From Baghdad To America (9 page)

It's not easy. I like to bottle up my fear and not let anyone see it. I am a master at keeping it to myself and presenting a cold, hard veneer that is impenetrable even to depleted-uranium, armor-piercing bullets.
Nothing can break me down and I'll be damned if I'm gonna let anyone or anything penetrate this protective shell I've built for myself. This is war, dammit, and war's hell,
et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. I really can play that game, and I'm good at it. Lava has always broken the facade, though.

Does it make me weak, somehow, after I'd kept all my worries about Lava bottled up for days, weeks, months during his long journey to America (it wasn't an easy trip for him, and there were times when he almost didn't make it to his next doggy treat [twelve hours in a car during a drive to the Jordanian border where he was refused entry; another drive down IED alley, the road from Baghdad to the Baghdad International Airport; and getting through Jordanian customs on a forged international puppy passport]) that when I got the phone call from John Van Zante of the Helen Woodward Animal Center, who flew to Chicago to meet Lava's plane in the United States, and Lava finally set his paws on American soil ... I hung up the phone and cried like a little kid for one of the only times in my adult life? I guess you macho guys out there—the ones who've never fought for your lives, you highschool bullies—can say it does if you want. If it makes you feel better about yourselves and your own insecurities.

It wasn't for Lava alone that I was crying. I see now that it was my way to tap into the pain and anxiety I'd tried so hard to suppress. It was the release of everything I'd bottled up inside for six and a half months, not wanting to expose my soft underbelly as a sign of weakness to myself, my Marines, the Iraqis we led in Fallujah. It was the sadness I finally let myself feel for the young Marines I'd seen wounded or killed in combat before they ever had a chance at a real life, a life that I have today, filled with happiness and wonderment at the miracle of life that is embodied by my oneyear-old son.

My fears now aren't about things that will kill me or my best friend, but they're no less important. I worry—fear—that I won't set the right example as a husband and father for my sons to emulate, that my wife will stop loving me, that I won't earn enough money to care for my family, that I won't be able to afford to one day send my son to the college of his choice, that my books won't sell. These are legitimate and real concerns, but they're not likely fatal.

I work to be the best husband and father I possibly can be to my wife and children. I strive to set the example for my boys of what a man can and should be. You stand up for what you believe in, have confidence in yourself, and treat others fairly—and, when necessary, with firmness. I teach them to act with honor and dignity, and to defend those who are weaker. I teach them these things so that when they find themselves in a fearful situation—whether it's a spider crawling across their hand in the dark or combat in some foreign land—they'll have the tools to cope with and confront their fears. I hope I pass down the lessons I've learned about honor, courage, and commitment. That each person has to find his own definition of those things, and stand by it. That doing the right thing is more important than blindly following rules.

Finally, I try my best to teach them that it's okay to say you're afraid.

Dear Lt. Col. Kopelman:

Recently I finished reading From Baghdad, With Love. It is a remarkable account of a lot of people on both sides of the fence, so to speak, who put aside personal safety, comfort, rules, and financial considerations to make sure this rascally puppy, Lava, would eventually be able to have a carefree life in the United States.

Many times in the book you seemed to be making apologies for a weakness as a softhearted, compassionate human being because you were supposed to be the epitome of the hardhearted, hard-boiled, no-nonsense U.S. Marine officer. My assessment is that sort of conduct did not show weakness but actually a strength seldom seen in today's world.

I was particularly drawn to the Lava story because I am an 84-year-old WWII veteran and because I, too, rescued a German shepherd puppy and brought her home at the end of the war. She (I named her Dusty) was 6 to 8 weeks old when I found her running loose on the streets in Germany, hungry and scared, and with some difficulty (but certainly nothing compared with yours attendant to Lava) keeping and caring for her, I managed to get her to my home in Michigan.

Dusty and Robbie

Dusty was delivered to my parents at my home in Lansing, Michigan, about a week and a half before I got home after being discharged; we had been separated for approximately two months. Therefore, I can relate to your experience when you were reunited with Lava in San Diego. I had arrived in Lansing by train about 2:00 AM and got to my home at 3:00 AM. Dusty was in our backyard in her shipping crate which my parents had used for a kennel. When she heard my usual whistle call, she raised such a ruckus that the neighbors all around knew I must be home. At that time, being much younger than you, I had no trouble showing my emotions at the reunion and I damn well didn't care who was aware of the tears and my love for Dusty.

I send my thanks and love to all those who helped to rescue Lava: the tough, softhearted Lava Dogs, Sam and other Iraqis who “crossed lines” to enter into the overall effort, Anne and all those across the U.S. who sidetracked daily routines to make Lava their priority.

Most sincerely,

Robert L. “Robbie” Robinson

Technician, 8
^th
Armored Division, Ninth Army

“The following is a brief schedule of the regular routine: At 5 A.M. the
reveille
is beaten, the several companies are formed, and the roll is called by the First Sergeants. At 5½ o'clock company drills take place.These drills are very severe and continue for an hour. At 7 o'clock the Battalion is marched down to the mess-hall for breakfast when some two hundred and fifty hungry individuals quickly dispose of the ‘hash' and bread . . . .”

—“AFFAIRS AT WEST POINT,”
THE NEW YORK TIMES
, AUGUST 4, 1860

Fear and boredom are the warrior's biggest enemies.
Lava helped keep both at bay back when I was in Iraq fighting. He needed us to be responsible and strong for him. When he was quaking in mortal fear (and even when he was masking it), I knew he was scared. Peeing on the floor was a direct tell. Taking care of him was something we could do above and beyond protecting our country and one another, risking death—or worse, death without purpose—in the process. It meant feeding him and watching that he didn't crawl under the gate and become lost among the other soulless animals doing whatever was necessary to survive in the wasteland of Fallujah.

Now I have a wife and two sons to keep me busy but Lava still manages to keep me entertained and on track. It's the best way I know to keep the demons at a distance. That and exercise.

Dogs like routine. So do Marines.

Marines easily adapt to and become part of a routine. In recruit training and officer candidate school, we are indoctrinated into a daily routine that rarely varies. You know you're going to wake up at a given time. You'll eat at roughly the same time each day. You'll be in bed at the same time every night. So routine is imprinted in our military DNA early on and stays with us during our careers. It's not something that leads to complacency or boredom. In fact, the routine is a way to get us used to repetitive activity without complacency setting in. It tells us—with or without an alarm clock—when it's time to get our asses out of the rack and get on with the day.

You don't have to sweat the same details most civilians do when you are in the military. But you do pay attention to detail because failure to do so could lead to severe bodily injury or death to you or, worse, your squad mates.

You work the hours you're told to work (meaning you work until the work is done even if that's twenty-four hours straight or more), you do the tasks you're assigned, you live where you're told to live, and you deploy where and when you're told to deploy. And you don't have to worry about what you're going to wear to work in the morning—they've got that figured out, too. It may be hard for a civilian to understand, but this sort of tight routine actually frees you to focus on the bigger picture—the needs of your Marines, the Corps as a whole, and the country. And I want to die knowing that I did my part, to leave my family proud of me for that. Selfdiscipline, sacrifice, loyalty, and obedience are the bulwarks of a Marine's life. You start learning that in boot camp, and if you make it through—many recruits and officer candidates do not—you will learn the value of rigid routine and absolute control. Marine boot camp is the most challenging basic training in any of the branches of the armed forces.

When a kid decides to become a Marine, he goes to a recruiter, who will typically tell him that he really doesn't have what it takes. He'll only make the kid a poolee (someone waiting to go to boot camp) after the kid has proven his undying dedication to the Corps. There are no signing bonuses, à la the army and the navy. The signing bonus is you get to be a Marine, should you endure the rigors of boot camp, the physical and intellectual (if you can use that word here) requirements of which are higher for Marine recruits than for those in the other services. Consider the physical fitness test: In the army they run two miles; the Marines run three. 'Nuff said. (Never mind the navy, who run only a mile and a half and who have the option of a swim; or the Air Force, where if you're not medically cleared to run, you can ride a stationary bike.) The training programs in each branch of the military are scientifically and psychologically designed to tear apart the civilian and build from the ground up a proud, physically fit, and dedicated member of the United States Armed Forces. You get so used to being disciplined, in fact, that it can be extremely difficult to come back to the less structured, everyday life that most civilians lead.

Right from the first days at boot camp, you discover that there's a plan for everything, that everything is done by the numbers—from the simple process of washing eating utensils to putting on your “pro-mask,” or field protective gas mask.

Here are directions for “Cleaning Individual Mess Gear”:

1. EQUIPMENT REQUIRED.
Four corrugated cans or other similar containers placed in a row are required for washing mess gear. The first can contains hot soapy water and is used as a prewash; the second can contains hot soapy water (150 degrees F) for a second wash; and the third and fourth cans contain clear water which is kept boiling (rolling boil) throughout the work period. Long-handled wash brushes and a garbage can or pit are also needed. Additional cans may be used for garbage and waste.

2. PROCEDURES FOR CLEANING MESS GEAR

1. : Scrape the food particles from eating utensils into a garbage can.
   
2. : Using the long handled brush provided, wash the eating utensils in the first container of hot soapy water.
   
3. : Using the long handled brush provided, wash the eating utensils in the second container of hot soapy water.
   
4. : Immerse the eating utensils in the first container of clear boiling water for approximately 30 seconds.
   
5. : Immerse the eating utensils in the second container of clear boiling water for approximately 30 seconds.
   
6. : Shake the eating utensils to remove the excess water. Check to ensure that the eating utensils are clean. If not, repeat the washing cycle.
   
7. : Allow to air dry.
   

Then there's my all-time favorite procedure: donning the gas mask, the full description of which follows. By the time you finish going through all the steps, you'll have passed out from lack of oxygen, having held your breath for two minutes while your heart rate accelerates, the sense of urgency heightens, and thoughts of horribly disfiguring sores arising on your body fill your thoughts as the NBC (Nuclear, Biological, Chemical) instructor yells, “Gas, gas, gas!” Or worse, as the gas is actually falling from a Scud missile in the middle of the desert.

I finally realized the hilarity of all this during just such a drill in Kuwait before the Iraq invasion in March 2003, I witnessed the Marine Expeditionary Unit command-element Marines—many of whom were Marines in uniform and training only; the only input most had to the war effort was coming up with a tactical name for our unit—acting like a bunch of monkeys fucking a football as they fell over themselves and one another in an effort to don the pro-mask while making a terror-filled dash for the Scud bunkers. It was all-out bedlam as each Marine tried to be the first to exit our tents for the safety of the sandbag-encased concrete bunkers, each convinced that without the mask he'd die in this godforsaken shithole, choking and gagging on one lethal poison gas or another, convulsing on the ground in a version of what we liked to call the funky chicken.

This was one of the few times I got to witness leadership from the front with the command's most senior officers leading the charge, stiff-arming the enlisted men out of their way, looking more like Heisman Trophy statues than Marine officers.

Ultimately the command settled on the moniker Task Force Yankee, because the commanding officer was from New York and was a Yankees fan. Imagine the jokes. Or you could just read them on the outhouse walls: TASK FORCE YANKEE GO HOME! TF YANKEE MY WANKEE!

But I digress.

DONNING AND CLEARING THE FIELD PROTECTIVE MASK. Upon hearing or seeing the alarm for gas:

1. Stop breathing.
   (Yeah, right. Now that you're about to die a gruesome death and your adrenaline is pumping, you're gonna stop breathing.)
   
2. Remove your headgear with your right hand and open your carrier with your left hand. Place headgear as directed.
   (Don't even think about doing this the other way around.)
   
3. Hold the carrier open with your left hand; grasp the facepiece just below the eyepieces and remove the mask with your right hand.
   (What really happens is you drop the headgear on the ground, er, deck.)
   
4. Grasp the facepiece with both hands, sliding your thumbs up inside the facepiece under the lower head harness straps. Lift your chin slightly.
   (Just put the fucker on, dammit!)
   
5. Seat the chin pocket of the facepiece firmly on the chin. Bring head harness smoothly over head, ensuring that the head harness straps are straight and the head pad is centered.
   
6. Smooth the edges of the facepiece on your face with upward and backward motion of hands, pressing out all bulges to secure an airtight seal.
   
7. Close the outlet valve by cupping the heel of your right hand firmly over the opening; blow hard to clear agent from the facepiece.
   
8. Block air inlet holes of the filter elements, shutting off the air supply. When you inhale, the facepiece should collapse.
   
9. Resume breathing (give the alarm).
   

You get the picture. The belief—at least in Marine Corps boot camp and officer candidate school—is that learning the new routine is so difficult, especially when a drill instructor or sergeant instructor puts a metal trash can on your head and bangs on it while yelling at you (I've actually seen this happen and you laugh as much at your good fortune that it's not you as you do at the humor of it all), that they actually paint yellow footprints on the ground so you'll know where to stand.

Not only that, but if you're a Marine, you have to learn an entirely new language. You don't go upstairs, you go “topside.” You don't go downstairs, you go “down below.” Your bunk becomes a “rack.” The latrine is a “head.” The floor is a “deck.” The walls are “bulkheads.” The windows are “portholes.” The ceiling is an “overhead.” You face “forward.” Your ass is “aft.” Left is “port” and right is “starboard.” You're thinking this all sounds very nautical, and it is, because the Marines are a part of the Department of the Navy—the men's department. You are on a ship to nowhere, even when your tent is on the shifting sands of the desert. Questions are not welcomed.

Is it any wonder that it's so difficult to return to a world in which everyone's opinion is respected? Where we're all “on the same page”? Where hours are spent swirling and sipping wine? No wonder the USMC is known as “The Few. The Proud. The Marines.” (A slogan that, incidentally, was recently enshrined on Madison Avenue's Advertising Walk of Fame.)

What I'm trying to say is that for the disciplined Marines of the Lava Dogs and the I MEF commanding general's personal security detail, Lava was both a distraction and another cog in the machine, but one that we alone could save.

I can assure you that Lava's routine was in no way boring to anyone, and somehow I became as involved in it as anyone else in Iraq, simply because it was there to be had, and came equipped with a fuzzy ball of charm and bravado. In Iraq, I mostly facilitated Lava's care via e-mail (and phone calls when I could). I had to keep my promise to the Marines, remember, and even though I was mostly somewhere—anywhere—other than with Lava, I had to make sure that others would establish the routine for him and see to his care and feeding.

I firmly believe that the Marines and civilians who were involved with Lava on a daily basis found that the routine of feeding, exercising, and hiding the little guy offered tremendous relief from all the tedium, anxiety, boredom, and fear related to combat or living in a combat zone—and just the right amount of distraction from the routine of staying alive to help them maintain their sanity. It allowed the men and women who were involved with Lava to stay alive by not
fixating
on doing so. Does that make sense? Maybe you had to be there.

Things aren't so different now, as far as Lava and I are concerned. I still need to be kept busy, to focus on the future rather than the past. To not fixate on staying alive (although the only shots anyone takes at me now are critiques of my books) or on what I've been through (though my experiences haven't been as horrific as what many others have seen and done). And Lava? Well, let's just say that I'm trying to get him to move on. The simplest way for me to do that is to keep on going, keep him scheduled, try to avoid surprises (too bad the cable guy is so unpredictable), and make sure he's eating well, sleeping, and exercising. Because if I don't, everybody pays.