Wardogs

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

The last thing I want for him to do is to sit at source. If it's a pressure-plate IED, all it will take for Hunter to plant a paw - or worse still his stubby black stump of a tail - onto the ground, and that'll be enough to compress the device, so making the electrical contact and sending it live. At which point my dog and my closest friend in life will be blown all to hell.

Before he can actually plonk his butt down, I signal Hunter back to me. I use a soft, short whistle, which is all it ever takes. An instant later he's at my side, but still he's got his eyes glued firmly to that dark and shadowed doorway.

I turn to speak to the patrol commander. I indicate the shed. 'I think my dog's onto something. It's in there.

The guy looks doubtful. Very. 'Are you sure, Dog?' He shakes his head, kind of irritably. 'I don't much like all this calling you "Dog" business...

I feel like saying: Do I give a s**t, sir? My dog's onto a scent so you can call me b****y Angel Toes if you like - just go and the door... open

Instead, I indicate the shed again: 'Sir, whatever my dog's onto, it's in there. I turn to look at the line of locals watching us intently. And whatever it is, it doesn't look as if Johnny-local there wants us finding it either.

The patrol commander strides across to the door. I can tell that he thinks my dog's found jack, but I know differently. I yank

Hunter back by his harness and tense myself for the blast. He rips open the door, then stops dead in his tracks. His figure is silhou etted in that dark doorway as if he's turned to stone.

He lets out a long, low whistle: 'b****y hell:

He turns around and he's got this look on his face - we just hit the jackpot. He yells for some of his lads to get over, and together they start doing a search of the shed's insides. It turns out there are some three-dozen empty illume rounds in there, plus raw explosives. British and allied forces use a lot of illume - a blinding flare round that renders darkness into bright, fluor escent daylight - during night operations when they need light to find the enemy.

But the Taliban have discovered a different use entirely for spent illume rounds. When packed with any home-made or cheap commercial explosive like TNT, they make perfect IEDs. Blast alone doesn't kill someone: it requires lethal metal projec tiles that shred skin and flesh and shatter bone. When the explo sive is detonated it blasts the illume shell into a thousand jagged shards of steel shrapnel.

The shed is packed full of prime IED-making material. With over thirty illume rounds in there, it's more than enough to kill thirty British soldiers, and to m**m many more. There are also spools of electrical wire, sheets of waterproof plastic, metal plates and rolls of insulation tape, plus rakes of pliers, tinsnips, soldering irons and batteries.

It's day one, mission one, and what Hunter has discovered here is a bomb-making factory.

I'm chuffed to bits at Hunter's find. I slip the tennis ball out of my pocket, and Hunter's instantly shifted his attention from the explosives find to his beloved prize. He's got his eyes glued to the ball: Oooh! Oooh! Can I, Dad? Can I? Can I get a play with my ball? I make as if to throw it one way, and throw it the other, but Hunter's too smart to buy the dummy. Instead, he scampers off and grabs it triumphantly in his delighted jaws.

When working with an arms explosives search dog, you never know what it is that he's onto. So to discover that it's a bomb factory, and not an IED that's primed to blow you all sky high, is a real bonus. We've been on the ground for less than two hours, and Hunter's shown that he's the dog's bollocks of search work - not that I ever doubted him.

We've done loads of search work in Northern Ireland before now. We've found bits and pieces of lethal kit, but nothing remotely like a bomb-making factory. This is a totally different level. My dog and I came out here this morning as the joke team that tries to blow up live explosives, or pee on them. Hunter's find is the first big step in turning all of that around.

Unsurprisingly, the Bravo Company lads loathe the Taliban bomb makers. There isn't a man amongst them who hasn't lost a good friend to an IED. Planting IEDs is a cowardly, sneaky way to fight a war. They are banned under all the rules of war, because they are indiscriminate killers. Here in Afghanistan 80 per cent of them end up hitting innocent Afghan civilians; mostly women and children. So in a sense, Hunter and I are here as much to save the Afghan people as our fellow soldiers.

The Bravo Company lads bring forward their interpreter - their 'terp' - to question the guy we figure is the chief IED-maker. He's a young, skinny Afghan male who looks to be only just out of puberty. He's got a short, wispy beard, and he keeps tugging at it nervously and glancing over at the elders. The look on their faces says it all: it's as if they can't believe that this black dog has come in here and his nose has led him right to their bomb making factory, Unfortunately for him, our suspect bomb maker seems loath to answer any questions.

The Bravo lads are on the last few weeks of their tour by now, with five long months behind them. They've developed an absolute pathological hatred of the bomb makers. Tempers are running high and so the patrol commander orders me to get the suspect out of the way and to use Hunter to stand guard over him. Of course, Hunter isn't a guard dog. He's an arms and explo sives search dog. But the distinction seems a little academic in the heat of things. I'm part of this patrol, and wherever possible I'll do as much as my dog and I can to get the job done.

I march the suspect around the back of the compound. We come to a halt with Hunter giving him the evil eye. The young Afghan starts pleading for his life in a mixture of broken English and the local lingo. I can't understand all that he's saying, but I can read the terror in his eyes. The interpreter explains that we've taken him to the toilet area, which is where the Taliban would take you to deliver a punishment beating, and in preparation for an execution.