From Baghdad To America (2 page)

“War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse.”

—JOHN STUART MILL

Why
a dog?”
I was asked this question a lot after my
first book,
From Baghdad, With Love,
was published. Reporters wanted to know why I put so much time and energy into bringing a puppy back to the States from wartime Iraq.
Why the hell not?
I always responded in my mind.
What were you doing for the effort—besides criticizing the administration and the war? At least I saved something from that place.

The obvious point of such a question was that I should have been spending my time focused on saving something bigger—say, the lives of the people of Iraq. Not that I didn't try, but war doesn't play out in black-and-white like that. Besides, Lava needed me—needed all of us involved in his rescue—and never hesitated to remind me of that. Consider: On some level, saving the life of my dog saved me—and all those he touched—psychologically and emotionally, and continues to do so.

That's Lava for you. My scruffy little pup rescued from certain death in a war that he did not choose to be a part of, Operation Iraqi Freedom, and specifically the battle of Fallujah in November 2004. If what you're about to read sounds similar to, but not exactly like, any previous version of Lava's discovery and rescue, it's because it's not exactly like the previous version you've heard. Remember that game called Telephone? You know, the one you play a few years after you've mastered Ring Around the Rosie but before you get to Spin the Bottle? Where you tell someone something, then they tell the next person, and so on until finally the story coming out the other end is nothing like the original. Wartime engenders this phenomenon fairly often, because when we're not fighting or training, we're talking, telling stories. So that's pretty much what happened when the Lava rescue story started zipping around not only Iraq, but the United States as well.

From Baghdad, With Love
included what I thought was an accurate recounting of the “canine rescue mission,” as related to me by a Marine who'd told me he was closely involved. He'd been with the Lava Dogs—1
^st
Battalion, 3
^rd
Marines—in Iraq while they were clearing a house that would later become the battalion's command post in Fallujah. The way he told it, they heard a noise that sounded like ticking and crept up on it, not sure what to expect. Turned out to be a puppy wagging his tail in an empty room. But then I heard from Forrest Baker, a former U.S. Marine corporal and also a Lava Dog. He wrote me after reading my book, and lo and behold, the story this time was just a tad different. I wasn't surprised, since in this version Lava played a far more active role in his rescue by making his presence known. The Marines didn't just hear the sound of a tail thumping; no, they heard something a lot more insistent as Lava forced his way into being saved with his insane signature bark.

In a nutshell: This tiny puppy, who'd somehow ended up trapped in a fifty-five-gallon barrel, was making enough noise in the middle of a firefight not only to be heard but to let everyone know the troops' position, too. Forrest risked life and limb to get the dog, then brought him back to the safety of the house that would serve as their home for over a month and a half. And Lava's, despite the fact that it was a clear violation of General Order 1-A, Prohibited Activities for U.S. Department of Defense Personnel Present Within the United States Central Command (USCENTCOM) AOR, Title 10, United States Code, Section 164(c) and the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ), Title 10, United States Code, Sections 801-940, which somewhere down the line stated in no uncertain terms that “adopting as pets or mascots, caring for, or feeding any type of domestic or wild animal” was 100%
prohibited
. As in, “No pet dog for you, Soldier.” Why? Because “the high operational tempo combined with often hazardous duty faced by U.S. forces in the region makes it prudent to restrict certain activities in order to maintain good order and discipline and ensure readiness.” Be that as it may, the Lava Dogs named their pup and fell in love.

In case you've forgotten, let me take you back in time to November 2004, when this occurred . . .

The war in Iraq is still relatively new and the American public still holds out hope that what's billed as a war against al-Qaeda and the terrorist insurgency, and a fight to create a free and democratic Iraq, can be won (by the way,
it can,
but no one from the Pentagon is calling to ask my advice). The insurgency has placed a stranglehold on the city of Fallujah, a bad-guy bastion in the dreaded Iraqi Sunni Triangle. U.S. forces, predominantly Marines and soldiers, are preparing to invade the city considered by many reporters to be the most dangerous place on earth. We're going to assault Fallujah and rid it of the “thugs, mugs, and murderers” holding it and its people hostage, according to I Marine Expeditionary Force (I MEF) commanding general John Sattler.

Now imagine your nineteen-year-old son or brother or husband fighting for his life in what is the worst urban combat the Marines have experienced since the battle of Hue City in Vietnam more than three decades ago. And here, amid all the carnage—the beheaded bodies and the bloated, rotting, and charred corpses of what were once human beings—a group of kids, in the middle of an intense firefight, find a quivering bundle of fur. He is hope and life; he is a reminder of all that is good, of their former lives, of innocence lost. Lava becomes a link to everything that was once normal for the young combatants. War is possibly the most unnatural state in which you can find yourself, and Lava will alleviate this pain for you every single day.

He's a feral mutt with a shepherd-y thing going on. All furry face and raccoon eyes and a tail that never stops moving even when he's scarfing down the tidbits you've offered him from your own meal. Squint hard enough and he looks just like the dog you left at home, the dog waiting for you to return. In short, when we first find him, Lava is a tiny case of nerves and bravado. Warm, fits easily on your lap, grateful for any bit of love he gets and quick to return it.

In case of nervous breakdown, just pet him or throw a stick and watch him go. In those precious few moments of pure unbounded “puppiness” (Is that a word? It is now.), you're suddenly removed from your surroundings, as though you're Captain Kirk or Mister Spock and you've been beamed aboard the
Enterprise
only seconds before you become so much space dust because a Klingon has just pulverized your mortal soul with his laser gun.

Being with Lava can whisk you to that place you remember from your childhood. Picture this: Your puppy, oblivious to everything except your howls of delight, chases you, nipping at your heels when he can manage not to trip over his own hugely disproportionate paws that still somehow propel him after you in a tireless game of Chase Or Be Chased. Lava reminds the Marines that there's a reason for being—for staying alive—even if it's just for a few more minutes in an interminable day filled with the interminable nightmares of war.

I ask them what they want to do with the dog, what they expect will happen to him. I explain to them (as if they need to hear this bullshit yet again from yet another uptight officer) that keeping him is against the rules and they shouldn't become too attached to the little troublemaker because in all likelihood he isn't long for this life. How dare I utter such blasphemy in the presence of these not-so-long-ago innocents? How can I not? These kids need a dose of reality, and damned if I'm not the one to give it to them.

The young devil dogs tell me—with complete sincerity and total naïveté—that they want Lava to go home with them. He'll live in Hawaii the rest of his days, chasing turtles and lizards or whatever fauna roam those volcanic islands we call paradise. They want him to sail with them on U.S. Navy ships to Okinawa and then fly with them to their base in Kaneohe Bay.
You gotta be shitting me!
There's about as much chance of this happening as there is of us actually winning the war in Iraq as planned by former Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld and former CENTCOM Commander Tommy Franks. But all I say is “Okay” and walk away.

Who am I to rain on their parade? Is it really my job to ruin their dreams of Lava living in doggy nirvana? Is that too cynical? I prefer to be called a realist. Dogs are not pets in Iraq. They're not adopted and cared for and put to bed on cozy doggy cushions from L.L. Bean. They are used for protecting property and shepherding flocks. They don't sleep on the bed with the kids or curl up on the floor at your feet while you drink a beer and watch
SportsCenter
. In Fallujah, in the end, they survive on the remains of the dead, only to be shot by us when they supposedly become a threat to our safety—a threat because we'll begin to care, to feel again, to be attached to a living thing who might compromise our ability to function as the cold-blooded, efficient terrorist hunter-killers that we have all trained hard to become. That we
have
become.

Still. I awaken one morning to find my feet don't quite go all the way down to the bottom of my sleeping bag.
What the hell?
I've heard the stories and seen the supposedly unretouched photos of alien-like camel spiders, and am immediately convinced that my superiors—who've grown tired of telling me to get a haircut and to shave—have finally found a way to off me without leaving evidence. Think about it: death by camel spider? It can't be better planned. Then the thing moves. It moves some more, and is now crawling its way toward my face. I lie still and don't breathe. Maybe if I act dead it won't bother to kill me again.
Shit, here it comes.
It's nearly on my face. I'm gonna die right here in a sleeping bag in Fallujah. How inglorious. What, I can't go out in a mortar attack or be shot by a sniper like a real Marine?

As I lie there thinking of all the things I should have done in life, and quite a few that I shouldn't have, I realize that the creature has broken the surface of my sleeping bag and is now . . . licking me? The hell? It seems that in the middle of the night, Lava found a way to crawl into my bag looking for a warm spot to sleep. How he survived the noxious fumes both he and I produce from the MREs (“Meal, Ready-to-Eat”: a full ration self-contained in a flexible packet) that are the only thing on the menu here—and the beef jerky that I eat all too willingly—is anyone's guess. But at this moment I achieve utter clarity in what I need to do:
Save Lava!
Like Forrest Gump running back into the jungle in Vietnam to save Bubba, I am struck with a clarity of purpose and mission, of what needs to be done. It
must
be done. Not just for the Marines, not just for me, not just for Lava. And not because it'll make me feel all warm and fuzzy about myself. I have to save him because it's the right thing to do.

Later that same day I talk to the Marines who've been Lava's primary caregivers. I tell them I've come to a decision about Lava and what we should do with him. They reiterate their desire to have him come to Hawaii, but I explain the impossibility of that. The presence of a dog on a ship from Kuwait to Okinawa will be difficult, at best, to keep secret; he won't exactly be a welcome passenger on the flight from Okinawa to Hawaii (will he sit on the XO's lap?); and Hawaii, lest anyone forget, has some of the strictest animal quarantine regulations in the world. Not to mention, how do you explain to U.S. Customs the presence of an undocumented, unvaccinated animal upon landing at Kaneohe Bay? Uh, sorry, Mister Customs Man, but we just had to save this dog from Iraq, and now he's our official mascot, so you can't confiscate and euthanize him.
Yeah, right.
So here's how it's gonna go, fellas.