From Baghdad To America (8 page)

When it's all said and done—the bullets and RPGs have subsided, you've taken a head count, and you have a moment to reflect on those dead and wounded, as well as the events of which you just seconds earlier were a part—that's when the realization sets in that but for the grace of God, that poor sonofabitch in the body bag could be you. The fear is that you've got to do it all over again, and each time out could be your last. How many times can you be only inches from death? What are the odds that you'll come away unscathed next time? I think the percentages must diminish exponentially with each firefight, each patrol. The level of fear doesn't change, but how you respond to it emotionally—after the adrenaline has drained away—does.

Lava continues to achieve the same level of ferociousness every time someone rings the doorbell, but after surviving time and again he must feel a sense of pride—a sense of accomplishment—as the person backs away from the door. He keeps on going. I like that he's so consistent, like a cuddly mascot version of a US Marine. He keeps moving. Honor, obligation, and duty keep him, keep all of us, moving.

“Some people spend an entire lifetime wondering if they made a difference in the world. The Marines don't have that problem.”

—RONALD REAGAN

Once you make it through the soul-crushing,
backbreaking days of training to be a Marine, you are handed your mind back should you wish to use it. You are taught to do everything a certain way, to think in terms of your team at all times, to become the honor, courage, and commitment you've learned, but with a sense of individuality, that sometimes means you admit fear or break rules. Ironically, most people think that Marines don't think for themselves; the Marine Corps actually reminds all of us of that in the code we know by heart. In reality, the Corps doesn't want automata, robots without higher intelligence who would just play Follow-the-Leader like lambs to the slaughter or lemmings to the sea. If that's your idea of leadership, join the army. No, Mother Corps believes not only that every Marine is a rifleman, but that every Marine is capable of being an effective leader. And to lead effectively, especially when the shit has truly hit the fan, you must be able to improvise, adapt, and overcome. Let's see R2-D2 do that shit.

There is room for fear in bravery. But if you rely on your training, then you have the tools to accept and overcome that fear in the face of the worst and most improbable odds. Consider this government description of Marines:

Lava doesn't have that training. But you better believe he's got
character
. He was brave as hell and continued to impress me with his will to survive. I knew he was terrified from the moment he laid eyes on the U.S. Marines right up until the moment he got on that plane headed for America. He knew fear the night I first encountered him at the Lava Dog command post in Fallujah when, without thinking, I kicked and sent him flying across the floor after he chewed on my bootlaces. I could see it in his eyes as clear as day. Yet he mustered as much courage as five pounds of flea-bitten mongrel possibly can and charged right back at me, full of himself and his puppy's toughness.

That's what we're taught after all, isn't it? To muster up our courage in the face of adversity. To not let fear get the best of us. Combatants live in constant fear, yet we don't—won't/can't/for fear of ridicule/all of the above—admit it. The irony is stunning. Instead, we put on displays of courage, which is merely the ability to confront and overcome our fears. Yes, there are truly brave people in the world, but I don't count myself among them. I have convictions, and the courage of my convictions allows me to overcome my fears and act in a courageous manner without making a complete fool of myself in combat. Why, it's not manly to be afraid.
Big boys don't cry,
we're told. I'm here to tell you that's
bullshit
!

I'm worried about my fellow veterans. I'm concerned that most of the men I fought alongside are afraid to reveal their weaknesses. Even the Department of Defense Task Force on mental health is concerned, declaring in 2007,

A war like Iraq is bound to have repercussions. Is it a lack of courage to admit you don't like wiping another man's brains from your boots? Is your commitment failing when you decline to attend a talk about mental health and choose instead to hit the local tavern with the hot girl you dated in high school? We're taught to care as much about our pack—actually more about the well-being of the group—than of ourselves. The Warrior Elite are fighting individual wars these days; from desolate, backwater towns across the Midwest to anonymous cities across the country, men and women are alone and unwilling to talk about it. I can understand that.

I admit I had plenty of fear, and it wasn't just my fear of failing the Marines to whom I'd promised Lava would have a home in the United States. It became a more specific fear of failing Lava. After all, I'd:

1. Removed him from the city of Fallujah. (What if I'd left him there to suffer the same fate as so many other stray and feral dogs and cats?)
   
2. Brought him to Camp Fallujah, the Marine base located seven kilometers outside the city. (What would happen if there was no one to care for him?)
   
3. Left him in the hands of the commanding general's personal security detail, entrusting them with his life. (Would the DoD contractors charged with ridding the bases of unwanted and nonmilitary animals get him before the Marines could spirit him away?)
   
4. Arranged his transfer from Camp Fallujah to Baghdad, where he would live with Anne Garrels at the NPR compound. (What if the Marines encountered the enemy during their trip to Baghdad and had to abandon Lava?)
   
5. Attempted “exfiltration” via the Jordanian border in the back of a courier's Suburban. (What if the driver, who was so terrified of Lava, decided it would be easier just to abandon him at the side of the road and collect his money, claiming the Jordanians had confiscated and killed the mongrel?)
   
6. Left Iraq at the end of my tour without Lava, who remained in Baghdad, his fate uncertain. (Would he ever end up in the United States? Would the people caring for him get tired of helping him?)
   

Why did I have so much fear and angst over the fate of one stupid dog? I mean, he was just a dog, and I was in clear violation of the rules even giving this mutt one MRE, much less trying to arrange his safe passage to America. Was it that I actually thought I had a chance of saving him? That while I clearly wasn't going to save every man, woman, and child in that godforsaken land, I was damn well going to keep my promise to my men and to this dog because
I thought I actually could
?

Yeah, that sounds about right. Not only that, but I figured at that point in the war, Lava was far more likely to take advantage of being saved than any of the Iraqis I'd met. That first time Lava crawled into my bag with me, and I held him as he looked at me with those raccoon eyes and licked my face—then and there he had me. If
I
didn't know then that I'd be doing all I could to save him, I think Lava somehow did.

Lava won my heart and mind. He was now an important part of my life, not just for what he symbolized—the heart and soul, the humanity of all of us on this earth, Iraqi, American, everyone—but for what he'd come to mean to me and for the pure joy and escape he provided me during those fleeting moments we had together. The Iraqis had not fallen in love with us; they didn't even seem to want us there most of the time. Lava was different. He was always as happy to see me as I was to see him.

I think I talk about my emotions now because Lava has shown me that part of my
personal integrity
is to be true to those feelings. They exist. Fear exists. Anger is there. Sadness. Yes. His friendship and the love of my family help alleviate the intensity, but it's all there under the surface. I'm working to make sure there's some release from time to time. Part of that is simply allowing myself to have my feelings. The Marine Corps may have turned me into an efficient killing machine, but it didn't take my heart.

Or my dog.

I never experienced a panic attack or passed out in fear. No, I never crapped myself, despite the quiet glee with which people ask me that question. In his classic Vietnam book,
Dispatches,
Michael Herr nails the scene of the curious outsider asking his curiosity-killed-the-cat questions to a bunch of grunts:

No, there weren't physical symptoms for me, but you bet my mind raced before combat. The imminent danger of an IED, enemy mortar, or sniper ending my life in some horribly painful manner, my limbs being torn from my body, or my head evaporating in an explosive spray of the proverbial pink mist, haunted me. I'd never get to see the ocean again, or to surf, or to have a cigar with my best friend, Eric. Fear of coming back with missing limbs—who would love me like that? Fury that it might happen to me. Sadness at the thought of the pain my parents would suffer if I didn't make it back. My jaw tenses just thinking of what might have happened to Lava after I left him with the CG's PSD Marines the night I flew to Balad, and then again the night I left for the Syrian border.

I didn't have control over whether Lava lived or died. I couldn't physically protect him or save him. I couldn't handle that. You see, I have what psychologists call a Type A personality (my wife calls it a Type A personality
disorder
) and am thus prone to being impatient, excessively time-conscious, insecure about my status, highly competitive, hostile, aggressive, and incapable of relaxation. But enough about me. What, there's more? Type A individuals are often highly achieving workaholics (but we don't go to 12-step meetings) who multitask, drive themselves with deadlines, and are unhappy about the smallest of delays. (
What's taking so long with that nonfat-no-whip-soy-added-shot-extra-hot grande latte in a tall cup?
Wait, that's not Type A, it's Type A-hole.) That doesn't sound too bad, does it?

But how about this last part? People with the Type A personality are not incapable of showing love, affection, or other types of nonpessimistic behavior. Ah, that's more like it. See, I am human after all. Well, at least where Lava and my family are concerned. But because of my Type A personality, I'm unable to respond adequately to the fear I feel for Lava's safety because I don't have the proper tools (isn't that the popular, politically correct jargon these days?—or should I just come out and say
I'm emotionally incapable
?).