergeant Justin Harding was with his team of IEDD handlers and dogs in Afghanistan, they made a stop at Camp Dwyer, one of the Marine Corps’ largest military bases in the country, so the handlers could bring their dogs to the veterinarians there.8 While they were waiting on base, their dogs with them, a lance corporal they didn’t know approached the handlers. This Marine had been with a unit in Marjah where the fighting had been especially fierce. This young man had returned to Dwyer looking battle shocked and worn, and Harding could tell that he’d seen hell. The grief-stricken Marine had just lost some of his friends, but he wanted to thank the handlers and their dogs. “You guys are the shit,” he told them. “You know, you saved our lives and I’m sure not all of you will come back.”

  Harding’s infantry handlers, who hadn’t yet been out on patrol, didn’t know how to respond. But for Harding, that singular interaction summed up his entire wartime experience: from getting hit with IEDs, to losing so many of his friends, to trying to help protect the younger generation of Marines, to fighting against higher-ups who denied the dogs the legitimacy he believes they deserved.

  Harding will never forget watching that young Marine, who was battered and damaged and already showing signs of the scars he’d likely carry for a lifetime, walk up to the handlers with tears in his eyes and reach out to shake their hands. In that moment he was overcome with the certainty that being in Afghanistan with the dogs was the right thing—the best thing he could have done to save lives in this war.

  Ten

  Home Again, Home Again

  My little dog—a heartbeat at my feet.

  —Edith Wharton

  The good Lord in his ultimate wisdom gave us three things to make life bearable, hope, jokes and dogs, but the greatest of these was dogs.

  —Robyn Davidson

  Marine Corporal Eric Roethler was back at Camp Lejeune, back in North Carolina, back from Afghanistan.

  He’d just gotten called into the head shed where the staff had their offices. They wanted to talk to him about taking on a new dog, the dog he’d take downrange with him when he went back over. When Roethler heard which dog from the kennel they intended to give him, he was thrilled. “Heck yes,” he told the staff sergeant. “I would love to take him as my dog.” It was a big pat on the back, you could say, being given the responsibility of this dog.

  But as soon as Roethler had the leash in his hands he knew he had a challenge in front of him. He was having a hard time clicking with his new dog. Roethler had just spent his deployment with an eight-year-old German shepherd named Kito who’d already been downrange three times. Their rapport had come naturally, their communication smooth and fluid the whole way through. But this new dog, smart and stubborn, was used to having things go his way. When Roethler would tell the dog to go one way, he would go the other because that’s the way he wanted to do it.

  From the outside it may have seemed liked the 21-year-old Roethler had something to prove—he was working with another seasoned dog, a dog who had proven himself in training, and a dog who had married up well with his last handler. It’s not that Roethler lacked confidence or that he wasn’t ready to trust this dog. Maybe part of the issue was that this dog had been so close with his old handler. Or maybe it was because that dog’s former handler had been Roethler’s corporal in Afghanistan and that corporal hadn’t just been any other Marine—it was Joshua Ashley. And this dog, Sirius, had been Ashley’s dog.

  Roethler had been in Afghanistan with Ashley the summer Ashley was KIA. The night Ashley died, Roethler and another Marine corporal were in the same area of operation, stationed at a MARSOC base in the Helmand Valley. It was the middle of the night and Roethler was gearing up with the Marine corporal for a mission when one of the team chiefs approached them. “Hey, I want to let you guys know that a dog handler got hit,” he said. The chief didn’t know who it was or if that man was alive or dead; he just wanted to let the handlers know that one of their own was down.

  Roethler and his friend didn’t believe it could be any of their guys. The hit had happened in Zombalay, and none of their guys were supposed to be on missions there. But when the chief came back and told them the handler’s initials they started to piece it together. It had to be Ashley.

  Roethler still went out on the mission that night and did his job no better or worse than he would’ve any other night. But there wasn’t a moment that Ashley wasn’t in the back of his mind.

  Before Ashley was killed, Roethler had been able to watch him work Sirius in Afghanistan while they were training with the MARSOC guys. He’d seen what a solid detection dog Sirius was. He could tell what a good team they were.

  But now it was September 2012. Ashley had been killed in action in July. It was time for Sirius to have a new handler. And after about a month
of working with Sirius at the Lejeune kennels, things had improved between Roethler and the dog.

  In January 2013 they traveled together to Yuma Proving Ground for their predeployment training. Some of the same instructors who had coached Ashley through the March class the year before were still there—Sergeant Charlie Hardesty and Staff Sergeant Lee McCoy. It threw them a little to see Sirius come through again, but it was also like they got to have a little piece of Ashley back.

  One afternoon, Roethler and Sirius were running drills in McCoy’s lane, searching the compound’s exterior. This drill was one of McCoy’s specialties; there was nothing for the dog to find here, just a visual plant for the handler. There was no associative odor, so if they were going to find the bomb, it wouldn’t be Sirius’s nose but his handler’s eyes that should catch it. Roethler had his weapon raised and was using the scope on his rifle to scan the area. Sirius was out in front, sniffing and searching the ground. And then, through the lens he spied something glittering in the gravel. And no sooner did he raise his head to take another look and call back his dog than Sirius sat right in the middle of the road, turned his head back, and stared straight at Roethler. The dog turned back again to look in the direction of that shiny material and then looked back again at his handler. Somehow he’d picked up on that IED plant and was letting his handler know there was something up ahead and he didn’t like it.

  McCoy let out a low whistle and turned to Roethler. “That’s a solid dog right there,” he told him. After that day, Roethler felt the difference between him and Sirius. That was the day their bond took root.

  Now when they’re not working Sirius is as gentle as big teddy bear; he only wants to get petted and lay around. But when they’re working he’s still the same hardheaded dog. His stubborn streak is still strong. Just like Ashley was. They were exactly the same way, obstinate and hardheaded, wanting to do everything their own way. But Roethler says, “That is why they were such a good team.” And every time that streak shows in Sirius, Roethler shakes his head, chuckles, and thinks about Ashley. “My first thought,” he says, “is, ‘dammit Josh, you left me with a hardheaded dog.’”

  Marine Corporal Eric Roethler and MWD Sirius wait to board an aircraft aboard a multipurpose amphibious assault ship in March 2014.

  Photo by Specialist 1st Class RJ Stratchko

  Roethler and Sirius are set to head to Afghanistan sometime in 2014. But they’re ready, he says, 100 percent. He doesn’t worry that what happened to Ashley will happen to him. “You can’t live your life in fear,” he says. “You think of the good, forget the bad.” Roethler is almost defiantly proud that he took over Ashley’s dog. And he has put all the faith he has in Sirius, a commitment that he feels the dog has earned. “First thing is trust your dog. You trust your dog, you follow him where he goes. If you don’t trust your dog you need to rethink your situation. You should have total faith to trust and walk behind him.”

  There are some other guys from II-MEF out there in Afghanistan, Beauchamp and Garcia, who were at YPG with Ashley in March 2012. They’re both partnered up with new dogs but they’re out there together, stationed at Camp Leatherneck. Peeler did a tour in Afghanistan with Lex, his tracker dog, and came back. Now he’s an instructor at YPG. Kitts and Mendoza, the instructors running lanes at YPG, left the program when the Air Force pulled their branch out of ISAK in 2012 and started its own predeployment course. The two of them had both gotten assignments at the United States Air Force Academy and had moved out to Colorado. Mendoza had actually joined Chris Jakubin’s team at the Academy’s kennels. Kitts took a job working with cadets and wasn’t working with dogs anymore, at least not as an Air Force handler. Dyngo had already gone and come back from Afghanistan. It was his last deployment. He was back at his old home station in Arizona. He’s getting to be an old dog, ready to retire.

  The way things are looking, Roethler and Sirius might very well be one of the last Marine dog teams to deploy in this war. Then maybe they’ll all be ready to come home again. Some of the animals will work as military police dogs and others will retire from service and just be dogs. Some will even go home with their handlers.

  It was just about six o’clock when Matt Hatala met his mother in the Target parking lot so they could swap cars—he traded her the keys to his diesel truck, a 2006 Chevy, and she handed over the ones that went with the borrowed Pontiac Vibe. When Hatala had realized how much gas it was going to take to drive his truck down to South Carolina, it was his mother who’d called up a car salesman she knew at a local car dealership. The people there had been remarkably supportive of their veterans in Waverly, Iowa, and when he heard what her son was doing and why he needed a vehicle, he’d arranged to get Hatala a car, and for free. Hatala threw his clothes into the hatchback and hugged his mother good-bye. Thirty minutes later he was on his way, with nothing but the June night and open road in front of him. He pushed his foot down and drove about as fast as the little Pontiac Vibe would go.

  His first stop was Peoria, Illinois, to pick up Keegan Albright; he’d also been a dog handler in Afghanistan. They drove through the night until they reached Indianapolis, where they met up with Shea Boland, the Marine who’d been Hatala’s point man during all his patrols in Afghanistan. Pumped up on energy drinks and the buzz of reunion, the guys spent the whole time talking, napping, and driving. The car was filled with metal and country music, laughing and bullshitting. They hadn’t been together since Afghanistan; they’d all gotten caught up in their own lives, but for Hatala, inside the small space of that car, it felt like no time had passed at all. He was back with his brothers and they’d be with him all the way to kennels in South Carolina. They were going to get Chaney.

  After Hatala got back from his tour in Afghanistan, he’d left the Marines. And even though he was home and employed, he was struggling. His job wasn’t what he wanted it to be, things weren’t going the way he planned. But then a couple of weeks ago, he got a call letting him know that his request to adopt the bomb-sniffing dog he’d had with him in Afghanistan had been approved. The news that he could pick up his dog filled him up with a kind of lightness he hadn’t felt in a long time.

  When they finally arrived at the kennels, Hatala just wanted to get his dog. After he filled out all the final paperwork and they waited for someone to bring Chaney out of his kennel, Hatala’s excitement started to twist into a jittery ache. He hadn’t laid eyes on Chaney since September 2011; a gap of nearly two years had gotten between them. In their lull Chaney had been paired up with other handlers and redeployed to Afghanistan. The small worry that his old partner might not remember him started expanding. And then he saw the dog, ambling along with another handler coming toward them. The dog’s eyes seemed to take them in but he didn’t get excited at the sight of his old friends. It was like Chaney couldn’t tell who Hatala was. Though Hatala could hardly blame him—he’d grown a beard, he’d gained a little weight, and he wasn’t wearing his cammies. But then his old partner had changed too. Chaney wasn’t quite the hulking mass of black dog that Hatala had pictured in his mind—he’d lost a bit of weight, and though still a large dog, he didn’t seem quite so big anymore. His paws were white and his beard had grayed.

  Hatala gave a good loud call of “Chaney!” in the dog’s direction. The reaction was immediate. Chaney went nuts, pulling and straining to get to him. Relief flooded him; his dog knew him. In all their time together Chaney had proven himself a mellow and well-mannered dog. The only thing that ever really riled him up was a cat. So when Hatala saw Chaney respond to the sound of his voice, he knew his dog not only remembered him—he was incredibly happy to see him.

  They handed Hatala Chaney’s leash and that was it. He had his dog back. The guys climbed into the car, their mission accomplished. Boland rode in the back with Chaney; they had to fold down the right side of the backseat to fit in his crate, broken down into halves so it resembled a big white bathtub, almost overtaking
the car. Chaney lounged comfortably; when he moved around, his giant head grazed the roof of the car. The four Marines drove back the way they came, all of them finally together in a holy communion of brotherhood. It was bliss for Hatala. The only thing he wished was that their trip had lasted longer than four days.

  When they first got back home to Iowa, Chaney followed his old handler everywhere he went—into one room and then the next—always by his side, just like he did when they were in Afghanistan. Every time Hatala went to the front door Chaney was at his feet, face upward, eyes seeking as if he was asking: “Where we going? Are we working?” But there were no patrols to make in Iowa, no drills to run. There were also different rules. In Afghanistan, Chaney had gotten used to sleeping wherever he wanted, and usually that meant Hatala’s cot and not alone on the square doggie bed on the floor. It took a few weeks for Chaney to settle into being a house dog, but he adjusted. He stopped following Hatala to the door; he got used to being left in the house.

  When the excitement of bringing Chaney home to Iowa faded into something more like normal, Hatala realized just how profound an effect having Chaney back was having on him. He’d been sleeping better since Chaney moved in, he was less stressed—he was somehow more comfortable in his own home.

  There was a while, at first, when having Chaney back felt surreal, like it hadn’t really happened, as if the whole thing had just been a dream. But when he wakes up each morning, Chaney is still there.

  The Rusk family home has always been populated with dogs. From every Christmas going back to when the first of their three sons was born, all the photos of their boys during the holidays have a dog or two crowded into the frame somewhere. Colton was the middle child, a dark-haired little boy with a determined sense of independence. He never needed to be told to do his homework; he always took care of himself. He wanted to be a veterinarian when he grew up. That is, until he decided he wanted to be a Marine. And Colton always did what he set out to do.