IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT when our helicopter arrived in Sangin, Afghanistan. In the final moments before we touched down, no one spoke. We secured our packs and turned on our night-vision goggles. We were about to be dropped several miles from a compound that would become our base. There was no time to waste: We had to hike to the site, then spend the rest of the night filling sandbags and preparing for the attack that would almost certainly come at sunrise.
I was an intelligence collector for the United States Marine Corps, so my job was to learn as much as I could from the villagers about the Taliban, the fundamentalist political group that was waging war in Afghanistan. If we captured a Taliban fighter, I was the only one in the unit who could question him.
The guys I was heading out with were Recon marines, reconnaissance forces. My expertise was in communication; theirs was in combat. They were the real deal—an elite force of special operations guys who were tough and experienced. They were like professional athletes, and smart, too. To earn their trust, I needed to prove that I was able to keep up on long nighttime patrols and in gunfights. I also needed to show that I brought something to the battlefield that they couldn’t provide themselves.
I had been on another mission in an agricultural town in southern Afghanistan, but I knew this was going to be a different fight. In the previous mission, I had served with a British Royal Marine named Jack. He was supposed to come with us to Sangin, but he changed his plans.
“I’m not going back there,” he’d said. He had served there a few years earlier when British forces first secured the area. “It’s the kind of place where you turn a corner and there’s two Taliban guys standing there. One’s got an RPG”—that’s a rocket-propelled grenade—“and the other’s got a machine gun, and they’re just waiting to light you up. The place is bonkers.”
Sangin had that reputation. The Taliban were bolder there because it was an important location for poppy farming, and the opium trade helped fund the Taliban. We expected them to have a lot of fighters and a lot of firepower.
The Taliban controlled the families in the villages, who had no other choice but to go along with what they were told. The Taliban took what they wanted, shutting down the local economy. These villages were extremely poor. Often, the Taliban were the only ones who owned anything of much material value, from sneakers to cell phones to the little Honda motorcycles they drove around. When they needed food, they’d show up at markets and bakeries and take what they pleased. If a motorcycle broke down, they’d find the only mechanic in town and take the parts or make him fix the bike at gunpoint. They ruined weddings, breaking musical instruments and punishing guests for dancing. They recruited—or just took—young boys to join their forces.
With a thud, the helicopter landed in a cloud of dust. We stepped out into the night, rifles up. The desert earth was firm under my boots, and a thin layer of silky dust washed over everything like water. I tried not to cough. The helicopter rotors whipped up a heavy haze of dirt before lifting the vehicle back into the sky. There’s nothing like the sound of that hum disappearing into the distance. At that point it’s just you and the guys on the ground, with no machine to protect you or whisk you away. That’s when it gets real.
We started moving, single file to avoid IEDs—improvised explosive devices—and bombs. All I heard was the sound of our boots scuffing against the dirt and our packs shifting on our backs. With very little light pollution, Afghanistan is supposed to be ideal for stargazing, but the dust in Sangin never settled. Overhead the dark sky looked like a smudged impressionist painting.
We walked two or three miles, over rolling hills, heading west. In all, there were about sixty guys—three platoons of marines, plus “attachments” like me and the Explosive Ordnance Disposal team (EOD) trained to find and dispose of bombs, as well as members of the Afghan National Army. Our gear and backpacks were heavy—seventy pounds or more—but we were well trained. After a while, my heart rate steadied as my body got used to the idea of being in Sangin.
When we came up to the compound, we saw an elderly man waiting in the doorway. We only established bases in compounds that were occupied. If folks were already living there and hadn’t been blown up, that was a good sign that the place wasn’t rigged with bombs.
Ali, the interpreter on the mission, and I walked up to talk to the man. Ali had been on the previous mission with me, and we’d gotten close. He was from Afghanistan but had moved to the United States years ago. Now, he’d returned to help his homeland, and to make a decent living for his wife and newborn baby back in Arizona.
We approached the villager and shook his hand. I explained who we were and that we were here to help—and that we would need his family to move to another compound. Often, families like his were nomads, moving from place to place to work as sharecroppers. In this case, the elderly man told us he and his family hadn’t been there very long, and he kindly agreed to relocate.
He opened the small metal door, and we filed in. Some of us got to work preparing the compound, while others helped the man and his family move a few hundred yards away to a neighboring site, bringing their cows and goats with them.
The compound was large. Its thick mud walls were about twelve feet high. Inside, there were a few basic structures, like little huts—small buildings made of packed mud. We spent the night filling green plastic sandbags, assembly-line style. Using a collapsible shovel, I scooped dust and dirt into the bags, then another guy would carry them over to the marines on the roof, who would hoist them onto the tops of the clay buildings. The sandbags—which were bulletproof when filled—were used to build a shield to protect the guys while they fired on the enemy. Down below, we dug small windows into the main wall so that we could see out and shoot to defend ourselves.
We worked all night. When the sun came up, I could see the wide, sweeping desert that stretched out to the east. To the west, the compound overlooked Highway 611 and, beyond it, the Green Zone. We called it the Green Zone because that’s where the Helmand River flowed, giving way to lush, green farmland. Fields of corn and poppies spread out on either side of the river, along with an extensive network of irrigation canals.
“Highway” 611 was actually a dirt road that ran north to south. It was a regular site of bomb attacks. The highway divided the irrigated land in the Green Zone from the scorched desert where we had established our post.
The Taliban controlled the Green Zone. Our mission was to drive them out so that coalition forces—engineers and soldiers from the United States and other countries working to bring peace to Afghanistan—could safely make their way up Highway 611. After the area was secured, the road could be cleared of bombs, allowing a much-needed generator to be delivered to a dam in the north. Once functional, it would provide electricity to the entire region.
Sangin is so remote and rural that many Afghan people refuse to go there. It’s tribal land, home to fewer than 15,000 residents, most of them farmers who live largely without access to formal education or electricity. That’s part of what makes the region so susceptible to Taliban abuse and control.
A few weeks before we arrived, the Third Battalion, Fifth Marines—also called 3/5 or Darkhorse—had faced heavy fighting in Sangin. In the first week, they lost ten marines. We were here not only to help clear out the Taliban from around the highway, but also to take some pressure off the 3/5 marines in the south.
My main objective in Sangin was to understand the situation on the ground from a villager’s point of view. I needed to get to know the locals. What did people call themselves here? Which tribes did they belong to? How did they earn a living? And how were the Taliban affecting their lives? By building relationships, I’d be able to get critical information from people. I also wanted to create a database of people’s names, tribes, family members, jobs, and locations.
In the daylight, two marines took up post on the rooftop position, turning their binoculars toward the fields. The Taliban almost certainly knew we were here. If they hadn’t figured out our exact location yet, they would soon.
From the roof, one of the marines shouted, “I’ve got movement! Northwest!”
I looked through one of the openings in the wall. I saw people emerging from the edge of the fields and crossing into the desert, coming toward us. They were moving slowly and carrying things—sacks of rice and bags of belongings. I saw someone pushing a wheelbarrow carrying an old woman and another leading a donkey with blankets and buckets hanging on either side. These weren’t Taliban fighters. They were villagers. They were leaving the Green Zone, their possessions on their backs.
They kept coming. For two hours, we watched as dozens of people made their way out of the Green Zone to the dusty cluster of compounds near ours. They realized that if they stayed where they were, they risked being turned into targets by the Taliban. Fighters often occupied private homes for shelter while they launched attacks on us. It was a well-known Taliban tactic to increase civilian deaths.
The morning sky swelled with light. Already the dust had worked its way into my hair, skin, and clothes. Everything had the same stale smell. I grabbed a bottle of water and splashed my face, then started my favorite ritual: preparing instant coffee. My sister had given me a little stove that could heat water in sixty seconds. It was magic.
Across the compound, I saw Top, our leader and master sergeant, doing the same thing. A twenty-year veteran with a square jaw and bricks for fists, Top rarely uttered more than two words at once.
As I lifted the hot cup of coffee to my lips, I heard it: the distinct, overpowering thunder of an attack.
Directly overhead, the sky screamed, WHOOSH!
I looked up as a rocket soared through the air, followed by another. They seemed to sail by slowly, as if they were floating. Their paths crisscrossed, and I realized they must have been launched from different locations. One buzzed off into the distance, missing our compound.
Another cracked open into a sharp, deafening explosion at the far end of the compound. It rattled my teeth and rang in my ears.
I looked over at Top, who was moving into action. He ran into our makeshift control center, one of the little clay rooms in the center of the compound, to get on the radio. Around me, guys were putting on their gear. I grabbed my stuff and rushed to the wall to peer out the hole. I saw desert and dust. Nothing.
Behind me, the west wall—the one facing the Green Zone—was getting all the action. Rifle rounds hit the clay, sending dirt flying. The guys on the roof shouted to one another, preparing to return fire.
I heard reports over the radio: We were nearly surrounded. Taliban fire was coming from 270 degrees around us. At first, the guys on the roof were taking some machine gun and small arms fire. But then I heard their voices change as they reported that “some fire” was now “accurate fire.”
We had about eight guys returning fire on what was easily a few hundred Taliban. The rounds peppered the sandbags with a near continuous rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.
The guys had to duck down. You never want to get pinned down like that. It means you can’t beat back the enemy, and it’s going to get worse.
Above, the sky was cloudless and blue.
“Corpsman!” Someone was calling for the medical specialist.
I heard an urgent call come over the radio from the rooftop position nearest the Green Zone. I looked up and saw Joe lying limp beside his partner, Aaron.
Aaron unbuckled Joe’s helmet while rounds continued to whizz overhead. He checked for injuries but didn’t see any blood. Joe looked okay. Aaron checked the helmet again and saw two holes where the bullet had gone in and out.
Dizzy and confused, Joe backed down the ladder. I helped him down, and another marine examined his head, parting his short hair with his fingers. The round had skimmed through the top of his helmet without hitting Joe’s head at all.
This first attack didn’t last long—less than a half hour—but it felt like forever. One minute it was chaos; the next minute, quiet. I was soaked in sweat, wearing heavy armor and a helmet in 100-degree heat, and my mouth was an oven. But I was alive.
Within an hour, the next attack came. It was similar to the first. The Taliban liked to start with something dynamic—using a big, powerful weapon—hoping to maximize casualties. They always launched attacks from at least two locations, followed by mortars and gunfire. Then they’d recover and reposition, launching the next attack about an hour later. It would continue like this until sundown.
It was the same, day after day. Guys took shifts on the roofs. We took fire. We returned it. For a short span of time in the afternoons, when the sun rose high in the sky and it got to be 115 degrees, the desert fell quiet. It was unbearable to do anything, and for a couple hours, the Taliban stopped their assault.
During this period, we cleaned our guns and ate our MREs—meals ready to eat—which were vacuum-sealed, military-issued space food, such as spaghetti, meatballs, chili mac, chicken and rice, and meat loaf. Sometimes we played cards and took naps. We tried to make jokes, cool down, clean off. We were filthy, covered in dirt freckles, little specks of dust on our skin that no baby wipe could get off. Our “bathroom” was a chicken coop where we did our business in little silver bags with deodorizing powder, then tossed the bags into a burn pit. In less time than you might think, this became our new normal.
It was between Taliban attacks that I spotted him. I was hot and exhausted, trying to stay cool in sandals and thin green running shorts. I was refilling my water bottle when I saw a goofy-looking dog trot across the compound. With his short legs and puppy-like pep, he looked nothing like other stray dogs I’d seen in Afghanistan. Most were tall and bulky, and they moved around in packs, aggressive over territory and scavenged scraps.
This dog was different. He didn’t have a pack. He was alone. He pranced nonchalantly in the dust, tail bobbing and snout held high, as if he was particularly proud of the scrap of food he was carrying. There was something innocent about him, like he was unaffected by life in a combat zone.
When we first arrived at the compound, I questioned the old man about a couple dogs that were hanging around. “Are they yours?” I asked. If so, we’d help transport them to the family’s new compound, along with the livestock.
“No, no, no,” he told us. It would have been unusual for a farmer in Sangin to have a pet dog. The villagers loved animals and took great care of their livestock, but they were focused on surviving and on feeding their families. They couldn’t afford to feed and care for a pet.
After the family left and we moved in, the goofy dog stayed. It was almost as if this was his compound. I stood and watched him flop down in his spot under the bushes. Beside him I could see other scraps he’d accumulated: food wrappers, sticks, bones.
I put down my water bottle, picked up a piece of beef jerky, and started walking over to him. When the dog realized I was coming his way, he stopped eating and looked at me. He watched as I approached, squinting to shield his eyes from the dust and sun.
A few steps away from him, I paused.
“Hey, buddy,” I said. “How’s it going?”
He seemed to be studying me. There was something expressive, almost human-like, about his big, light brown eyes. For a moment, we looked at each other. I heard a quiet thwap thwap thwap. A little cloud of dust kicked up into the air behind him. I couldn’t believe it: he was wagging his tail.
I took it as an invitation to move closer. I crouched down to get a better look at him. The dog’s fur was mostly white with large spots of light orange-brown markings. He had floppy ears and a long snout with a big black nose. As he looked at me, his eyebrows twitched from side to side, curious. He continued to wag his tail, and his expression was soft and easy, like he was smiling.
The dog seemed happy, but he was covered with black bugs the size of dimes. They were buzzing around him and burrowing into the fur on his face and neck.
I extended my arm, holding out the piece of beef jerky. “Here you go, buddy,” I said.
The dog stood up and shook, as if to rid himself of as many bugs as possible before getting near me. He took a few steps forward, his nose leading the way, and inspected my offering before carefully pulling it from my hand with his front teeth. I laughed watching him chew the jerky. Most dogs I knew didn’t bother chewing treats before sending them down the hatch.
“Well, you’ve got better manners than most, don’t you?” I said, and extended my other hand so he could give it a few sniffs. With his permission, I massaged my fingers into the fur around his neck and under his ears. It was coarse and matted. It felt unnaturally stiff, almost like a dirty pair of jeans. But the dog happily leaned into me, pleased with the neck rub. I wondered if it was the first time he’d ever been touched.
I’d always wanted a dog as a kid. I even went so far as to buy a leash with my own money. I knocked on the neighbors’ doors after school, volunteering to walk their dogs for free. Some of them actually let me. My favorite pup was an old basset hound named Irene. She had oversized paws and huge floppy ears. When I walked her, she’d trot ahead of me, out at the end of the leash, with her snout high in the air, taking in all the smells she could. This dusty pup with his long body and short legs made me think of her.
Before I got carried away with him, though, I stopped myself. Cozying up to dogs was off-limits in Afghanistan. When I first arrived in country, I sat through two days of orientation. We learned the rules. No alcohol. No saluting superiors (to avoid signaling who was in charge, which put them at greater risk). No dogs. Some wild dogs had rabies. Get caught with a stray dog, and the dog will be euthanized—put to death—no questions asked.
I knew the rules. I was also still trying to prove myself to the Recon guys. I had to prove my worth on this mission, not sit around in the dust with a dog.
With that in mind, I reluctantly got up. The dog just stood there, looking up. “Okay, buddy,” I said. I turned and headed back toward my corner of the compound.
But after taking just a few steps, I felt a little nudge at the back of my ankle. I looked down to see the dog looking up at me with a toothy grin, tail wagging again. From across the compound, another marine had been watching our exchange. “Looks like you made a friend!” he shouted.
I thought he said, “Looks like a Fred!”
The name stuck.
Fred trotted along behind me back to the makeshift campsite where I had my sleeping mat. I didn’t try to stop him. There wasn’t much harm in giving him another piece of jerky and some water.
I grabbed a large tin bowl that was lying around—it had probably been for the cows—and filled it with water from my canteen. Placing it down in front of Fred, I watched as he licked the thing dry. I stood over him and smiled. Just like he’d taken the jerky from me with a gentle tug, he drank water the same way, with polite little laps.
Jim, the medical specialist, had been watching Fred, too. He got up from his spot in the shade and came over, taking a closer look at the bugs on Fred’s neck. He pulled tweezers from his fanny pack and, pointing to the bugs, said, “Why don’t you hold him steady, and we’ll see if I can get some of these bloodsuckers off?”
The two of us crouched in the dirt. I sat cross-legged and pulled Fred toward me, holding him by the shoulders. The bugs, like flying ticks, were digging into Fred’s fur and attaching to his hide. Getting them out meant Jim was going to have to pull them from his skin.
“Careful, dude,” I said, as Jim narrowed in on one, closing down on it with the tweezers. I didn’t know how Fred was going to react. In one quick motion, Jim yanked hard and, between the prongs of the tweezers, pulled away the first bug along with a clump of Fred’s fur. I braced myself for a yowl or nip from Fred, but he just sat there, unbothered. Jim and I exchanged looks. Carefully, he kept going, pulling out one bug at a time.
Patiently, Fred just sat there, letting us do our work.
When we finished, a tiny bug graveyard had piled up in the dirt beside us. Jim gave Fred a pat on the top of the head and stood up. “Wow,” he said. “I can’t believe he let us do that.”
Fred shook again, then walked to my sleeping mat. He stepped over the edge of the bug net and climbed in, pawing at the material to arrange it how he wanted. It was as if he’d done it a hundred times before. Content with the arrangement, he settled in, let out a sigh, and blinked his eyes closed. I was caked in dirt, too, so I didn’t mind if he wanted a spot on my bed. Jim and I laughed.
“Little guy is making himself right at home!” he said.
I leaned over and zipped up the bug net for my new friend. I was six thousand miles from home, in a combat zone, in one of the harshest places in the world. Unlike me, Fred was home. This compound was all he knew. And even though he’d probably never had a drink of clean water before or a scratch behind the ear, he was gentle and sweet. Looking down at him, I let go of worrying about the no-dog policy or when the next round of fighting would begin. For that moment, I felt like I was home, too.