Wardogs

Chapter 29

Chapter 29

Back at our kennel I give my dog an intensive checking over. After all, we have just been blown up. Apart from the burns to his fur, he seems just fine. As I run my hand over his powerful flank, I linger for a second on the shamrock flash that's attached to his harness. I pause and say a heartfelt thanks to lady luck, fate and the gods. I commend them all for keeping my boy safe out there.

I fetch my stethoscope, the one that I carry with me when ever Hunter and I are working. It's a bog-standard type that the doctor uses to listen to your chest. My dog and I settle down together on my cot, him with his head resting on my shoulder. I put the amplifier end of the stethoscope against Hunter's ribcage and tune into the rhythm of my dog's heart.

Thum-thuump. Thum-thuump. Thum-thuump...

It sounds strong, unhurried and regular as clockwork. It sounds like it always does. The Taliban may have blown him up, but they don't seem to have unsettled him unduly. I leave the stethoscope where it is and keep listening. I find it comforting. Reassuring. It's not fast and anxious. It's not irregular. It's not messed up. Unbe lievably, it seems to be just like it always is.

My father, Bob Heyhoe, always used to tell me that dogs are the greatest stress reliever. I lie there for several minutes, listening to the rhythm of my dog's life force. It does seem to help calm and de-stress me, being this close to Hunter and tuning into his heart and soul. This is quality Hunter time, and connecting to my dog like this really does seem to settle me.

As for Hunter, he keeps eyeing the stethoscope and glancing at me with a bemused expression: What are you doing, Dad? Am I sick or something?

Yet he doesn't once try to interfere or stop me. I can manip ulate Hunter into any position that I want, and he's good with it - the trust between us is so deep, unspoken and intuitive. "Trust your dog' is one of the mottos of the RAVC's dog teams, and that trust goes both ways - from handler to dog and back again. I give Hunter a look: 'Listen, lad, I trust you one hundred per

cent to know what you're capable of. He returns my gaze: Dad, I trust you to know you'd never put

me into any needless danger.

We're a team of equals, me and my dog, and that's the key. We've put our lives in each other's hands day after day after day here, and I've never once doubted him. I'm sure he's never once doubted his dad, either. Out here, it's that trust between us that's keeping the both of us alive.

But the thing is, however watchful I'm being of Hunter, however much I'm trying to think like the enemy and to second-guess them, there's not much that I can do about a suicide bomber. I wonder how on earth I'm supposed to act next time my dog comes nose-to-nose with a would-be martyr, one who's hell bent on blowing us all to paradise or to hell.

We've never rehearsed this. We've never planned for it. We've never trained the dogs with a dummy suicide bomber strapped with explosives, because no one ever imagined that this was what might happen to us here. It's beyond our wildest dreams and our worst nightmares, but here in Sangin it's become our reality. And, like most things in terms of what our response should be, my dog and I are going to have to make it up as we go along. I try to think about what we can do in an effort to mitigate the threat. The trouble is, whilst Hunter may detect the explosive scent, he's never been trained to search for a moving target. He's trained to track a scent to its heart and to mark it. Under normal circumstances I know him well enough to be able to read all the signs, and to pull him back just before it goes lethal. But how can he mark a moving suicide bomber - one who's hell-bent on killing him?

There are no easy answers to this one. We'll just have to hope and pray, and keep saying our thank-yous to lady luck and the shamrock.

I delve into my left breast pocket for my camera. I want a shot of my dog on the day that we survived a suicide bombing. My hand comes out with the camera smashed in two. There's a big jagged c***k through the body, and when I turn it around I can see that the lens is shattered. I must have smashed it when diving onto Hunter. There's no point in even attempting to turn it on. It's clearly very finished.

Tonight is yet another night when I lie awake thinking about my dog. So far he's been shot at too many times to mention. He's been soaked in a dying Afghan soldier's blood and gore. And now he's been blown up by an Afghan suicide bomber.

Hunter's a miracle dog, a combat veteran, a survivor, a hero and

the morale-booster extraordinaire. He's my saviour, my best

friend, my brother warrior and he's the son that I never had. And I'm worried half to death for him. They say a cat has nine lives. Well, maybe a dog does too. But

for sure Hunter's burning through them

The following morning I manage to get some face time with one of the Sangin computers. There's a bank of them in the DC building and the queues are normally horrendous. This time I'm lucky. I send an email to my sister, Pam. She and I are close, and she's got this fantastic, warped, way out, left-field sense of humour that has me in stitches.

In the past I've always been her rock whenever she's been going through hard times. Now that I'm out here in the hell of Sangin, there's been something of a role reversal. I email her and tell her I need a new camera. I ask her to find me one that won't cost the earth, but might stand up to the punishment. I tell her to burn it on her credit card and to post it out to me as soon as.

I hate not being able to keep a visual record of what Hunter and I are going through, plus it's a real problem not being able to document our finds. Those images provide vital intel - both to us and to other search teams that may take over from us here in Sangin. I tell Pam that I'll pay her back for the camera just as soon as I get home. It's always when I get home, not if.

By mid-morning a whocka-whocka has made it into the helipad and there's some good news - a mail delivery. We're five weeks in now and this is our first news from home. It provides a huge lift. There's a heap of letters and parcels from friends and family, but once I've divided it into two piles - one for Hunter and one for me - my dog's got about four times the amount of mail that I have.

It's b****y typical.

The first thing I do is tear open the letters, as I'm desperate for some news of home. But most of those who've written seem more worried about Hunter than they are about me.

"How's Hunter managing in the heat?' my mum writes. 'Is he getting his doggy treats?"

Is he getting his doggy treats? As if she needs to ask! To a man the Rangers seem to have written home and asked their folks to send something special for my dog. Already I've had a Ranger lad pop down to the kennel with a little something' for Hunter that was posted out in the mail.

'Hey, Dave, something for Hunter!' the Ranger announced, whilst holding out this choice doggy snack.

Hunter snapped his head around and gave me the eye: Hey, it's for me, not for you! He had his ball jammed in the side of his mouth, as always, but I knew it would soon be replaced by some delicious snack or other.

'He loves his ball, eh?" the Ranger lad remarked.

'Yeah, he loves it, and when he's got it in his mouth like that it means he won't be biting you!' I retorted, somewhat meanly.

In addition to the letters, there are four big parcels all done up in brown paper. It turns out that one is for me and the other three are addressed to Hunter, c/o Dave Heyhoe. He comes over, sniffs at the parcels, shoves the one that's for me aside, and pulls the other three in the direction of his side of the kennel.

I can't believe how possessive my dog can be. I give him the evil eye. You little so-and-so. You don't even know you're at war. I do. It's me who needs the treats.

I reckon I know what my parcel contains without even opening it. By the sound of it, it's got to be a cake tin, and it'll be full of my favourite home-baked cakes. My nan makes these amazing Eccles cakes, the best you can get. After five weeks on Army rations I can't wait to get at them.

I open the tin and sure enough Nan's done me proud. It's a bumper lot. I put on the kettle, make myself a brew and settle down to demolish a good number. There is something my nan does with her Eccles cakes that is this close to alchemy. But no sooner have I put the first delicious specimen to my lips than Hunter's at my side. He's abandoned whatever doggy treat he was chomping on and come to bug me.

I see him raise his head to sniff at the tin: Ah, lovely, that's your nan's Eccles cakes, isn't it, Dad?

He sits there, bum glued to the deck and head following my every move, as I demolish a good half a dozen of them. I can't believe my dog. He's got more treats than I could ever dream of, yet here he is bugging me. He's slobbering and drooling, and giving me that gooey-eyed stare: Dad, I know I don't deserve one, but couldn't you just..

Who could resist that look? Not me, that's for sure. I reach out and drop a morsel of Nan's Delight into Hunter's open jaws. He gives a couple of ecstatic chomps and it's gone: Just as I thought! Nan's Eccles cakes - delicious!

I reach out and grab another. Hunter's leaning with all his weight against my leg, and nudging me with his shoulder: Hey, don't forget your best buddy!

This dog - he knows no shame.

Before they're all gone I take the tin to the Rangers' quarters and offer one to Ronnie, Speedy, Davey and Cupples-the chancer. Ronnie takes a bite and his face is a picture.

"That is feckin' gorgeous!' he exclaims. 'Can I have another?

'No, you've had the one, I tell him. 'I am very protective of my nan's Eccles cakes.

It's true. The thought of Nan doing that baking and sending them all the way to Sangin has really touched me.

The base is getting horribly crowded, and the Rangers are desperate for space. A couple of the blokes suggest that they move into Hunter's and my domain - into our kennel. I don't object to the human company, it's just that it won't work. We need our own space, Hunter and me, and it's got to be inviolable. If I'm away and someone else pitches up in Hunter's dad's kennel, he's going to freak out big time.

The answer is the shipping container kennel, the one that comes complete with its own air conditioning. True to his word, the 104's sergeant major gets it shipped out on a flatbed wagon, as part of a convoy that comes in on the 611. The kennel gets dropped on a stretch of waste ground near the helipad.