Wardogs

Chapter 28

Chapter 28

The Afghan male is barely twenty metres from Hunter when it clicks. With a horrible flash of realisation I know for certain what Hunter's onto here: it's that Afghan male himself who's the bomb. He's a suicide bomber. And right now he's making directly for my dog.

I raise my stumpy SA80 and I start screaming at him to stop right there. Instead, he keeps coming. I guess he doesn't care any more. Either way, he knows he's a dead man. In his eyes I can read the blind hatred and the glazed look of someone on the verge of death. He slips his hand inside his robes...

There's no space for panic or for fear. All I'm thinking is: My God, my God, don't let him kill my dog.

Hunter's that much closer, and he'll be that much nearer to the blast. I know I can't stop what's coming. Invariably, these human bombers are drugged to the eyeballs and no amount of body shots will stop them detonating their explosive belt. It would take a sniper achieving a perfect headshot to instantly put the guy's lights out, and I don't have the right weapon or the time to achieve it.

I dive forwards, determined to use my body to shield my dog from the blast. I land practically on top of him. I know I'm not far enough across him yet, and that I've left his right flank exposed. I scrabble wildly, ripping my nails as I claw at the dirt in an effort to drag myself between my dog and the human bomb that's about to blow. If I can just get there before he presses the detonator, maybe I can save him.

I see the Afghan's arm twitch, as he presses the firing mech anism. I say a last farewell to my beloved dog, my son that I've failed

to save. I tense myself for the bolts and ball bearings that the

suicide vest will have been packed with.

There's a sudden, blinding flash.

The blast wave punches into us, smashing me in the stomach like a speeding truck and jerking my head violently backwards as I try to cling onto Hunter and save him. We're engulfed in a howling gale of choking smoke and dust. A second later my world turns black.

I come back to consciousness gradually, my head full of a driving pain and a muzzy fog. As my sight returns, I realise that my eyes are swimming with blasted dust and sand. I rub one clear and spot a distinctive figure. It's Hunter, and he's on his feet standing over me, his eyes wide with terror. He's searching in the smoke and dust for a sign of life from me.

If my dog could talk I know what he'd be yelling right now: Get up. Dad! Dad, get up! Show me you're still alive!

He sees me open my eyes and I swear he yelps and smiles in delight. An instant later he's on top of me, madly l*****g my face. I reach up and drag him in close and for a moment I hold him like I'm never letting go. And for that instant I'm crying tears of joy that they failed to kill my boy, my dog.

I haven't got the faintest clue how we can both still be alive. I glance up from where I'm laid on the deck, with Hunter crouched over me protectively. All I can see is this mushroom-cloud of smoke where seconds before the suicide bomber was standing. The air is full of the sickening stench of burned and seared human flesh, which must be all that's left of him.

High above us, I see a tattered, bloodied Afghan robe floating down towards the earth like a mini parachute. The Afghan male has vaporised. All I can think is that whoever built that suicide vest must have smoked too much opium that morning: he'd forgotten to pack the device full of shrapnel. Nothing else can explain how Hunter and I are still breathing and alive.

I hear boots pounding forwards and voices yelling: 'DOG! DAVE DOG! DAAAAVE!'

It sounds as if the cries are coming from down the end of a very long tunnel. They're faint and muffled and distorted, and there's this horrible ringing in my head. I don't doubt it's a whole world worse for Hunter, with the sensitive hearing that he's got. But at least my dog's not lying beside me bleeding out his last.

Speedy, Ronnie and the other lads are beside us now. They simply can't believe that Hunter and I are still with them on this earth.

With a shaky hand I point upwards at the tattered robe-c*m parachute. "There used to be a body in that...

With that the tension bursts. With the adrenalin levels pumping like they have been, we've taken on these taut, rigid expressions like a pack of ghostly skeletons. Amidst the settling dust and the deafening silence the humour forces us to relax a little, and it makes us just that tiny bit human again.

Now he knows that my dog and I are still alive, Speedy starts sparking. 'GO FIRM!' he yells over the radios. "GO FIRM! And shoot anything that moves! Shoot anything that moves!

Then he spots a young kid at the far end of a nearby compound and he realises what he's just said.

'Counter that! Stay firm! But don't shoot anything that moves! Don't shoot! Don't shoot! There are kids out there!'

No doubt about it, this has been a deliberate set-up- a come on attack by a suicide bomber, one which was intended to rip me and my dog apart. Knowing how closely the lads relate to Hunter, the enemy would have hoped the Rangers would react in a blind rage. They'd have charged ahead seeking to avenge their dog soldier, and they'd have blundered into the Taliban's trap.

Instead, we move back and throw a cordon of steel around the bombing scene, and Speedy calls up reinforcements. I take the opportunity to give Hunter the biggest cuddle of his life, like I'm never going to let him go.

'You're OK, boy. You're all right, I whisper in his ear. You're OK. And Dad's just fine, and he's not ever going to let anyone hurt you ever ....

I check him over, just to make doubly sure that he's not been injured. His fur is badly singed on the side that was nearest the blast, but otherwise he seems just fine. I'm acutely aware of how near we came to death here. What were the chances of that suicide vest not being packed with any shrapnel? What were the chances? My dog and I have had a miracle escape. It's like we've come back from death to life again.

Once the reinforcements are with us, the Seven Platoon lads start to push forward. They begin kicking in doors and doing a full cordon-and-search operation in an effort to find anyone linked to the suicide bomber. As Hunter and I have just been blown up we're left to take a breather, and we remain at the scene of the bombing with Headquarters Platoon.

Frankie O'Connor, the Ranger Company sergeant major, comes to have words with me. Once he's checked that we're all right, he says he's got a favour to ask of me and my dog. 'Dave, if you can, mate, we need you to find the bloke's

head.

For a moment I'm pretty much lost for words. It strikes me as being a somewhat odd request. Normally, a suicide bomber's head is blown vertically upwards by the blast. It goes up like a missile, and can come down any distance away from the scene of the explosion. But that doesn't explain why Frankie needs my dog and me to go out and retrieve it.

And why exactly d'you want us to do that?" I ask.

'Finding the head's the only way to ID the bomber. And from that we can glean vital intel.

'Frankie, we're an arms explosive search dog team, I tell him. 'We're not an arms and other-blown-off-limbs-and-bits-'n' pieces search dog team. I flap my arms about to better make my point. 'What you need is a cadaver search dog, not Hunter. They're the ones that get sent out to search for corpses.

Frankie gives a shrug. 'I know, Davey-boy. But right now you're all we've got.

I figure it's a fair one.

I get Hunter to shake himself down as best he can and we prepare to do the search. We move forwards until we're near the blast point. Hardly have we got there when Hunter darts off into the bush. He plunges into a thick patch of reeds about six feet high, and he's gone.

I see them swaying this way and that as he weaves his way through, and I know there's not a hope in hell of me being able to follow him. I'd lose sight of him the second I went in, with the reeds waving all around my head. I'm far better off staying where I am on the path and watching the reed heads bend and shake.

All of a sudden the vegetation stops moving. It means that Hunter's stopped dead. 'Right, I announce to Frankie and the assembled Rangers.

'My dog's onto something. I'm going in?

I push into the thick mass of reeds, making a beeline for where I last saw movement. I ease my way through, only to get there and find my dog sniffing at dollop of something red and distinctly yucky-looking. I yell for him to get back to me and we move onto the path. I glance down and Hunter's got an object gripped between his jaws.

It's the suicide bomber's head.

I tell him to drop the grizzly specimen. He does as ordered, after which he sits there pleased as punch at having found it. He's got that expression on his face that I know so well: I am a dog, so what d'you expect?

I hand the gruesome remains to Frankie, so he can bag it up.

'Is that it?' he queries. 'Is that all there is?'

At least my dog found it, I tell him. That's what for, isn't it?' you asked

Frankie cracks a rare hint of a smile. "Yeah. Sorry, Dave, that's a fair one. Well done to yer dog, mate?

That done, we set off on the track before us to make our return to base, Further remains of the bomber are gathered as we go, and we load them onto a stretcher together with the head. One thing becomes clear as we pick up the body parts. Whoever the suicide bomber was, they haven't even made the effort to shave him. Normally, they prepare a 'martyr' for his 'martyrdom' by shaving his entire body and anointing it with perfumes and fine oils. It's so the guy smells good when he goes to meet his prom ised seventy-two virgins in paradise.

With this s poor sod they haven't even bothered. He was prob ably just some simple farmer, whom the Taliban drugged up and fed full of lies. There's likely a young family going to grow up without a father now, and all because the Taliban brainwashed him into blowing himself to pieces. And for what? Hunter and I barely have a scratch on us, so he's hardly taken out the hated dog team. What a senseless stupid pointless waste of a life.

But Hunter and I have other things to worry about right now. Frankie's told me they want to get the guy's remains back to base pronto. He's got my dog and me out front doing a rapid search of the route. We'll be following a river all the way, so I've got Hunter clipped on his long leash. Otherwise, my water baby of a dog will be one step on the search, the other in the river all the way home.

Fortunately, Major Shannon gets a quad bike sent out to pick up the stretcher, which speeds things up a great deal. We're soon back at the Sangin DC gates. Hunter and I wait there as we always do, just so we can make sure the last man gets counted back in. All the boots that go out come back in again: it's become the meaning of life for me and my dog.

There's a call of: 'Last man in! Unload your weapons, and go get some down time..?

Hunter and I don't need telling twice.