Wardogs

Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Two months before deploying to Afghanistan I decided we had to get it done. In the Afghan heat a broken tail could easily get infected and put Hunter out of action. Worst-case scenario it could give him septicaemia, in which case his entire bloodstream would become infected and he could die.

After he'd been docked, Hunter came around from the anaest

thetic, took one look at the bandaged stump where his tail used to be and rolled his eyes at me: I thought that's what you'd brought me here for. Oh well, tail gone-time to c***k on.

Doing a big operation like this can impact upon a dog's ability to search, but I felt I had to take the risk. I was dreading going out on our next search exercise in case losing his tail had ruined Hunter as an AES dog. But it didn't seem to have had any effect at all. Hunter was still Hunter a world-beating bomb-detection machine. Which is a good thing really, now that we're out here facing the enemy and with half a dozen kilometres of paths and alleyways still to search.

We're approaching maybe our fiftieth compound of the day, the sun's high and we're roasting. Every time Hunter raises a paw and places it onto the baking earth I freeze up and tense myself for a blast. I have to force myself to keep moving forwards, and the sweat's pouring off me in bucket-loads.

The temperature out here must be pushing well past forty degrees, and if it's this hot for me, how must it be for Hunter, all wrapped up in his glossy black coat of fur? But nothing seems to slow my dog, not even the burning Afghan sun that's beating down upon him.

There's a savage burst of ferocious barking off to one side of a building up ahead, and I figure there must be the biggest Afghan fighting dog ever tethered in there. Hunter pauses for an instant, glances in the direction of the snarls, his ears pricked forwards to siphon up the sound.

He glances back at me: And? Are we scared, Dad? Who's he kidding?

His head goes down and he's snuffling again, sifting every wind-blown molecule on the baking-hot, bone-dry air. I can hear his lungs pumping as he sniffs his way forward, siphoning individual scents through his muzzle, his brain searching for the handful that we're looking for the ones that will give him his reward, a play with his beloved ball.

I hear a second, more familiar round of barking now - lihad fronting up to that fighting dog and telling it to back the hell off. That's our girl.

We're almost at the compound when Hunter shows the first classic symptoms of a change in behaviour-indicating to me that he's onto something. His nose starts to suck up the air in great, heaving gasps, nostrils flaring as he savours the scent. His head sways this way and that as he tries to pinpoint the direc tion from which the smell is coming, and then he's making a beeline for the doorway of that mud-walled compound.

This is our first ever patrol in Afghanistan, and this the first sign of my dog showing a real interest in something. The thought keeps flashing through my mind: what the hell is he onto here? It could be completely mundane, like a pile of goat poo. Hunter is a dog, after all, and sometimes he does get distracted by all the usual doggy smells. But the way he's behaving it's far more likely to be an arms cache, hidden explosives, or maybe an IED that's primed and ready to blow.

'Careful, lad, careful, I whisper. "What is it you think you're onto here?"

He glances back at me. I can read his eyes: You know, Dad, I need to get a closer sniff - but there's something in there, that's for sure.

Hunter knows he's in an alien environment and he knows that this is serious. He knows it's the real deal. He can sense the and the potential for violence rippling through the hot Afghan air, not to mention the tension that I'm feeling. He knows we've upped the ante big time, and that he's got to get in there and find something for me, for his dad.

At my signal one of the Bravo Company lads on my shoulder boots open the galvanised iron door leading into the compound. It flies inwards with an almighty crash. The moment it's open Hunter darts inside, his nose pulling him forwards like a magnet towards a giant lump of steel.

For a second I stand on the threshold, watching him track the scent that's right on the end of his nose. Momentarily the fear that's inside me holds me back. That fear is fuelled by the host of Afghan faces that have turned towards my dog and me in shock, surprise and real enmity. Whoever is that lives in this compound, they definitely do not want us in here.

And then I get a grip: Dave, b****y get inside and step up to your dog. You can't let him do this alone.

I stride across the dirt floor until I'm right by Hunter's side. A row of eyes to the left of us - all male, all openly hostile - are glued to my dog as he noses his way ahead, steadily, stealthily, each paw-step taking him further in the direction that he's heading. Ahead of my dog there's a shed-like building. Suddenly I know for sure that's where he's heading. Question is: what the hell is there inside it?

As Hunter creeps steadily onwards every second seems to last a lifetime. I place one boot in front of the other, feeling like I'm moving through a slow-mo scene of pure, icy fear. I've never experienced anything like this before. It's evil, and it's only my link to my dog that keeps me moving forward. If Hunter can do this, so can I.

He reaches that shed, his nose glued unerringly to the door. I can sense that he's about to plonk his butt down to sit at source. He's telling me: Dad, it's in there.