Wardogs

Chapter 30

Chapter 30

I look it over proudly. I see this as the start of our new dog section, one that will have some proper facilities to keep the dogs in tip-top condition. Or so I think. I swing open the steel door and a tidal wave of sand comes chugging out, engulfing me in a choking cloud of dust. During the long road move the convoy must have thrown up a real dust storm, and most of it seems to have blown into our kennel.

Not a bother, I tell myself. I set to work sweeping it out, then giving it a good scrubbing and thoroughly disinfecting it. By sundown I've got it pretty much back to tip-top condition, and it promises to be a palace fit even for a Hunter. But first, we've got to get it moved somewhere liveable and hooked up to the elec tric. The kennel can't remain where it is, or every time a heli copter flies in we'll get engulfed in a dust storm. I need the Royal Engineers to move it into a more habitable location. But their officer seems to think it's more important getting creature comforts installed in his fellow officers' quarters than getting Hunter's kennel sorted and the power plugged in.

He tries telling me that my dog's not a priority, compared with his other taskings. I tell him that Hunter's the biggest life saver here in Sangin. I point out that the officers sit in air conditioned luxury controlling ops from base, whilst Hunter's out on the ground in the heat and dust dodging bullets and saving lives. I tell him to make Hunter a priority. It's coming up to the hottest part of the year, and the time of the opium poppy harvest. It's soon going to be the silly season, when the opium farmers revert to being Taliban. We know the enemy is poised to up the ante. Hunter and I are going to get busier still, and all I'm asking is for the kennel to be installed in a usable location, where I can run the air con.

As a bonus, I'd like to get it positioned somewhere a little more sheltered from flying chunks of shrapnel, for the enemy's mortars and rockets keep hitting us. Being right next to the helipad, the kennel is in the open and it's a prime target. The Engineer officer is adamant he's not going to get it moved. He's got more pressing priorities, or so he claims.

Finally, I lose it. "You're bang out of b****y order! We're nose to-nose and we start having a screaming match. I put my search dog in front of the blokes every single time, which makes his welfare a b****y lifesaver!"

Still he refuses to get the kennel moved.

I put a call through to Captain Martin Thompson, my boss back at Camp Bastion. I tell him what's what, and I explain that I'm going to have to make the ultimate threat - to pull Hunter out of Sangin. I explain that this is the last thing I want to do: Hunter and I are here doing the mission of a lifetime. But this has become a game of brinkmanship, and making that threat is the only way that I can see to make him understand that my dog's welfare comes before anyone's luxury.

Martin Thompson is a great bloke. He's a late-entry officer, and he made his way through the ranks by hard graft and good soldiering. He hears me out, and when I've finished making my case he backs me to the hilt. He tells me that the dog's welfare comes first. If I have to threaten to pull Hunter, so be it.

That conversation done, I go to find Major Shannon in the ops room. I ask to have a quiet word and explain that all my requests regarding our kennel have been refused.

'Sir, the kennel's sat there on the helipad like a big, useless oven,' I tell him. 'I can't put Hunter in there until it's moved and hooked up to the electric, or he'll roast. I've asked repeatedly, but the Engineer officer keeps finding excuses.

'Go on, Major Shannon tells me. I'm listening.

'Sir, I know how important the dog is to your men, and I don't say this lightly... But, sir, if nothing is done to get that kennel sorted, I will be forced to pull the dog team out of Sangin. I've got the backing of my bosses to do it.

I have his absolute attention now. 'Dave, don't pull the dog: His expression is deadly serious. I repeat: do not pull the dog. I'll go and have a word.'

The next morning the Engineer officer comes over and he's ready to move the kennel into place. Result. I tell him I want it near the Ranger Company quarters, so we can better ready ourselves to get out on patrol with the lads. He tells me that he can't move it there because Hunter's barking might wake the officers.

I can't believe what I'm hearing. I ask him if he's being serious. 'Listen, mate, are we at war, or what?' I finally get my way, but not before having to threaten to pull

out Hunter for a second time. He orders his blokes to drop our

kennel just where I want it next to the Rangers and close by

the river, so Hunter can take a dip whenever we're in off patrols.

To be fair, the Engineer blokes allocated to do the job are a great bunch. In order to get the kennel into place the forklift driver has to disconnect the base's main satellite TV feed. He tries to do it relatively quickly, because there's forty lads watching at the time. But by the time it's been reconnected the feed has been lost. It turns out that they'll need to get a specialist engin eer flown out from Camp Bastion to get it tuned back in. So that's no watching BFBS (British Forces Broadcasting Service -

the Army's TV channel) for some time to come. The Engineer lads pitch in good and proper, using their mini-diggers to construct HESCO blast walls around our new location. I roll out the metal fencing that comes with the kennel, to make a run for Hunter, and I get some warning signs printed up so the ANA lot don't come blundering in here. The Afghan soldiers like Afghan males in general - don't seem to take too kindly to my dog.

Each time a bit of new kit gets rolled out of the kennel, Hunter is striding about like a site foreman and checking on progress: Over a bit that way; a bit more; right, drop it just there. He glances over at me happily: You know, Dad, there's nothing better than getting the kennel sorted and making it like home....

I cobble together a seating and table area, so I can have the Ranger lads over for a brew, and we're done. I give Hunter the rear most kennel, which provides maximum protection from any shrapnel or blast. That's his domain, where he can have some quality Hunter time. I take the kennel next to it, and bung my cot in there.

At last we've got a half-decent dog section established here in Sangin. It's nothing like what we'd have in the UK, or what the dog teams have in Camp Bastion, Kabul or Kandahar. But it'll do. It's got the air con, it's reasonably comfortable and Hunter's pretty safe in there from anything but a direct hit.

As soon as the air con is switched on Hunter heads inside and plonks himself down in the cool blast of air. By the time the Engineer officer comes to check on things, Hunter's gazing about himself contentedly, like he's in doggy heaven.

'Erm, getting it all sorted?' he remarks. 'I see the dog's happy,

then?'

'He is,' I smile. 'He's like a little pig in s**t is He's not a bad bloke. In fact, other than this one major my Hunter.

confrontation we've got on pretty well. It's just that he hasn't appreciated the importance of a search dog's welfare. I figure he can see how happy Hunter is now, and maybe he's starting to under stand that a well-rested and happy dog means an optimum search dog.

We've not long had the air con going when a mortar round howls in and slams into the dirt on the far side of the HESCO walling that we've erected. Hunter and I hit the deck, and it's proof positive how easily we could get zapped without such protec tion. We get up and dust ourselves down, and Hunter gives me a look: Now this place is a little more like it, isn't it, Dad?

That evening he jumps onto my bed. He leans his whole body against me, a happy grin on his doggy features. He's gazing up at me, his expression one of bliss and contentment. As for me, I am hugely relieved at getting this kennel thing sorted. I don't like strife, and I don't go looking for arguments - it's just that no one ever gets to disrespect my dog.

The last thing I want is to get Hunter and me pulled out of here. This is where we need to be. Shitty and hellish though it is, it's in sniffing out the bombs here at Sangin that Hunter and I have found ourselves.

Now that the new kennel is up and running, Jihad and Sandbag come to have a good sniff around. Ever since they became honorary members of the team, they've been getting their fair share of the Eukanuba rations. I'm feeding them up good and proper, and the new kennels are now their honorary home too.

They don't have name-boards up, as Hunter does. They won't be sleeping here not unless Hunter can sneak Jihad in, and I wouldn't put it past the randy old goat. But they'll be hanging out here during the day, and getting their meals here, plus it'll be the base from where Jihad will join us as we set out on patrol.

My folks got those bone-shaped nametags that I asked for, and they came out with our mail delivery. Jihad and Sandbag have them proudly displayed on their collars, and day-by-day they're looking happier and more healthy. The only problem is Jihad's lingering infection - the hangover from her pregnancy - and I've yet to receive the drugs that I need to treat her.

Jihad's infection doesn't seem to lessen her enthusiasm for going out on missions. The day after getting our kennel sorted, Hunter, Jihad and I get out on a foot patrol with the Ranger's Nine Platoon, one of their standard Rifle Companies. It's long, baking hot and frustratingly tense, but ultimately uneventful.

Just as soon as we're in through the base gates Major Shannon says he needs us out again, this time with Seven Platoon. I point out that Hunter needs a break, and I remind him of the two-hours rest-between-patrols rule.

'Sir, I've just been out and the dog's knackered. You know he needs a rest he's not a machine.

He tries to argue the case with me. 'Dave, it's the Seven Platoon lads on a major search tasking, and they need you on this one.

'Sir, you know your men, I know my dog. You control your men, I'll control my dog?

The major's not entirely happy, but he accepts it. I rate him. He's a down-to-earth Irishman and he's tireless: he won't rest for a minute when his men are in danger. He's by the radio listening in whenever they're out on ops, and he's ready to push out reinforcements if they hit trouble. He's driven purely by the welfare of his men, and that's why he keeps pushing Hunter and me. But I'm driven by the safety of my dog, and sometimes I've just got to push right back again.

Whenever we're having one of our little confrontations, I get the sense that the major's analysing my every word, and stashing it all away in his head. It's like he's got this photographic memory, and he uses that to argue for his men's safety in a relentless way. It's not often that he'll have a corporal saying 'no' to him, but he knows I know the capabilities of my dog.