No Buddy Left Behind: Bringing U.S. Troops' Dogs and Cats Safely Home From the Combat Zone (17 page)

Socks and I arrived at Ft. Stewart in plenty of time to see the military "Welcome Home" ceremony for Andrew's battalion. As we got closer to the base, hundreds of homemade signs and banners began to appear on the route:

WELCOME HOME, DADDY

YOU ARE MY HERO

PROUD OF OUR SOLDIER DAUGHTER

Attached to fences, staked in yards, taped on streetlights and store windows, they all welcomed home the troops.

At the main gate a guard gave me a temporary pass and a map to the field where the ceremony would take place. I knew that Socks would not be allowed in the bleachers, and even if he had been, the reaction of an emotional crowd might be too much for him. When family members spotted one another, it was going to get loud and crazy.

Working our way across the ceremonial field, I found a quieter place to sit with Socks. I pulled out a red, white, and blue bandanna and tied it around his neck. A row of flowering redbud trees was planted beside the walkway where we waited. At the base of each young tree, a small American flag cast its shadow over a plaque, each one engraved with a soldier's name. Excited families waited for their loved ones' return on the opposite side of the field while Socks and I stood beside these memorials to soldiers who would never return. We took a stroll along the solitary row of trees and stopped to read the name on each plaque.

My thoughts were soon interrupted as a crescendo of cheers emanated from the crowd. On the road that approached one side of the field, a white school bus turned the corner and headed toward me and Socks. This bus was immediately followed by one white bus after another. The buses were full of soldiers just off their home-bound flight. With hardly any time to transition, they still carried the smell of desert dust in their nostrils and the battles of war in the forefront of their minds. Looking out the bus windows and passing the welcome signs as they approached Ft. Stewart must have seemed like a dream.

This was the moment we'd all been waiting for. The buses slowly passed by, and uniformed men and women hung out the windows. Shouts and cries of soldiers and their families filled the air as they called out to each other. Socks raised his ears, wondering what all the excitement was about.

Suddenly a voice cried, "Socks!" Instantly Socks let out a sound unlike anything I'd ever heard. There was no mistaking the joy in his voice. He barked and strained at his leash, and a look of intense yearning filled his eyes. He just couldn't figure out where the voice came from. He kept looking toward the passing buses and then back at me as if to say, "So where is he? Let's find him!"

For the next twenty minutes, the buses were out of our view while the unloading took place in a parking lot down the street. It's common knowledge in the military that you have to prepare for a whole lot of hurry up and wait. It seemed to take forever. Finally, without warning, the first row of marching soldiers appeared from behind the tree line. A deafening cheer burst from the crowd as row after row marched across the field. Before long, several battalions had gathered in formation, and the soldiers stood at attention. I couldn't help but marvel at their self-control. If that were me, I'd have jumped over the fence and run straight into the arms of my loved ones, but these men and women held it together, like always.

People in the bleachers finally began to sit down, and a restrained quiet replaced the exuberant outbursts. The longer families took to settle, the longer their soldiers would have to wait. Socks stopped pulling as well. He seemed to recognize the command to stand at attention and knew it was time to be still, but his eyes continued to scan the field, searching for Andrew.

Speeches from high-ranking military officers claimed no one's attention. Words were wasted at this point. Not a single person in that crowd could have focused on a speech when a loved one stood only a few hundred feet away. At last we heard the words everyone waited for, "You are released," and a happy pandemonium ensued. Streaming out of the bleachers, a landslide of people ran onto the field while the soldiers ran toward them. The scene resulted in a mass collision of embraces, laughter, and tears.

I knew that members of Andrew's family had come to greet him and would want their moment together, so I didn't cross the field but instead waited for him to find us. Sure enough, after a few minutes, a soldier broke from the crowd and headed straight toward us. Socks began to strain on the leash again. I never let these dogs run loose. It would be a tragedy if they ran out and got hit by a car or disappeared, but this time there was no chance of Socks wandering away. He aimed his nose toward his buddy, and when I let go of the leash, he took off like a bullet. That dog flew-literally flew-into Andrew's arms. In a second they were both on the ground rolling and wrestling.

I thought back to the day when Andrew and four other men had wrapped Socks in a blanket and shoved him into a strange security vehicle, and Andrew questioned whether to call the whole thing off. I wondered, as the SLG team had driven away, if Socks thought he'd ever see Andrew again. What a huge relief it was to see these two buddies reunited.

After a while I approached Andrew and Socks, and they stopped their roughhouse play. Andrew stretched out on the ground, and Socks lay on top of him, covering Andrew's chest and body. For a long moment one soldier and his dog embraced in a wordless conversation. From now on Andrew and Socks would remain together, bound by memories, love, and a soldier's commitment to his buddy.

SGT Andrew Bankey reunited with Socks in the USA Terri Crisp

Hope-all grown up Pam Bousquet

efore an animal could be accepted by the Operation Baghdad Pups program, I had to consider a number of factors. First the soldier had to have a reliable home for the animal to go to in the States, either with the soldier or with a family member. SPCA International had no intention of adding to America's overcrowded animal shelters. Soldiers also had to establish their commitment to the animal and show that anyone who was going to care for the animal until the owner arrived home was also on board.

In the first two months of Operation Baghdad Pups, all the rescued animals were dogs that belonged to soldiers. Cats had also worked their way into people's hearts, however, and not all of the owners were active military. Many of the Americans living in Iraq are there as contracted workers. They also contend with war-zone challenges that affect soldiers. Separation from family, limited access to after-work distractions, depressing surroundings where infrastructures are unreliable or unavailable, and the constant awareness of danger make life in Iraq stressful and intense.

I was contacted in April 2008 by a woman named "Pam Bousquet" regarding her husband, who was desperate to save his cat. I asked her to have him send me an e-mail explaining his situation. The very next day, Bruce's e-mail arrived.

Dear Terri,

In October 2007 I was hired by a private company to be lead technical advisor for the installation of a new power plant near the northern city of Erbil. It is one of the many reconstruction projects coordinated by the U.S. government to rebuild an infrastructure for this war-ravaged country.

On most days in Erbil, there is electricity for no more than a couple of hours. Can you imagine getting through a day without air conditioning when it's 120 degrees outside? This new power plant represents hope for people who have little else to hang onto.

My home away from home is in a construction camp not far from the plant. Some mornings I'm tempted to walk to work, but working in a war zone means I can't do a lot of the things we take for granted in the States. Instead, an armed driver from Olive Security Group takes me wherever I need to go. My driver is a Kurdish man who commutes 18 miles each morning from his home in Erbil.

One morning, as his car pulled up, I saw something fall from the engine and land on the ground. Considering how many cars in Iraq are rigged to blow up and kill people, I didn't know whether to investigate or run. That's when the howling started. As I bent down to get a better look under the car, the most pitiful calico kitten I've ever seen stared back with frightened eyes. I figured she couldn't be more than seven weeks old.

I wasn't real sure what to do next, and my driver wasn't offering any suggestions. The stray cats that hang around camp are mean suckers, and I had yet to see a friendly one. So trying to pick her up was not a good idea. While I was trying to come up with a plan, the kitten moved, exposing part of the reason she was crying. She wasn't just scared. Her front leg was badly burned.

She must have come in contact with the hot engine while she hitched the ride from Erbil. There was no way I could just leave her there. That burn looked nasty. I slowly reached my hand toward the kitten, and she never took her eyes off of me. Fully expecting her to fight or run away, I was relieved when she allowed me to gently pull her into my arms.

Going to work was out of the question. I sent my driver back home while I took the kitten to my room to get a better look at her leg. Not only was the fur gone, but the skin had melted away as well, leaving the leg muscles exposed. I was not equipped to take care of something this serious. My only option was to take her to the camp medic. Helping a stray cat was prohibited, but what else could I do? Without proper medical care, the kitten would not survive.