War Dogs (16 page)

Like so many other handlers who've bonded with the dogs they deploy with, Kitts wants to adopt Dyngo. He feels a sense of ownership and believes he is the best one to take care of him when the dog is ready to retire, just like he had to care for Dyngo after that day in Afghanistan. When they'd finally made it back to their patrol base after the ambush, Dyngo was exhausted and nervous. The dog had lain for days without eating, heavy-lidded and
melancholy. Kitts had been patient and had given him room to recover, refusing to work him until he was rested. In just a few days, Dyngo had come around, starting to act like his old self.

Even though they were both stateside again, Kitts would still have to wait for the chance to bring his former partner home. At least for another seven months—or however long the dog's next deployment will take. Dyngo already has orders to go back to Afghanistan and back to war.

Six

The Road to War Leads Through Yuma

Entreat me not to leave thee, or
to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people.

—Book of Ruth

The drive out to the proving ground from downtown Yuma—a stretch of two-lane desert highway that runs approximately 30 miles—seems endless in the predawn pitch black. During daylight hours, this road is populated by snail-slow farming tractors and leisurely retirees—the snowbirds who make Arizona their home during the winter months—caravanning around in their mobile homes. Every once in a while, the sickly sweet stench of the cabbage fields that line the highway blows into the car.

But now, just past 4 a.m., this road is desolate and very, very dark. It is the first time I make my way to the training site that is home to the Inter-Service Advance Skills K-9 (ISAK) course, an intense, three-week predeployment program in a remote part of the Sonoran desert that prepares dog teams from all branches of the military to go to war. About an hour's drive from downtown Yuma, the Yuma Proving Ground (YPG), a military base in southwestern Arizona near the California border, stretches 1,300
square miles. Each year, this immense area—larger than the state of Rhode Island—tests over 10,000 artillery, mortar, and missile rounds. The only other place in the world where you can get such a concentrated amount of explosive material together in one place is a combat zone.

Something so large shouldn't be quite so hard to find—but maybe that's part of the problem. My prayers to come across road signs are wasted, for the simple reason that such signs do not exist. Directions that tell you to “turn right at the jump site” are particularly tricky for someone who has no idea what a jump site looks like, let alone possesses the ability to find such a land marker in the dark. (The giveaway reveals itself more clearly in the light of day: a line of port-a-potties. Or, if I'd had the skills to drive while staring straight up, it would be the men parachuting from the sky.)

I know I'm finally in the right place when I come across the course's only real distinguishing mark—a bright yellow caution sign, bearing the black outline of a dog, posted at the entrance to a dusty gravel parking lot. Just beyond that sign is an aluminum-roofed hangar. A wide, sparse building with high ceilings, it is the ISAK course hub, and home to course manager Gunnery Sergeant Kristopher Reed Knight's office, a men's room, some lockers for the students, two classrooms, and a folding table that holds a microwave and a coffeemaker. An ice machine just inside the front door is clearly labeled with a sign that says, “For Dogs Only.” Over the next few days I become familiar with this place and its quirks, like the two old backseats that once belonged inside of a van and offer the only seating outside the classrooms. If you sit on one, you have to take care to balance your weight in the middle or the seat will tip heavily to one side, ejecting the sitter from his perch. I fall over enough times that I decide it's just safer to sit on the floor.

There is the faint but ever-present smell of dog, mingled in with the odor of burned coffee and the jar of shared peanut butter or the remnants of whatever food has just been warmed in the microwave; wafts of leftover pizza, oatmeal, chicken. Every once in a while a bag of homemade elk jerky gets passed around, and the chewy meat emits its own pungent, gamey fragrance. There is, depending on the time of day, the aroma of fresh sweat and unwashed uniforms.

Posted on the wall outside of Knight's office is a chart of desert snakes arranged in order of how quickly they will kill you. They appear more frightening still, given how their markings make for easy camouflage against the desert floor. The poster is the most colorful thing in the hangar aside from the dozens of neon tennis balls that litter the floor. Even coiled in two-dimension renderings, the snakes look malicious—a reminder that there are more than buried explosives training aids to be found in the desert.

But as I walk across the parking lot for the first time at 4:50 a.m., it's dark and cold and the only light shining in the parking lot comes from the open door of the hangar. Marine Sergeant Charlie Hardesty emerges. He's on his way to the training field adjacent to the hangar to join the physical training (PT) course, where the dog teams are already hopping over and under a series of obstacles in full gear, handlers and dogs alike. Hardesty is the lead instructor at the ISAK.

We walk up and down the length of the training field where the March 2012 class of handlers are doing their morning PT. Their faces are obscured by their helmets, and in the dark it's difficult to pick apart the dogs and see which handlers belong with which furry body. There are calls of encouragement, shit talking, and laughter. It's so cold their breath hangs in clouds in front of them.

A chorus of howls sound nearby. They do not belong to the dogs. I glance at Hardesty and he smiles, a wide, mischievous smile. “Yep,” he says, reading my mind. “Those would be the coyotes.”

The last handlers to go through the course lift their dogs over the practice wall, and the teams head back toward the hangar. By now Knight has arrived, and he and Hardesty stroll together through the parking lot, talking through the plans for the day. Hardesty is on his way to plant explosives for the first tactical training exercise. The sun is starting to rise and with it the temperature. There is a full day ahead for these handlers and their dogs, a day of looking for bombs.

For an instructor who teaches handlers to search for explosives outside the wire, Hardesty is dependably cheerful. Born and raised in a conservative Catholic home on a cattle ranch in Smoot, Wyoming, he possesses a
certain kind of purity of purpose that, along with the
Leave It to Beaver
way he curses, makes him seem wholesome.

Each afternoon, after the day of tactical training is over, Hardesty stays to work the dogs and the handlers who need (and are willing to accept) the extra help. He does this instead of heading home to tinker with his pickup truck—a rickety vehicle he's taken to calling Betty White because “it's old, it's white, and it just won't die.” Like most Marines he doesn't tolerate laziness, and though his patience might fray from time to time, neither the long days nor any amount of poor showing on behalf of the dogs or their handlers dampen his positive attitude. Except for once.

Army Sergeant Dontarie R. Russ and his dog Uudensi, a tawny German shepherd, are running a detection drill with instructor Army Staff Sergeant Lee McCoy. So far this handler has been a standout in the class.
Tactically Russ is tighter than many of the other handlers working through these exercises; he downs to one knee before rounding corners and manages his weapon with experience. On this particular afternoon Russ is doing well. “Fucking awesome,” in McCoy's words. But when Uudensi starts to alert on human odor (which in the job of finding explosives counts as a false response
1
), Russ begins to founder. Rather than calling the dog off the distracting scent and moving forward with the search, Russ jerks the leash and gives a flat verbal correction. Uudensi has lost his focus and, ignoring his handler, continues his frantic scratching at the ground.

Hardesty, watching this unfold beside McCoy, steps in. “Be firm, Dad.”

Russ attempts to call the dog off again, but the tone of his voice is unchanged. If anything he sounds even less concerned, almost apathetic. In a flash, Hardesty advances fast in Russ's direction, his voice suddenly harsh and loud. His even temper erupts. “We're not fucking around here,” he yells. “Call him back like your life depends on it!”

Russ is flummoxed; beads of sweat have taken over his face. When he short arms the Kong throw for his dog a minute later, he gets even angrier at having to retrieve it. Seeing Russ struggle, Hardesty's storm passes as quickly as it broke. Lowering his voice, he coaches the handler through. The command for the dog to “come” needs to be absolute, Hardesty tells him. The dog's urge to respond to his handler has to be stronger than the dog's desire to alert on odor, and stronger even than his desire to get the reward he attaches to alerting on odor. In the heat of the search, when a handler needs to call the dog away from danger, that dog must respond without delay.

I couldn't tell what triggered Hardesty's reaction—maybe he just didn't want to put up with a piss-poor attitude. But Hardesty also knows what's waiting for Russ and Uudensi after they leave Yuma. He knows better than most what happens when you don't keep your eyes open and pay attention.

In retrospect, that painted red rock
sitting outside the entrance to the compound was a dead giveaway, but at the time, their team
was getting shot at, and in their rush to take cover they hadn't noticed the Taliban's tip-off to the danger inside. Neither Charlie Hardesty nor the British paratroopers he was with had seen that rock for what it was.

The men of this British Air Regiment had begun their mission at dawn. It was January 2010, and the frigid temperature propelled them to move faster across the river that morning, as they made their way through the desolate fields up to the main market some 5 kilometers from their patrol base.

Hardesty and his combat tracker dog Robbie were with them. The dog team had joined this regiment at the start of their deployment, and Hardesty found himself more at home with the Brits. These men had seen their fair share of firefights and were marked by a gritty approach that Hardesty found appealing. That they'd requested a combat tracker dog team—a job that required nerve, a lack of hesitancy, and a willingness to engage in swift-footed manhunts—meant they were willing to take risks.

Today their mission had two parts. The first was to reach out to the Afghans who lived in the area, to find new friends and identify potential enemies. For this they had invited the village elders in the area to a
shura
, a meeting over tea and bread, to discuss news of the Taliban.

The area they were in was wide open and rural, populated by clusters of different compounds; each set of compounds was roughly 200 to 300 meters apart. Intel had gotten back to their unit that there might be Taliban living in one of these compounds. So, while the
shura
continued on, Hardesty and Robbie pushed out with a smaller team under the command of British officer Pete McCombe to patrol the other compounds and complete the second part of their mission.

Earlier in the day they'd seen some children playing outside of a compound, but the inside looked inexplicably quiet, so they marked that as their target and made their way over. But as soon as they started to cross the field in that direction they started taking gunfire. The enemy was stationed somewhere across the field in a neighboring compound; they'd seen the soldiers coming and had no intention of letting them get any closer.

Hardesty and the others started to run, Robbie galloping alongside of them keeping tight to his handler, and they didn't stop until they passed
through the open door of that empty compound and out of the range of bullets, taking cover behind its walls.

Once inside, the first priority was figuring out exactly where the enemy was. McCombe yelled to one of the other men to climb up onto the roof of one of the smaller huts. But the guy was having trouble hoisting himself up on top of the wall.

The soldiers always carried a ladder, 30 pounds of collapsible aluminum that they would unfold as a makeshift pathway, enabling them to get across canals and ditches. McCombe started to get pissed and told him to take the “fucking ladder” and tossed it over. But no one caught the ladder; it hit the ground, falling right on top of an IED. The explosion launched the ladder some 40 meters back into the air, a tail stream of shrapnel spray sailing out behind it.

The blast knocked Hardesty to the ground. Rock and debris slapped against his face—and then the lights went out. When he opened his eyes, it took a few minutes for the scene to come back into focus. Whether he was out for seconds or minutes he couldn't tell, but as soon as he came to he knew something was very wrong with his ear. There was no sound coming in on one side; it was completely muffled. All he could think was,
It's gone. It's gone.
He brought his hand up to the side of his face, found his ear intact but touched it over and over anyway, overwhelmed with the sensation that it had somehow detached from his body.

He could tell his dog was still by his side without even having to look. He knew Robbie was staying close to him, he could feel him. The dog had remained relatively calm during the blast but looked up at Hardesty, eyes round and fearful, as if to say, “Holy shit, man. What the hell just happened?”

And that's when his eyes fell on McCombe, who was lying on the ground completely still. The shrapnel had hit him square in the face and made a bloody mess of his eye, knocking him unconscious. Hardesty moved toward him, and as he got closer he could see McCombe's body kick into survival mode—springing back to work on its own before his mind was fully conscious. McCombe drew deep, gut-dragging gasps of air back
into his lungs. The medic was instantly at McCombe's side, wrapping the wounds on his face, setting up an IV to give him morphine. But when McCombe finally came to, finding his eyes covered sent him into a panic and he started fighting the hands that were trying to help him.