Former marine officer Kopelman's sequel to From Baghdad, with Love—his bestselling account of a war mongrel named Lava—is a bittersweet and hopeful account of the effects of posttraumatic stress disorder. Kopelman's First Battalion, Third Marines, found Lava among the debris of war-torn Fallujah in November 2004 and adopted the mongrel despite a Department of Defense prohibition against pets. Recognizing Lava's therapeutic value—"the pure joy and escape he provided"—Kopelman not only ignored the regulations but also promised his marines that he would bring Lava home, which, against all odds, he did. Both man and dog had considerable difficulty in adjusting to life after war; Kopelman experienced "frequent anger and frustration"—especially toward civilians who seemed "so self-absorbed"—and Lava was so aggressively overprotective, he required antidepressant medication. Inspired by Lava's example—and worried about the effect of his behavior on his new family—the author finally sought therapy and encourages other troubled vets to get the treatment they need. Kopelman's nonjudgmental approach and his self-deprecating, tongue-in-cheek humor make this survivor's account as engaging as it is powerful. (July)
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From Baghdad to America: Life Lessons from a Dog Named Lava
Narrated by Christopher Lane
Jay KopelmanUnabridged — 3 hours, 24 minutes
From Baghdad to America: Life Lessons from a Dog Named Lava
Narrated by Christopher Lane
Jay KopelmanUnabridged — 3 hours, 24 minutes
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Overview
Kopelman now writes about what it's like to be home. He credits his canine best friend with finding his wife-in the park, Lava began playing with her dog and the two owners met-and for keeping him sane as he readjusted. With the same intelligence and insight he showed in From Baghdad, With Love, Kopelman sets forth more than a dozen lessons, including: Life can change in an instant, but you'll be able to handle it; passion for something can help you tap into your most powerful reserve of energy; have a standard operating procedure for everything; and never forget who you are or how you got here. Active and retired troops, soldiers' friends and families, and everyone who has ever loved a dog will embrace this book.
Editorial Reviews
"[Narrator Christopher Lane] portray[s] to perfection an ex-Marine whose writing admits to anger, hostility, and personality damage resulting from his combat experiences." ---AudioFile
By turns poignant, compelling, humorous, and scathing, From Baghdad to America is must-read for all veterans and anyone who knows or cares about one.
A courageous and sometimes brutally honest story.
Colonel Kopelman doesn't make it easy to follow his story. Like a butterfly in a flower field, he flits around, lighting on many places and times in his life without lingering. His memories of fighting in Iraq are mixed with descriptions of the stress of returning to U.S. society and of his love for Lava, a dog he smuggled back with him. Narrator Christopher Lane does nothing to distinguish the randomly placed letters to the author regarding his previous book—FROM BAGHDAD, WITH LOVE—making it difficult to tell where they begin and end. He does, however, portray to perfection an ex-Marine whose writing admits to anger, hostility, and personality damage resulting from his combat experiences. Lane creates a veteran characterized by chaotic thinking and disturbing unrest. J.A.H. © AudioFile 2008, Portland, Maine
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940171209551 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Tantor Audio |
| Publication date: | 10/13/2008 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
| Sales rank: | 525,548 |
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
IF YOU CAN SAVE YOUR DOG, YOU CAN SAVE YOURSELF
"War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse."
— JOHN STUART MILL
Why a dog?" I was asked this question a lot after my first book, From Baghdad, With Love, was published. Reporters wanted to know why I put so much time and energy into bringing a puppy back to the States from wartime Iraq. Why the hell not? I always responded in my mind. What were you doing for the effort — besides criticizing the administration and the war? At least I saved something from that place.
The obvious point of such a question was that I should have been spending my time focused on saving something bigger — say, the lives of the people of Iraq. Not that I didn't try, but war doesn't play out in black-and-white like that. Besides, Lava needed me — needed all of us involved in his rescue — and never hesitated to remind me of that. Consider: On some level, saving the life of my dog saved me — and all those he touched — psychologically and emotionally, and continues to do so.
That's Lava for you. My scruffy little pup rescued from certain death in a war that he did not choose to be a part of, Operation Iraqi Freedom, and specifically the battle of Fallujah in November 2004. If what you're about to read sounds similar to, but not exactly like, any previous version of Lava's discovery and rescue, it's because it's not exactly like the previous version you've heard. Remember that game called Telephone? You know, the one you play a few years after you've mastered Ring Around the Rosie but before you get to Spin the Bottle? Where you tell someone something, then they tell the next person, and so on until finally the story coming out the other end is nothing like the original. Wartime engenders this phenomenon fairly often, because when we're not fighting or training, we're talking, telling stories. So that's pretty much what happened when the Lava rescue story started zipping around not only Iraq, but the United States as well.
From Baghdad, With Love included what I thought was an accurate recounting of the "canine rescue mission," as related to me by a Marine who'd told me he was closely involved. He'd been with the Lava Dogs — 1 Battalion, 3 Marines — in Iraq while they were clearing a house that would later become the battalion's command post in Fallujah. The way he told it, they heard a noise that sounded like ticking and crept up on it, not sure what to expect. Turned out to be a puppy wagging his tail in an empty room. But then I heard from Forrest Baker, a former U.S. Marine corporal and also a Lava Dog. He wrote me after reading my book, and lo and behold, the story this time was just a tad different. I wasn't surprised, since in this version Lava played a far more active role in his rescue by making his presence known. The Marines didn't just hear the sound of a tail thumping; no, they heard something a lot more insistent as Lava forced his way into being saved with his insane signature bark.
In a nutshell: This tiny puppy, who'd somehow ended up trapped in a fifty-five-gallon barrel, was making enough noise in the middle of a firefight not only to be heard but to let everyone know the troops' position, too. Forrest risked life and limb to get the dog, then brought him back to the safety of the house that would serve as their home for over a month and a half. And Lava's, despite the fact that it was a clear violation of General Order 1-A, Prohibited Activities for U.S. Department of Defense Personnel Present Within the United States Central Command (USCENTCOM) AOR, Title 10, United States Code, Section 164(c) and the Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ), Title 10, United States Code, Sections 801-940, which somewhere down the line stated in no uncertain terms that "adopting as pets or mascots, caring for, or feeding any type of domestic or wild animal" was 100% prohibited. As in, "No pet dog for you, Soldier." Why? Because "the high operational tempo combined with often hazardous duty faced by U.S. forces in the region makes it prudent to restrict certain activities in order to maintain good order and discipline and ensure readiness." Be that as it may, the Lava Dogs named their pup and fell in love.
* * *
In case you've forgotten, let me take you back in time to November 2004, when this occurred ...
The war in Iraq is still relatively new and the American public still holds out hope that what's billed as a war against al-Qaeda and the terrorist insurgency, and a fight to create a free and democratic Iraq, can be won (by the way, it can, but no one from the Pentagon is calling to ask my advice). The insurgency has placed a stranglehold on the city of Fallujah, a bad-guy bastion in the dreaded Iraqi Sunni Triangle. U.S. forces, predominantly Marines and soldiers, are preparing to invade the city considered by many reporters to be the most dangerous place on earth. We're going to assault Fallujah and rid it of the "thugs, mugs, and murderers" holding it and its people hostage, according to I Marine Expeditionary Force (I MEF) commanding general John Sattler.
Now imagine your nineteen-year-old son or brother or husband fighting for his life in what is the worst urban combat the Marines have experienced since the battle of Hue City in Vietnam more than three decades ago. And here, amid all the carnage — the beheaded bodies and the bloated, rotting, and charred corpses of what were once human beings — a group of kids, in the middle of an intense firefight, find a quivering bundle of fur. He is hope and life; he is a reminder of all that is good, of their former lives, of innocence lost. Lava becomes a link to everything that was once normal for the young combatants. War is possibly the most unnatural state in which you can find yourself, and Lava will alleviate this pain for you every single day.
He's a feral mutt with a shepherd-y thing going on. All furry face and raccoon eyes and a tail that never stops moving even when he's scarfing down the tidbits you've offered him from your own meal. Squint hard enough and he looks just like the dog you left at home, the dog waiting for you to return. In short, when we first find him, Lava is a tiny case of nerves and bravado. Warm, fits easily on your lap, grateful for any bit of love he gets and quick to return it.
In case of nervous breakdown, just pet him or throw a stick and watch him go. In those precious few moments of pure unbounded "puppiness" (Is that a word? It is now.), you're suddenly removed from your surroundings, as though you're Captain Kirk or Mister Spock and you've been beamed aboard the Enterprise only seconds before you become so much space dust because a Klingon has just pulverized your mortal soul with his laser gun.
Being with Lava can whisk you to that place you remember from your childhood. Picture this: Your puppy, oblivious to everything except your howls of delight, chases you, nipping at your heels when he can manage not to trip over his own hugely disproportionate paws that still somehow propel him after you in a tireless game of Chase Or Be Chased. Lava reminds the Marines that there's a reason for being — for staying alive — even if it's just for a few more minutes in an interminable day filled with the interminable nightmares of war.
I ask them what they want to do with the dog, what they expect will happen to him. I explain to them (as if they need to hear this bullshit yet again from yet another uptight officer) that keeping him is against the rules and they shouldn't become too attached to the little troublemaker because in all likelihood he isn't long for this life. How dare I utter such blasphemy in the presence of these not-so-long-ago innocents? How can I not? These kids need a dose of reality, and damned if I'm not the one to give it to them.
The young devil dogs tell me — with complete sincerity and total naïveté — that they want Lava to go home with them. He'll live in Hawaii the rest of his days, chasing turtles and lizards or whatever fauna roam those volcanic islands we call paradise. They want him to sail with them on U.S. Navy ships to Okinawa and then fly with them to their base in Kaneohe Bay. You gotta be shitting me! There's about as much chance of this happening as there is of us actually winning the war in Iraq as planned by former Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld and former CENTCOM Commander Tommy Franks. But all I say is "Okay" and walk away.
Who am I to rain on their parade? Is it really my job to ruin their dreams of Lava living in doggy nirvana? Is that too cynical? I prefer to be called a realist. Dogs are not pets in Iraq. They're not adopted and cared for and put to bed on cozy doggy cushions from L.L. Bean. They are used for protecting property and shepherding flocks. They don't sleep on the bed with the kids or curl up on the floor at your feet while you drink a beer and watch SportsCenter. In Fallujah, in the end, they survive on the remains of the dead, only to be shot by us when they supposedly become a threat to our safety — a threat because we'll begin to care, to feel again, to be attached to a living thing who might compromise our ability to function as the cold-blooded, efficient terrorist hunter-killers that we have all trained hard to become. That we have become.
Still. I awaken one morning to find my feet don't quite go all the way down to the bottom of my sleeping bag. What the hell? I've heard the stories and seen the supposedly unretouched photos of alien-like camel spiders, and am immediately convinced that my superiors — who've grown tired of telling me to get a haircut and to shave — have finally found a way to off me without leaving evidence. Think about it: death by camel spider? It can't be better planned. Then the thing moves. It moves some more, and is now crawling its way toward my face. I lie still and don't breathe. Maybe if I act dead it won't bother to kill me again. Shit, here it comes. It's nearly on my face. I'm gonna die right here in a sleeping bag in Fallujah. How inglorious. What, I can't go out in a mortar attack or be shot by a sniper like a real Marine?
As I lie there thinking of all the things I should have done in life, and quite a few that I shouldn't have, I realize that the creature has broken the surface of my sleeping bag and is now ... licking me? The hell? It seems that in the middle of the night, Lava found a way to crawl into my bag looking for a warm spot to sleep. How he survived the noxious fumes both he and I produce from the MREs ("Meal, Ready-to-Eat": a full ration self-contained in a flexible packet) that are the only thing on the menu here — and the beef jerky that I eat all too willingly — is anyone's guess. But at this moment I achieve utter clarity in what I need to do: Save Lava! Like Forrest Gump running back into the jungle in Vietnam to save Bubba, I am struck with a clarity of purpose and mission, of what needs to be done. It must be done. Not just for the Marines, not just for me, not just for Lava. And not because it'll make me feel all warm and fuzzy about myself. I have to save him because it's the right thing to do.
Later that same day I talk to the Marines who've been Lava's primary caregivers. I tell them I've come to a decision about Lava and what we should do with him. They reiterate their desire to have him come to Hawaii, but I explain the impossibility of that. The presence of a dog on a ship from Kuwait to Okinawa will be difficult, at best, to keep secret; he won't exactly be a welcome passenger on the flight from Okinawa to Hawaii (will he sit on the XO's lap?); and Hawaii, lest anyone forget, has some of the strictest animal quarantine regulations in the world. Not to mention, how do you explain to U.S. Customs the presence of an undocumented, unvaccinated animal upon landing at Kaneohe Bay? Uh, sorry, Mister Customs Man, but we just had to save this dog from Iraq, and now he's our official mascot, so you can't confiscate and euthanize him. Yeah, right. So here's how it's gonna go, fellas.
And at this moment I make the most important promise I've ever made, to date, to anyone in my life. I promise the Marines that I'll find Lava a home in the United States. One where he can play in the park — one where insurgents aren't firing RPGs at him, IEDs aren't a way of life, and dogs don't have to survive on the corpses of dead enemy combatants. How I'll do this I have no idea, but I've just given a bunch of young kids — your kids — my word. And I'll be damned if I'm going back on it.
You see, as an officer of Marines, your word is your bond. You don't ever ask a Marine to do something you're not willing to do or haven't already done hundreds of times yourself; you lead from the front; and you always keep your word. (Are you colonels — you know who you are — who worry about getting that star on your collar more than taking care of your Marines listening?) If I can't do this one simple thing for these troops, how can I expect them to follow me into combat? How can I ask them to follow me through a doorway into a house that's suspected of being an insurgent hideout? Answer: I can't. I have to make good on my promise or my credibility is completely shot. For that reason as much as any other, I was committed to saving Lava.
He may be a dog and not a person, but in his own way Lava saved me and my fellow Marines more completely than any human being could have during those dark days. On many days he continues to save me from myself. So yeah, I brought him back. Oo-rah.
Dear Jay,
I didn't think twice when one of my Marine buddies contacted me one day and told me about a good book he heard about on a rescued dog from Baghdad. Since just about every platoon out there had adopted an animal of some sort, and we had never even made it to Baghdad, I figured the chance of it being Lava was slim to none. However, I was doing research for a book of my own and was trying to get my hands on anything about Iraq I could find so I decided to pick it up. Yet when I went down to the bookstore and saw the cover I knew immediately that he was our dog. I couldn't believe it!
I brought it home and read it in one sitting and I was far more than impressed with your effort to bring him to the States. It is nothing less than heroic. The introduction and story of his rescue is not right, though. I know because I was the one who found him.
The day Lava encountered his first American was far from silent. Hearing a gre — nade pin drop among the sounds of incoming mortars, artillery, and random bursts of both enemy and our own machine-gun fire would have been impossible for even the keenest ear. Nonetheless, as we gathered in the courtyard of our newly occupied operations center to go over maps, the plan of the day, and enjoy the morning's first cigarette, one of the headquarters captains said that he could hear a whining like a trapped animal or possibly a wounded insurgent. We looked through the razor wire and sandbags atop the courtyard wall and saw nothing moving in the large dirt clearing on the other side. It was a desolate and bare battlefield except for the few blown-up vehicles, a 55-gallon metal drum, and scattered shards of metal debris, but there was certainly a loud noise echoing from somewhere. It turned out to be the sound of a hungry five-week-old puppy lost and alone in that metal drum, the only shelter he could find from the most dangerous place in the world.
Forrest Baker visiting Lava in San Diego
The same captain then ordered me, a corporal at the time and the only NCO available, to shut it up because it was giving away our position. Luckily there was no time for micromanagement and he left the "how" up to me. Ironically, as you can probably remember, a week after we found him the RCT issued an order to euthanize all animals in the city in order to control disease, since they had been feasting on their previous and long-deceased owners. That option, however, never crossed my mind. I had to go get it.
So I then gathered two of the junior Marines on the forward to cover me as I ran out into the clearing. With a tight grip on the stock of my rifle I sprinted out to the steel container that echoed his cry for help and used it to take cover. I had no idea if I was being observed and if so by which direction. The large clearing was completely surrounded by two-story buildings and I knew my cover wasn't very effective, or if it would even stop a round at all, so I quickly reached in to grab him but he scooted deeper inside to avoid my grasp. In order to reach him I had to let go of my rifle, something we have been trained never to do, and crawled in grabbing him with both hands. I got up and ran as fast as I could the hundred and fifty feet back to the courtyard with my rifle dangling from its three-point sling. As of then I had never been so exposed to danger in my life, but luckily not a shot was fired.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "From Baghdad To America"
by .
Copyright © 2008 Jay Kopelman.
Excerpted by permission of Skyhorse Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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