Wardogs

Chapter 13

Chapter 13

But we're heading out on the search, and each time we do I know there's a real chance that we won't come back, or we'll be brought in missing a limb. But worse than that would be me surviving and losing my best friend, Hunter. That would be a scar in the mind that would never heal.

We're out on the ground by seven sharp, and Hunter and I start the search. I'm scanning the terrain for the slightest sign that might reveal an IED's been hidden in the bush or buried in our path, plus I'm keeping an eye out for my dog in case he pops out of sight. I'm looking everywhere but where the enemy is going to be - up ahead with their guns zeroed in on one man and his dog.

But I've got this growing feeling of confidence in the Bravo Company lads - that every second they're doing everything in their power to safeguard Hunter and me.

I've fashioned a makeshift leash out of a fifteen-metre length of paracord. I've got Hunter roaming loosely on that leash, with the near end hooked over the bayonet that I've got jammed into my chest webbing. I figure this will give him the freedom to search whilst allowing me to haul him out of a river or a pond when we really need to move.

We've not rehearsed this kind of long-leash means of searching. We're learning as we go here, making it up as we go along. I sense that each patrol is going to be different, a process of trial and error to see what works best on the ground. I'll keep experimenting with different harness rigs and leads to see what suits the kind of tough and challenging conditions we're moving

through. We spend the morning clearing compounds and paths. I send Hunter down into a ditch full of broken rubble. It's a classic Taliban hiding place for explosives and bomb-making kit. He glances up at me: Yeah, right - four paws, no great big clumping Army boots, thanks, Dad. But he checks it out anyway.

By midday we've found pretty much nothing compared to that first day's search. We take a five-minute break by a small stream. I get hold of Hunter's front paws and hold them up in my hands, gazing into his eyes. I give them a good rub.

'Are your pawsies hurting, lad, are they?" I ask him. 'I know my feet are aching like hell?

I glance around a little sheepishly. I can feel the lads with their eyes on me. For a moment I find myself thinking I hope no one saw me doing that. But those that have noticed have got these indulgent smiles on their faces, as if they've seen the dog whisperer having a talk to his hound, and they figure it's all right.

I dig Hunter's plastic water bowl out of my backpack, and I'm just slopping some water into it when the silence is ripped apart. Suddenly, there's a fearsome stream of rounds hammering through the bush just inches above my dog and me. There's only one way out of the fire, and that's to dive backwards into the water. I land with Hunter on top of me, for I've dragged him in there by the paracord leash.

It doesn't bother Hunter. He loves the wet. As for me, I've landed right on top of a nest of vicious, biting insects. I've got a thick swarm buzzing around my head and I'm getting bitten raw. I can't stand up, in part because I've got Hunter on top of me, but more because the gunfire's hammering my body between my dog and the fire. across us and I've got

As the insects gnaw into my face, bullets kick up savage spurts of mud along the rim of the stream, and whine and pop angrily across the water all around my head. I just know that Hunter's laughing at me.

The longer we lie there half submerged the less sympathetic my dog seems to get. It's like he's saying, So, if you don't want me in the river what are you doing pulling me in here with you? And on top of all those insects, too! Make you, Dad? your mind up, won't

The Company lads put down a barrage of murderous counter-fire. Their skill and aggression is unsurpassed, and they're the kind of blokes you really want on your side in the midst of a b****y great firefight. Clouds of thick cordite smoke drift across the water, and it does a little to drive the insects off. Finally, the enemy must realise they're outgunned, for they melt away into the surrounding terrain.

By the time we drag ourselves out of the water I've been bitten raw by the swarm, but otherwise I'm unharmed. Hunter is completely fine, which is a huge relief because I've got this horrible feeling that a great deal of the enemy fire was targeted at my dog. Maybe I was just imagining things, but just where we'd taken cover was where the enemy fire seemed to be at its most concentrated and deadly.

It's the hottest part of the day by the time we're back on the search. I check Hunter for dehydration by pulling at the scruff of his neck: when it fails to spring back into place I know that he's suffering. I check his gums and his nose: if they're not soft, glis tening and moist I'll know that the heat's really getting to him.

By the time we rendezvous with the Vikings, Hunter's nose is noticeably duller and drier. I reckon it's not a moment too soon to get him out of the burning heat, into some shade, and on his way back to base. I give my remaining water to the lads who'll be completing the patrol on foot and go to mount up the Viking, but it's then that the convoy commander puts out an arm to stop me.

He tells me that there's no room in the vehicles for me and my dog. I tell him there has to be, 'cause Hunter's not walking back to Sangin in the boiling heat of the afternoon. He's not acclima tised to the conditions yet, it's a long hike back to base, and I am not visiting that on my dog. I tell him the major's orders were that the dog team goes back in the Vikings.