Wardogs

CHAPTER 1 I glance at Hunter. I'm worried about how he's coping with the suffocating heat and the thudding beat of the whocka-whocka. Its giant twin rotor blades are screaming above our heads as we swoop earthwards, the helo coming in low and fast and weaving this way and that in an effort to avoid enemy fire. I'm sitting on a fold-down canvas seat to one side of the giant helicopter's hold, Hunter facing forwards and sandwiched between my knees. The rear ramp's already been lowered, so my dog and I can dive off it as soon as the aircraft hits the dirt. The wind is rushing in like a howling gale, mixed with the heady scent of burning avgas from the aircraft's twin turbines. Hunter's a handsome-as-hell black Labrador-spaniel cross, and he's my most trusted friend. In the world of war-dogs he's known as a toughie and a troublemaker, not a licky, soppy kind of mutt. But right now I can tell that he's in need of some real comfort from his dad'. He feels my gaze upon him, and cranes his head around in an effort to make eye contact. The whites of his eyes flash this way and that as he searches for me, his shiny black muzzle pointing vertically at the roof above. I reach down and get my arm around his neck, pulling him in until his head's leant to one side and cradled on my thigh. I hold him close and whisper into his velvety-soft ear: 'It's OK, lad, Dad's here and he's not going to let anything happen to you, not ever... But as I say those words I pray that I've got the power to deliver on them that I truly can bring my dog out of this one unin jured and alive. When dog and handler are as close as Hunter and me, emotions run up-leash and down again. He knows I'm excited to be here, but that I'm hugely apprehensive and nervous for him. He throws me this glance, his coal-bright amber eyes like pools of trusting fire. Over the years we've spent together I've learned to read his every look. This one says: Wherever the hell it is you're taking me, Dad, I'm sticking by your side. And as long as I'm with you I know it's going to be all right. I tell him that it is. I tell him that he's right. I tell him that I'll protect him with my very life if I have to; no one's going to shoot or blow up my best buddy, my dog. On one level, it doesn't matter what words exactly you say to your dog, it's how you say them that matters. I'm using my high pitched 'praise' voice as I talk, letting Hunter know I'm happy with him and that all's good between us. But he and I have lived and worked together for so long now that we've formed a special, much deeper connection. I truly believe that my dog can under stand every word that I say, and that's the magic of the bond between us. The Chinook lurches earthwards and flares out, preparing to land. We descend into a howling 'brown-out' - a thick, choking dust storm kicked up by the rotor blades. Luckily, I've remembered to pack Hunter's 'doggles', Perspex goggles that strap onto your dog's head. As we go belting down the Chinook's open ramp, we're both sporting our protective eyewear so as to prevent the sand from getting blasted into our eyes and blinding us. We hit the ground running, and as we exit the chopper the handler and dog team we're replacing are ready to go pounding up the open ramp to take our place. It's too noisy to exchange more than the briefest of words. The handler stuffs a scribbled note into my hand: Dave, welcome to Sangin. Only 186 days to go - you know the rest! Seconds later they're swallowed up by the aircraft's gaping hold, the whine of the rotors screaming to fever pitch as the Chinook claws into the air. I crouch amongst a heap of our 'K9' - military working dog - equipment, trying to shield Hunter from the crushing downwash of the rotor blades. The belly of the heli copter vanishes into the dark and howling sandstorm, whisking handler and dog back towards Camp Bastion... and safety. Hunter and I have just taken over as the Arms Explosives Search dog team here in Sangin, Helmand Province, Afghanistan - more commonly known as IED Central. This is arguably the most dangerous place in the world's most dangerous war zone right now. Yet that's it: our handover's done. The man-and-dog team that preceded us has got the hell out, and with them has gone all the knowledge that they accumulated during their six-month tour. Still, I do my best to see the funny side of it: welcome to Sangin. Only 186 days to go With the helicopter gone the dust storm gradually abates. Hunter and I are able to take stock of our surroundings. We've been dropped on the helipad - a stretch of parched, arid sandy terrain - which sits in the midst of the Sangin DC (District Centre), a vast compound that serves as the British Army's headquarters here. The entire place is dominated by the squat shape of the District Centre itself, which resembles something from out of the Alamo. It's like a dun-coloured layer cake; one made from pockmarked concrete and shrapnel-riddled sandbags, and decorated with glistening spools of razor wire. The whip-like silhouettes of radio antennae sprout from four corners of the war-blasted building, and every bullet-torn window and doorway vomits rolls of camouflage netting. Clustered around the foot of the building are scores of squat, ugly, makeshift shelters. The walls are made of thick HESCO barriers - a wire-mesh system filled with earth to form blast proof structures - with sandbags overhead. There are thick tufts of grass sprouting out of the roofs, testimony to the length of time the British Army has spent under siege here. It's towards one of those shelters that Hunter and I make our wary way, in search of somewhere to house one man and his dog. Although a dog and handler have been here before us, there's very little on site for an animal's welfare. All the base can offer to house Hunter is a small metal cage, with some sheets of card board flung over for shade.