Wardogs

Chapter 17

Chapter 17

I get John to carry a message for me back to the 104. I explain that we can only make use of an AES team, and how urgently in need we are of one. Bravo Company consists of four troops - over two hundred men at arms - and Hunter and I have to cover for them all. Those troops are out doing back-to-back patrols, and my dog and I could be on-search 24/7 if I allowed us to be.

John's dog, Toby, is a ferocious German shepherd. Like all patrol dogs, he's been chosen for his aggression and his drive to bite. We load him into his flight cage and carry it up to the helipad so that we can get John and his dog into the helicopter and gone. But it doesn't quite work out that way. By the time we've got the cage halfway up the rear ramp, the aircrew have been ordered

to get airborne and they wave us off again. Unfortunately, John fails to dismount the aircraft in time, the ramp whirs shut, and I'm left alone on the helipad with one extremely enraged dog. I've got no option but to take the cage and Toby back to our newly built kennels.

forgets I've trained German shepherds before, and a dog never f a handler, the smell of whom will always bring a sense of famil iarity and companionship. Unfortunately, I've never worked with Toby, and I don't get the impression that he likes me very much. After all, why should he? I'm very much not his dad. But somehow I've got to get him out of his flight cage and into the kennel alongside Hunter's.

I edge Toby's flight kennel up against the entrance, throw some treats inside and ease open the door. Toby smells the treats and takes the bait. My dog is now sharing the Kingdom of Hunter with this lunatic German shepherd, one who's going wild for his handler. In no time, Toby makes it clear that he needs a wee and a poo. Wherever possible the dogs are trained not to soil their own quarters. I've now got to work out how the hell we manage this one.

Somehow, I succeed in getting Toby onto a leash and his toilet stuff done without me getting bitten or losing control of him. But this is starting to get more than a little silly. More impor tantly, Hunter and I are needed out on patrol, but instead I'm having to babysit a teeth-gnashing Toby-wolf. I head to the ops room and get a radio call put through to the 104 at Camp Bastion.

John's on his way, but his dog's still here, I tell them. 'I need John back to pick up his dog, or an airframe sent to lift him out?

The boss reassures me that they'll get John on a helo flight to come and fetch Toby. 'Don't worry, Dave, he tells me. 'We'll get it sorted'

His getting it sorted' takes two full days. I can't get out on patrol because I can't leave an attack dog unsupervised. At the same time I've still got to try to wee, poo and exercise him. The only way I can get him to half behave is to bribe him with copious amounts of doggy treats, and I can tell that Hunter's getting resentful and jealous. I can't say that I blame him. More to the point, both me and Hunter are burning up with frustration that we're not getting out and getting used.

There's a real risk here that Toby will seriously turn on me. If he does, that'll be me out of action for a very long time. He's trained to bite and hold and not let go unless his handler orders him to. And right now his handler's hardly in yelling distance to call off his dog. You can't run from a patrol dog, either. They're trained to pursue and bring down a fleeing suspect, and a young German shepherd like Toby is far swifter than an ageing Dave Heyhoe. It would be a case of me having to take the bite and drag him back to his cage.

Hunter's a lot smaller than Toby, but I've never once seen my dog back down from a fight. If he could just get at Toby - the dog that's seriously pissing off his dad - I know Hunter would go for him big time. And the last thing I need is Hunter getting an ear ripped off, as that would be him out of action for the rest of the tour. There's no doubt about it - we need to get Toby gone.

Finally, I get word that John's flying in to pick up his dog. It's not a moment too soon, as far as Hunter and I are concerned. The helicopter touches down in a thick, broiling dust storm, and I'm waiting there with Toby in his flight crate. By the time the brown out has cleared, I can see that it's only a Lynx that has flown in, not the big, bulky Chinook that I was expecting.

I'm familiar with the Lynx from my infantry days. It can carry up to nine fully equipped troops, but we've rarely if ever used one to transport a dog. I figure they'll just about be able to get Toby and his crate aboard, but it'll be a tight squeeze. In fact, I'm wrong. Whatever way we try it, the crate just won't go in.

Finally, John is forced to muzzle Toby and drag him aboard the aircraft minus cage. I can see how reluctant the dog is to go in, and in a way I feel for him. To Toby, this giant beast with screaming turbines and thrashing rotor blades must appear like the world's most terrifying monster. Just as soon as they've got him in and slid shut the door, the pilot piles on the collective and they're airborne.

But as the Lynx climbs into the sky it starts veering wildly and it's all over the place. Toby is visible through the Plexiglas sides and he's going insane. His head is snapping this way and that as he tries to shake off the muzzle and sink his teeth into the neck of one or other of the flight crew, just a couple of feet in front of him.

Slowly, and horribly erratically, the helicopter dwindles into a distant speck in the sky. Thank God he's gone. I return to our kennels and do a quick check on Hunter. Lunatic dog gone? he asks me. Yes, lad, lunatic dog gone!

It's great being just the two of us again, for there's nothing worse than losing that bond with your dog.