Wardogs

Chapter 14

Chapter 14

We get into this massive argument, but eventually he half gives in: Hunter can ride in the Vikings, he tells me, but I can't. He's a young, gobby lieutenant, and I'm fifteen years his senior. If I'd remained in the Cheshires I'd probably have made officer now. In my mind and attitude I outrank him, but I don't need to argue this one. Hunter, I know, will sort it out in his own, inim itable fashion.

All I say to the lieutenant is: 'Fine, sir, have it your way. But secretly I'm laughing my head off at what's about to happen here. I unclip Hunter's harness, give him a quick 'get up', and he leaps into the rear of the Viking.

He half turns, looking for his dad to follow him. Instead, I give him a good ruffle around the neck and what verbal reas surance I can: 'Good laaaad - you take it easy in there while I'm on these tired legs doing the long haul back...

Then I flash him an encouraging smile and stride off to join the rest of the patrol. I've left a less than happy-looking Hunter at the lieutenant's feet, and no sooner has the door swung shut behind me than I hear this low, throaty growl. Hunter is a one man dog. I'm the alpha male - his pack leader and his dad. All he ever wants in life - apart from the odd bit of flirting with the likes of Sasha and Jihad - is to search for bombs and to bask in the love of his dad. And as far as he's concerned he's just lost his pack leader. Not good news.

On the few occasions that we've been separated in the past, Hunter's got scared. The only way he knows to show fear is to growl. If you don't back off he'll show his teeth: Listen, I'm real scared of you, so back off. ... And if you keep coming once he's done that he'll bite you: I warned you twice but you took no notice... NOW BACK RIGHT OFF!

I can just imagine the fate awaiting that lieutenant on the drive back to Sangin, and I've no doubt who will be getting the better of that confrontation. I'm smiling inside as I think of it, but I don't keep doing so for long. There are several problems. One, I've now got no water and I've got eight miles to go during the hottest part of the day. More importantly, I can't get my mind off Hunter and the fact that he's not at my side. Suddenly, I feel like some useless tourist bolted onto the patrol, like all meaning in my life has gone. I know that I've done the right thing letting Hunter ride back, because he was totally whacked, but still I'm worried sick for my dog.

What happens if the Viking gets hit by an IED? What happens if Hunter gets injured and I'm not at his side? What happens if I lose him? Mile after mile on that long trek back to Sangin I can't get those dark thoughts out of my mind.

I'm parched with thirst long before we're approaching base. I'm torn between my fear for Hunter, the worry that I'm going to die of thirst, or that the Taliban are going to hit the patrol with an IED because we're out here bereft of our search dog. I see the Marine that I gave all my water to taking a greedy neck, and I give him the eye. You going to share some of that with me or what?

By the time we reach the outskirts of town, it's a fantastic morale booster to see the Afghan flags flying, and not those of the Taliban. It means that we're winning the battle for hearts and minds here but, more importantly, that we're almost there, which means me being reunited with my dog.

I stumble through the front gates exhaustedly. Immediately to one side there's one of the Bravo Company lads, with Hunter held on a makeshift lead. My dog's overjoyed to see me, and vice versa, but the Bravo lad can't seem to stop laughing.

All right, mate, out with it: what's so funny?' I ask, as I give Hunter a good ruffle and a hug.

"Two things, Dave. One, there was room for you on the wagon after all.

'What the- I did eight b****y miles in the heat of the

with no water, and there was space!"

day

'Yeah, once we'd taken our seats we realised there was one free. Sorry, mate.

And what's the other thing that's so funny?'

'Well, best of all your dog had a good pop at the convoy commander. All the way back he kept growling and biting him, like he knew he'd been left with us sweaty lot while you gott walk home. to

'Serves him b****y right.'

I glance down at Hunter. He's got this look on his face like he knows he's done wrong: I'm sorry, Dad, but he threw you out so what choice did I have but to bite him?

At no stage do I chastise my dog. I'm glad Hunter chewed out that gobby lieutenant, and in a sense I'm the one most at fault here. I should have been there to settle and control my dog. I make a decision there and then: wherever it is we're going next, they either take both of us or neither of us.

This is the last time I am ever going to be separated from my dog.

The first priority for any frontline soldier once he's in off patrol is his weapon: to unload it, to make it safe, clean it, and to reload his magazines. My first priority is my dog. I have to make sure he has plenty of food and water, and he gets time for a good run around the helipad or by the river. Hunter needs his down time and his playtime as an antidote to the intensity and stress of the search, not to mention being locked in a Viking without his dad.

Once he's done having his run, we return to our makeshift kennel and I set to grooming him. First I use the 'rake', a strong metal comb that can drag out the worst knots and the tangles in his hair. After that I give him a good brushing down with a softer kind of a shoe brush. It'll leave Hunter's jet-black coat looking smooth and glossy like dark satin.