Wardogs

Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Garaging, and no one in their right mind would ever want to steal it. I send Hunter around the garage three or four times, but it's clear that there's nothing suspicious in there. I tell myself that maybe here in Sangin that's about as fine a motor car as ever you could wish for, and that every young Afghan car thief wants one. Hunter and I have pushed ahead a good three hundred metres

when I get a call over my radio.

Dog handler, go firm. It's Lieutenant Wilcock. 'Have you searched this vehicle? There's a red light flashing on and off.

Affirmative, I reply. "The dog's been across it. It's clear. 'Can you come back and search it again?'

As Hunter and I do the long walk back to his position, I'm rehearsing what I'm going to say. He's going to have to learn the hard way to love and trust my dog.

'Sir, we've searched that car three or four times already, I tell him. I'm not getting my dog to do so again. Like I told you over the radio, the dog's been across it and it's clear.

'Just get him to do it again. There's this red light Are you saying you don't trust my dog? 'Cause if you are, there's no point us being on your patrol.

I whistle for Hunter and we start off as if we're making our way back to base.

'Corporal, are you disobeying my order?' he yells after me. I turn around to face him. 'No sir, I'm not. But like I you doubt the dog there's no point us being here. So my dog and me are returning to the DC. say, if

"That amounts to disobeying an order?

'Sir, no one orders my dog what to do. No one. And never, ever doubt my dog's nose.

I'm not just making a point of principle. This goes to the very heart of why we're here. If I keep sending Hunter back to search what he's already done, he'll lose confidence in his own abili ties. He'll think his dad is starting to doubt him. And that is courting disaster, especially in situations where every man has got to have absolute faith in my dog. If they lose that faith, they'll not be able to walk across a patch of ground with their minds crystal clear and focused.

The lieutenant and I have locked horns. The frustration and tension builds between us for the remainder of the patrol, and it's clear that something is going to have to give.

The following day Hunter and I are out again with Eight Platoon. My dog and I are up front a long way from Lieutenant Wilcock and I hope to hell it stays that way. Hunter's not particularly both ered by the lieutenant. I've shown him a flash of his tennis ball, made as if to hurl it up the track, and he's off, stump wagging and nostrils sucking away. I need to take the lead from my dog. I need to put everything else out of my mind and get tuned in. If not, I may get someone - even my dog - killed.

We're an hour in and we're fully exposed to the burning after noon sun. Sangin's roasting, and the heat feels like it's melting my head and my shoulders, and the whole lot is dripping down my back in a thick slurry of sweat. My camos are a mass of dark sweat patches, and I have to keep stopping to get liquid into Hunter and to spray water from my Camelbak over him. As the water evaporates in the intense heat, so it cools him.

Each time he gives me this look: Ahhhh... lovely. But tell me, Dad, where's the nearest river?

It's early May by now, and the Afghan heat is building to its

summer c****x. The streets are sweltering, and simmering with discontent. I've got to keep checking my dog for heat exhaus tion. A dog can only sweat from the pads of its feet or its tongue - hence the way Hunter has his tongue lolling out as he pants away. In the early stages of heat exhaustion a dog's tongue swells to double its size. Before it can expand enough to choke him, a dog will simply collapse from heatstroke.

It's mind-numbing trying to remain 100 per cent focused on my dog in this baking, suffocating heat. It's frying my brain. My mind drifts, and for a moment I can't help thinking about Lieu tenant Wilcock and how exactly I'm going to get him to respect my dog. As I reflect upon all of this I almost forget that Hunter is an animal, and not a mechanical bomb-sniffing machine.

Something- maybe that instinctive, intuitive bond between us - pulls me back to my dog. As I focus in, my blood practic ally runs cold. Hunter is showing all the signs of being right on top of a device. He's got his nostrils glued to a patch of hard beaten earth, and he's standing over it sucking in the scent in great, breathy gasps. He's tracked whatever it is to the heart of the scent cone, and he's about to sit at source.

I've missed all the vital signs: the change in behaviour; my dog airing up as he hit the scent cone; him checking step to come around and establish the scent cone's periphery; his direct move towards the source; his finding it, and sampling it to double check that he's there. I've caught him at the very last moment, which shows the danger of letting your mind wander for just an instant when your dog is on the search.

I yell out a warning. "Hunter! Get back here! NOW!' I tell myself to get a b****y grip. Whatever it is he's found

here, there might be a Taliban in one of the buildings nearby waiting to punch the firing tit, and eviscerate the both of us. I need to get sparking. I put out a radio call to bring the patrol to halt. I move my dog and me back a good few paces.

I crouch down and give Hunter the praise that he so deserves. 'Good boy, good laaaaad. What d'you think it is you've found there? What've you got, lad, with that clever nose and those pawsies?'

I gaze into his face, reading the expression in his eyes. He's got as sombre a look as you'd ever see with my dog, who's too cool to ever take anything too seriously: Dunno what it is exactly, but whatever, it's a big one.

I now know that buried thirty feet ahead of us is some kind of device designed to m**m and kill - and we're likely talking a monster. I radio for the patrol's bomb-detection element to come forwards the guy with the EBEX metal-detector, and the one carrying their portable ECM kit. That box of electronic wizardry should jam any signal the enemy might use to trigger the device.

The EBEX operator goes forwards with his metal detector. It looks like a strimmer handle with a hoop-shaped sensor attached to the bottom at right angles. I watch the guy as he passes the EBEX over the spot that Hunter's indicated, but there's no response. Several times he repeats the pass, but still there's not the slightest hint of a bleep.

The Ranger turns to me and gives a shrug. 'I guess, like, there's nothing there. I send Hunter forward again, and again he's dead certain. The

EBEX

y checks again, and again he gets nothing. Hunter remains

guy absolutely convinced that he's onto something. It's a stalemate. I can sense Lieutenant Wilcock watching intently, and I just know that he's itching to get the patrol under way once more. This is make-or-break time for me and my dog.

I think through our options. The ECM operator's got his box of tricks going, so there's little danger of the enemy setting off a device remotely. If it was a pressure-plate IED, it would have to be just below the surface, and the metal detector would have found it. I figure I can risk breaking all the rules here, just to prove once and for all that my dog never false-responds.

I send Hunter forward and I give him the order: "Dig, lad, dig? Hunter starts scrabbling eagerly with his front paws, dirt flying in all directions. A few seconds later he stops quite suddenly and turns to fix me with a look: Here it is, Dad, just like we told 'em.

I move forwards and glance into the hole. I practically have a heart attack on the spot. Hunter's unearthed three rocket propelled grenade (RPG) warheads taped together and threaded with detonation cord. This is the main charge of an IED, one big enough to take out an entire section of our patrol. The only thing I can't tell is how the Taliban are intending to trigger it.

I drag Hunter backwards and yell at the Ranger lads to get the hell away from there.

Once we're back a good distance I glance over at Lieutenant Wilcock. Hunter's eyes follow my gaze. I don't have to say a word. Hunter's look says it all: Don't ever doubt what I can do with this nose. Their metal detector guy has missed a monster IED buried well below the surface at the roadside. Hunter's nose hasn't. It's game, set and match to us.

To be fair, the lieutenant starts sparking now. He's on the radio to Major Shannon, reporting what we've found and asking for the bomb-disposal guys, and he's getting the area cordoned off and made safe. I tell the lieutenant to get the EOD boys to come in on the same route that we used, for at least there's some re assurance it will be clear.

Hunter and I remain on the cordon, ready to brief the EOD team when they arrive. As we stand around nattering, Lieutenant Wilcock shoots me and my dog a look: respect. From that alone I know that he's learned his lesson and that he'll never question Hunter's abilities again.

It's a good three hours before the EOD boys get flown out to Sangin and patrolled to our location. For all of that time we're stationary at the bomb find. There are scores of local men watching our every move, and they're paying special attention to my dog. Their faces are a mass of dark scowls as they mutter amongst themselves. I can just imagine what they're saying: It's that black dog again! It keeps finding stuff. We've got to get shot of that dog.

I hate being static like this for so long. Any one of those guys could be a Taliban watcher, waiting to signal an attack force to hit us. All it would take is one good sniper on a rooftop some where within range, and he could put a bullet into my dog. Hunter's the only one amongst us who's not wearing body armour. It's hot enough for him already in his thick coat of fur: a suit of armour on top would finish him. But it means that he's defences. got zero

I crouch down beside him and do my best to shadow him with y bulk, keeping it between him and any obvious firing points. my But it's far from easy. The Rangers have thrown a cordon of steel around the IED find, yet there are buildings to the left and right of us. Each has a flat rooftop, which offers an ideal point upon which to locate a sniper team. There's a dark and angry tension in the air, and it's a far from pleasant feeling being here.

The EOD boys arrive and get to work. Typically, they are first class at what they do. They suit up, move in and have the IED defused in what seems like a matter of minutes. The EOD officer comes to have words with me. Sure enough, it's a cellphone triggered IED that my dog's unearthed. He figures it was only our ECM kit that's prevented the Taliban from blowing it under our very noses.

The ECM has a good range and it should protect Hunter and me, but I've no idea if it could do so for the whole patrol. We can't afford to close the distance between the men, for then we could all be taken out with one well-aimed burst of gunfire. But it means that if Hunter and I miss an IED, the bad guys may be able to trigger it when we've passed, so messing up those coming after us.

It's an added burden of responsibility for me and my dog. The EOD officer briefs me that the Taliban have just started using Ammonium Nitrate Aluminium, a type of explosive that's new to theatre. With typical black humour, the EOD lot have it 'ANAL' for short. It's a substance that's well known to anyone in the bomb-detection business. It was responsible for the deadliest non-nuclear man-made explosion in history. In 1917, during the First World War, the British military deton ated nineteen ANAL mines buried beneath German lines, killing ten thousand.

The main advantage of ANAL to the Taliban is that it's made from cheap, readily available materials. In spite of its home-made, budget credentials it's a very potent killer: ANAL detonates with a velocity of 4,400 metres per second. Any shrapnel fragments with that kind of force behind them will shred human flesh and bone, and they'll certainly make short work out of a dog.

The EOD guy hands me a small lump of ANAL. It's a sample with which I can train Hunter, so that he can get his nose in. I take the proffered gift and stuff it into the breast pocket of my body armour, alongside my portable camera. That in turn reminds me to take a photo of the IED when we're back at base. It's vital to document any find in as much detail as possible, so as to help identify similar devices in future.

As we start the walk back to our Sangin base, I slip my hand into my trouser pocket and pull out Hunter's ball. Seek on, lad, seek on.

We may be following the same route as we came in, but I'm not taking any chances. There's always a risk that the enemy will have sneaked in behind us and planted something in the hope that we'll get sloppy. I start channelling my mind into that of my dog - blocking out all external factors and stimuli - as he hoovers up the scent all around him.

There's a sudden, high-pitched snarl just inches from my head. A bullet rips past and it's followed an instant later by the bark of the weapon firing. I know immediately that it's a sniper.

A sniper's bullet travels faster than the speed of sound. When the round is that close to your head, you hear and feel it passing before the c***k of the weapon firing reaches your ears. It would be utterly terrifying if the adrenalin hadn't kicked in, trans forming me into a pumped-up, burning frenzy. 'SNIPER! SNIPER!'