Wardogs

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

There are some forty young guns of Bravo Company distrib uted across the Vikings, plus a handful of the Afghan National Army (ANA) soldiers co-located with us here at Sangin. And there's Jihad, of course, the new honorary member of my K9 team.

I can sense that the Bravo Company lads are more than a little curious as to just what Hunter and I can do. The story of the RPG round and Hunter's leg-c*****g incident has done the rounds, and there's been a good deal of sniggering. I guess this is make-or break time: we're really going to have to prove ourselves out there.

It's seven o'clock by the time we've pushed the fifteen kilo metres north to the start point for the patrol. We dismount in a patch of deserted bush. We're to move south from here on foot, clearing terrain as we go. Before we get under way, the patrol commander, a young and thrusting corporal, asks me what call sign the patrol is to use to address the dog team. We've all got personal radios clipped to our helmets, for comms between patrol members.

I've noticed that this Royal Marines lot don't appear to go in for nicknames or light-hearted call signs very much. They seem far too serious for that. Instead, they address each other by their surnames or by rank mostly, and it's all a bit too formal - not to mention grim-sounding - for my liking.

'Sir, it's probably best just to call me "Dave Dog", I tell him. 'Or just plain "Dog", "'cause I've noticed there's another Dave on the patrol.

He gives me this look, like I'm taking the piss or something. Ever since I joined the 104, my nickname has been Dave Dog. It's become such a part of me that it's the name everyone uses for me down my local boozer, and it's the name I use on the pub's pool league. I figure it's as fine a call sign as any, now that Hunter and I are at war.

'Everyone else calls me Dog,' I tell him.

'Right, Dog it is, the patrol commander confirms, a little reluc tantly. 'Right, erm ... Dog, I want you out front of the patrol, and every compound cleared from here back to Sangin. Let's go.'

'Hold it just a minute, sir,' I say. "What's the set-up, protection wise, for me and my dog?'

For a moment he stares at me, like he can't believe I'm ques tioning an order and holding up his patrol. I don't give a s**t. I'm thirty-eight years old to his mid-twenties. I'd reached the rank of sergeant in the Cheshires before taking a demotion back to lance corporal, which is the only way to get entry into dog handler training. They'll only take you if you're willing to sacri fice your rank, simply to get your K9.

More importantly, no one can order me what to do with my dog. I may be embedded with his patrol as the 'search element, but my dog remains 100 per cent my responsibility at all times. 'It's like I said, dog handler, he replies impatiently, 'you and your dog will be out front-'

'Sir, there's something you need to know here, I cut in. 'When we start the search I will be totally focused on my dog. I'll be looking to the ground at his front, scanning for potential IEDs. I need to be eyes-on my dog, to make sure he doesn't shoot around a corner out of sight. If I'm looking down at my dog, I can't be looking out for the Taliban. I need to be able to concen trate on Hunter one hundred per cent, and without worrying about us getting shot or blown up.

'Everyone faces the same threat-'

'No, sir, they don't. My dog and me - we're at the tip of the spear. If the enemy's waiting in ambush, we'll be the first to get it. If there's a device planted out there, my dog and me will be first onto it. What I need is two of your lads, one to either side of the track a fair distance behind us, providing security. If either of us triggers a device, we'll take the blast. The lads on security should be far enough back to survive. But I need to know that I can rely on them for every second that we're searching

'Understood, the patrol commander cuts in.

He barks an order at a couple of burly Commandos that they're to be on my shoulder, providing the dedicated dog team security.

That done, I turn to face the narrow path that snakes through the bush. I stand there in the blinding early morning sunlight surveying the route ahead. Hunter is at my feet, to my left as always, but he can sense my fear and indecision, and it's unsettled him. Before heading out to Afghanistan, wed studied the kinds of devices the Taliban are using here. The most common is the cellphone-triggered IED. The bomb is dug into a road or a path like this one, just below where a patrol will be passing. When the bomb maker sees a column of British soldiers approaching, he dials the phone. His call sends the circuit live, which deton ates the bomb. If it's a vehicle convoy moving at speed it's hard to time the detonation right. It's much easier with a patrol on foot moving along a path, and led by one man and his dog.

I pull out Hunter's reward - a bog-standard fluorescent green tennis ball - and instantly my dog knows we're here to search. The ball is the key. It's how handler and dog train together from the very start. You begin by rolling a ball into a room, and letting the dog run in to play with it. You then put a target scent (such as an explosive) inside a box, and roll the ball up to the box. The dog smells the scent at the same time as grabbing the ball, and you call him back and tell him he's a good boy. Now he's linked the scent to the ball and to play: If I find the scent I find the ball, and so I get to play.