urgency of the situation, and the Afghan man agreed to loan them his truck. They piled in. There was the blur of movement, the jolt of the rocky road beneath them. They were moving, they were moving.
When they pulled up to the medevac site, the signal smoke marking its spot already billowed high in the air. Within minutes the helicopter was on the ground. They made it.
They just made it.
Part II
Six
The Road to War Leads Through Yuma
Entreat me not to leave thee, orto 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.
âBook of Ruth
The drive out to the proving ground from downtown Yumaâa stretch of two-lane desert highway that runs approximately 30 milesâseems endless in the predawn pitch black. During daylight hours, this road is populated by snail-slow farming tractors and leisurely retireesâthe snowbirds who make Arizona their home during the winter monthsâcaravanning 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 hourâs drive from downtown Yuma, the Yuma Proving Ground (YPG), a military base in southwestern Arizona near the California border, stretches 1,300square miles. Each year, this immense areaâlarger than the state of Rhode Islandâtests 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 shouldnât be quite so hard to findâbut maybe thatâs 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 âturn right at the jump siteâ 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 Iâd had the skills to drive while staring straight up, it would be the men parachuting from the sky.)
I know Iâm finally in the right place when I come across the courseâs only real distinguishing markâa 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 Knightâs office, a menâs 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, âFor Dogs Only.â 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 itâs 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
When they pulled up to the medevac site, the signal smoke marking its spot already billowed high in the air. Within minutes the helicopter was on the ground. They made it.
They just made it.
Part II
Six
The Road to War Leads Through Yuma
Entreat me not to leave thee, orto 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.
âBook of Ruth
The drive out to the proving ground from downtown Yumaâa stretch of two-lane desert highway that runs approximately 30 milesâseems endless in the predawn pitch black. During daylight hours, this road is populated by snail-slow farming tractors and leisurely retireesâthe snowbirds who make Arizona their home during the winter monthsâcaravanning 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 hourâs drive from downtown Yuma, the Yuma Proving Ground (YPG), a military base in southwestern Arizona near the California border, stretches 1,300square miles. Each year, this immense areaâlarger than the state of Rhode Islandâtests 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 shouldnât be quite so hard to findâbut maybe thatâs 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 âturn right at the jump siteâ 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 Iâd had the skills to drive while staring straight up, it would be the men parachuting from the sky.)
I know Iâm finally in the right place when I come across the courseâs only real distinguishing markâa 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 Knightâs office, a menâs 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, âFor Dogs Only.â 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 itâs 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
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