Wardogs

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

I find a deserted corner of the base. I take the RPG and start jumping on it pointy-nose-downwards, to drive it into the earth. I've got Hunter locked in his dingy cage, and I need to bury the warhead good and proper, to really test him. I'm almost done when this Royal Marine comes running over screaming his head off. He's going nuts.

Apparently, the RPG round is live, and I've come that close to blowing myself to bits. I stop what I'm doing, check the safety cap is screwed on very firmly, and proceed to bury it a little more carefully. The ruckus over the RPG incident has attracted a lot of attention and by the time I've gone and fetched Hunter we've got something of an audience.

I release my dog and give him the magical words: 'Seek on, lad, seek on?

He makes a beeline for the location of the RPG and stops right over it, his eyes staring at the ground where it's buried. He turns to me, and I'm about to tell him what a good boy he is and give him a big well done, when he notices all the onlookers. Not wanting to miss the chance of putting in a top perform ance, he proceeds to c**k his leg and to pee all over the buried round.

It's some way to make a first impression with those Royal Marine lads. It's also typical Hunter. He's got a real mischievous, rebel streak. The rufty-tufty Marines break into a spontaneous round of applause at Hunter's pissing-on-the-explosives trick, and I figure they have us pegged now as the joker man-and-dog team. First I tried to blow myself up with the RPG; now Hunter's peed on it. What a performance.

It reminds me of the time when Hunter and I were working as the then Prime Minister Tony Blair's personal security detail. I'd sent my dog for a good sniff around his hotel room, and Hunter couldn't resist jumping onto the Prime Minister's bed. Before I could stop him he'd done a big luxurious doggy roll, giving his back a good scratch as he went - one that left black Hunter hairs all over the pristine white sheets.

The next morning we ran into the Prime Minister having breakfast. He fixed Hunter with a look - I know what you did. You think it's funny. Well I don't - and gave me a wry kind of a smile before telling me how lucky it was that he loved dogs.

I try explaining to the Royal Marines that peeing on some thing is not Hunter's normal way of indicating that he's found explo sives. But my words are lost in a gale of laughter: Yeah, course not, mate, we believe you.

We train our dogs to track a scent to the point of greatest danger - the strongest concentration of the odour in the air - but never to touch the explosives, and certainly not to pee on it! But Hunter's been parachuted into a strange environment, he's been locked up in the cage from hell all morning, and he's a black dog in the boiling heat of the Afghan day. I reckon we've got to cut him some slack.

We're facing a five a.m. start the following day, and I've got a shedload of stuff to prepare. I'll carry enough dried food to last Hunter four days, just in case we get marooned out there, plus a couple of ration packs for me. I'll carry three Camelbaks of water, a medical kit specially made for Hunter, and one for me. I'll also have my own personal weapon, a stubby SA80 carbine, and several magazines of spare ammunition. We handlers carry the Stubby - a shortened assault rifle - because it's easier to use when trying to control our dogs.

I'll also be decked out in body armour, grenades, a bayonet and radio kit. Basically, I'll have everything the Royal Marine lads are carrying, plus all the gear for my dog. It's one hell of a lot of weight to lug around on your back. Hunter will be on-leash when we're not searching, but off-leash when we are. I need him to be able to range freely and to follow his nose wherever it takes him.

Equally importantly, I'll need to ease myself into a new mindset. I've got to start thinking like a Taliban, and double guessing where they'll have planted their killer devices. Hunter and I will be out front, leading patrols, studying the ground for any tell-tale signs that a bomb's been planted. We'll have to rely on the Royal Marines to be our eyes and ears and our protec tion out there.

The Taliban know what the dogs can do by now. They know we're the single biggest threat to their murderous IEDs. So I'll have the added pressure of always being watchful for Hunter, to make sure they don't capture or kill him. I've made Hunter a solemn promise that I'm going to bring him out of this alive, and I'm determined to deliver. I'll be asking him to risk his life for me and for the patrol. In return I'll sacrifice myself if I have to, but they're not getting my dog.

We'll be hitting the search area at the hottest time of the day, putting Hunter under immense pressure and risking heat exhaus tion. My worry is for my dog first and foremost, but also for the safety of the entire patrol. A cool and rested dog is far more effi cient at detecting the threat than a hot, exhausted and frustrated one. I've raised my concerns with the Commanding Officer of Bravo Company, but he's told me that the plan is the plan. We've got to run with it.

At first light the following morning Hunter and I mount up a Viking armoured vehicle, one of three forming our patrol. With a crunch of grinding gears the metal-skinned beast gets under way, and we nose through the darkened gates of the base and out into bandit country. We turn right, heading north up route 611 towards Inkerman, Ken and Sasha's posting.