Wardogs

Chapter 34

Chapter 34

With the ladder finally up and over we're off the wall like greased weasels, and never have I felt so relieved to make it into the heart of an enemy stronghold. I drop Hunter off my shoul ders, reclaim my Stubby, and we take cover as best we can. Behind us, Rangers come pouring over the wall. As they do, I'm glancing all around, searching for signs of movement or the enemy.

But as far as I can tell the place appears to be utterly deserted. The Taliban must have got word that we were coming, and made themselves scarce. The interior of the compound is pockmarked with craters, so there's clearly been heavy fighting here. With the Rangers over the wall, it's time to start the search. I pause for an instant, giving Hunter the praise that he needs.

'Go on, good lad, I tell him, in my whispered high-pitched praise voice. Fantastic, get on then.

I rise to my feet and indicate where I want Hunter to search, my raised arm sweeping left, to show him I want him to start with those buildings. I flash him a glimpse of his ball, go as if to throw it, then slip it back into the pocket off my combats. And he's off, stubby tail wagging furiously, nostrils flaring and nose going like a suction pump as he hoovers up the scent.

It takes a good twenty minutes to search the place, with Hunter going in and out of every doorway and me dogging his every footstep. Once we've declared the place clear we take possession of the best room, one that we recced as we were searching the place. There's a pile of wood in one corner, and I figure we can have a fire to cheer us in the evening, and warm us through the night.

Hunter and I may be the bait in a trap, but there's no point not making ourselves comfortable.

We're two days into the mission, and we've spent our time getting out on a series of high-visibility patrols. The point we're making to the enemy is, 'Look, we've taken your stronghold, and the black dog is out clearing the area. How d'you like that, Talitubbies?' As provocations go, it's a fine one. As for making ourselves a target, we couldn't be more visible if we tried.

We're out early clearing a path that winds through a patch of scrubby woodland, when to the west of us there's an almighty boom. It sounds like the signature blast of an IED, and a big one. I can hear the noise of the explosion echoing off the high ground, even as the worry flashes across my mind: Have Hunter and I missed something? Have they got one of the lads?

We go pounding back to the compound, and I can't help wondering if some of the Rangers were out on one of the paths to the west of us - ones that Hunter and I supposedly cleared - and that they've stumbled onto an IED. If they have, and my dog and I have missed it, I'll never forgive myself for as long as I live.

Radio reports are coming in fast and furious. It turns out that a pair of Viking armoured vehicles have been ambushed on the 611. In the ensuing g*n battle they were forced into a gully, where they were hit by an IED. One of the Vikings has been abandoned. The other's made it back to base, but there's one guy dead and another seriously injured.

I feel b****y awful that we've lost at least the one bloke, but in reality there's absolutely nothing Hunter and I could have done about it. We're set a good way back from the 611, and that's not the area where we've been searching. I feel this odd mixture of relief that it's not my dog and me that have failed here, and a deep sadness that we've lost a life.

The abandoned Viking is within range of our snipers, and they proceed to put down fire to try to stop the Taliban looting the vehicle. It's full of top-secret and sensitive kit. But no matter how many rounds they rattle into the Viking's armoured flanks, the Taliban keep creeping closer and closer.

As we've got eyes on the ambush site, our JTAC - the Joint Terminal Attack Controller, the guy on our patrol who calls in the air strikes - guides in a bombing mission to hit the wounded vehicle. Hunter and I listen in on the frenzied radio chatter, as a French Mirage screams in to lay waste to the target.

The pilot announces: 'Standby, round in!'

A 500-pound bomb is in the air. There are a few seconds' delay as we tense for the blast, but all we hear is a dull thud. The bomb hasn't exploded. It's a dud. The Mirage comes around in a screaming turn as the pilot prepares to drop a second 500 pounder. He does just that, but again all we hear is a dull thud. It's a second dud.

An American A10 'Warthog' ground attack aircraft is also in the battle space. He's been listening in on the air chatter, and he offers to do a strafing run with his seven-barrel 30 mm g*n. The cannon shells will saturate the area with leaden death, which should set off the two 500-pounders in one almighty great explosion. Gatling

The squat, piggy-looking Tankbuster aircraft comes thun dering in over our heads, its twin jet engines howling like giant, overworked hairdryers. It's not been nicknamed the Warthog for nothing. It's neither graceful nor pretty, but as a ground attack aircraft it has no equal.

The A10 seems almost to stall in mid-air as the Gatling g*n opens up. The thick, stubby g*n barrel is clearly visible spitting out a tongue of fire. There's a long, thunderous berrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, as the roar of the seven-barrel cannon echoes around the valley. For every second the pilot keeps his finger on the trigger, sixty-five 30 mm cannon rounds tear into the target.

Shredded branches and jagged chunks of metal are thrown into the air all around the spot where the Viking lies. By the time the pilot has bottomed out of his dive, he's raked the entire area from end to end. The aircraft's cannon has chewed the vehicle into a twisted hulk, and it's more than scared the Taliban looters away. But it's not done a thing to set off those two 500 pound bombs.

The trouble is this. We know the Taliban dig out unexploded bombs and use the contents to manufacture IEDs. Come hell or high water, we've got to take out those 500-pounders. An order comes through on the radio that Hunter and I are to make our way to the ambush sight and locate' the dud munitions. I send a message back, which is about as blunt as I can make it: 'Dog handler here. I'd rather eat my own eyeballs than get my dog to dig out a couple of unexploded 500-pound bombs in the midst of a Taliban ambush. If you're going to deny the bombs, deny them: don't deny me and my dog:

I offer for Hunter and me to clear a path into the attack site, so that an EOD team can go in. But I'm not sending Hunter into the heart of darkness, especially now we know it's my dog that the enemy most want to kill. I can accept making us the bait: I draw the line at making us a pointless sacrifice.

The order for us to sniff out those two unexploded 500-pound bombs has come right from the top, so it's not Major Shannon who's had the dumbest of dumb ideas. But I don't care if it's Her Majesty herself who's given the order: no one, but no one, tells my dog what to do, or sends him to his death.

Finally, a Harrier ground-attack aircraft comes screaming in and blows whatever remains of the Viking, plus those two 500 pounders, sky high, in the most almighty of blasts. It's like a mini-atom bomb going off, and it's bravo to the Royal Air Force yet again. That's one thousand pounds of high explosives the Taliban won't be recycling into their murderous IEDs.

Major Shannon gives us the call that it's mission accom plished for us lot too. We're to abandon the compound that we've been holding and make our way back to base. We decide to vary our route, to try to avoid any Taliban lying in wait for us, or any IEDs they may have planted in our path.

We're going to pass via a village where we've been searching for a High Value Target (HVT). We've actually seen the guy we're after, an incredibly tall Taliban commander. We were just a frac tion too slow getting after him, which meant he got away. The journey back is a chance to have a second c***k at him. I show Hunter the guy's photo. He's not a tracker dog as such, but I don't see why he shouldn't be in on the hunt.

"That's the geezer we're after, lad. Ugly-looking brute, isn't he? If you see him, give us a good bark and go grab him by the trouser leg, will you?'

Hunter gives me a look: What're you on about? You know the Taliban don't wear trousers.

We set off, my dog and me bang out front doing the walk. It would make every sense for the Taliban to have sown all routes back to base with IEDs. They know we have to move on foot, and there are only a limited number of pathways we can follow. I can sense the tension simmering, as every man on the patrol feels the threat.

My dog and I pause before an irrigation ditch so we can take a view on the best route across. One of the Rangers comes over to offer Hunter a treat. That done, he turns to have words with me, his nervousness clearly showing.

'So, Dave, is the dog, like, OK today?' he asks. 'Is the dog one hundred per cent?'

'How about this?' I tell him. "Take a spare magazine and go hide it over there, but make sure Hunter doesn't see you do it.

The Ranger does as I've asked of him. I give Hunter a quick flash of his ball, point him in the general direction and give him the 'seek' command. He wanders over, pushes his nose into the bush, and comes out with his jaws gripping the SA80 magazine. He returns to my side and I give him the usual praise.

I turn to the Rangers who've been watching the whole thing. 'Yep, I'd say the dog's on it today.

We push onwards, the lads behind us feeling this deep sense of reassurance that Hunter's sparking. We hit the village where we know our HVT is based. I recognise the narrow track as being where we first spotted the tall Taliban geezer that we're after. Hunter is approaching pretty much the spot where we last saw him, when his head snaps right and he's staring through an open doorway.

I try calling him back, but an instant later he's dived into the compound and he's gone. I start sprinting down the path and I'm totally freaking out. I've lost sight of my dog, the one that the Taliban are determined to capture or to kill.

I'm yelling: 'Hunter! GET BACK HERE NOW! NOW!

I've got the Ranger lads pounding on my heels. I've got images in my head of that tall bastard and his henchmen stuffing Hunter into a black sack and disappearing out the back entrance to the compound. I'm going wild.

I'm about to hit the doorway when there's a crazed burst of squawking from inside the building. All of a sudden there are chickens flying everywhere, and the air is thick with feathers. A cheeky black head pops around the doorframe. It's Hunter.

Check this out, Dad! He shows me what he's got in his jaws. It's the severed head of a chicken.