Wardogs

Chapter 25

Chapter 25

Voices start screaming for us to take cover. But take cover where? I've had all of my senses focused on my dog, and I've got no idea from where the round's been fired. The gunman will likely be using a Soviet-era Dragunov sniper rifle, which packs a ten-round magazine. When the Soviets pulled out of Afghanistan they left rakes of weaponry - Dragunovs included - behind them. There's plenty more bullets where that came from.

Another round tears into the dirt, this one right at Hunter's feet. He bounds back in alarm, and throws a glance my way, seeking much-needed reassurance from his Dad. I feel this red mist of rage sweep over me: they're trying to kill my dog!

I blank the voices yelling at me to take cover. I go down on one knee until I'm crouched over Hunter. I've seen the direction the shots are coming from, and I've got my torso - which means the bulk of my body armour - between the gunman and him. I'll take the next round if I have to, but no Taliban sniper is shooting my dog.

I lift my Stubby and pull the angular butt into my shoulder. I jam my right eye against the smooth metal of the sight. Its four-times magnification pulls the enemy position into instant close-up focus, the smoke from his shots hanging in the air above the rooftop.

I place the diamond-sharp tip of the pointer on the heart of the smoke, and open fire, pumping round after round into the sniper's lair. With each squeeze of the trigger a gleaming brass case spews out of the assault rifle's ejector, spinning onto the dirt track beside us. With each I imagine a bullet tearing into the Taliban sniper's skull.

In a matter of seconds I've loosed off an entire magazine of ammo. I grab a second from out of my chest harness, slam it into my weapon, c**k it and open fire again. But the sniper is fast becoming the least of our worries. The entire neighbour hood seems to have turned on us, with muzzle flashes sparking from every darkened door, window and alleyway. The bad guys have decided this is the time to take us on. They're hitting us big time with all they've got.

Angry spurts of dust kick up all around my dog, each being a bullet that's hammering into the dirt surface of the road. It's like the entire highway is alive with bullet impacts, the length and breadth of it being saturated with hot lead. Behind us I can hear the Rangers putting down a withering wall of return fire, but it's only a matter of seconds before a bullet finds us.

I reach down with my one free hand, keeping the Stubby firing

with the other. I clip the lead onto Hunter's collar.

LET'S GO!' I yell. 'LET'S GO! LET'S GO! LET'S GO!'

He doesn't need any second urging. Suddenly we're on our feet and surging forwards, as rounds go chasing after our heels. 'Let's Hunter!' I scream at him. 'Let's not dawdle, big lad!

go,

LET'S GO!

My dog and I make a dash for the nearest cover, Hunter's black paws flashing across the dirt as we sprint through a hail of fire.

We reach the corner of a mud-walled compound and dive into its shadow. The Rangers are right on our shoulder. As I drag Hunter out of the line of fire, they're down on one knee hammering rounds into the enemy positions. I can't fault those young Rangers for their aggression or their professionalism. They're kick-arse fighting Irish and it's great to have them with us.

There's a momentary lull in the battle, and one of them turns to me. 'Sure, Dog, you're a crazy fecker,' he grins. 'Next time, cover first before you open fire!'

'Yeah, well, mate, I was thinking of my dog? He gives a nod of approval. Sure, Hunter comes first. No one's getting our dog? I like that. I like it how he's calling Hunter 'our dog. Hunter's getting

to be the Ranger's four-legged friend and protector, and we've

only been with them a matter of days.

'But sure, that feckin' sniper's trying to shoot Hunter,' the other Ranger remarks.

'He'll have to get past fifteen stone of me before he does.

The rounds hit right around Hunter's feet. Your dog's the target. I force a smile. "Then it's lucky he can't b****y shoot straight.

Putting down well-aimed bursts of fire, the Rangers start to win the firefight. But it's now that my dog and I have to get back out on the streets and recommence the walk.

As we inch our way onto the emptiness of that bullet-scarred highway, I feel sickeningly vulnerable and exposed. I'm strug gling to hide my gut-wrenching fear from Hunter, for I don't want my terror running down-leash to my dog.

"Come on, lad; I tell him, as we regain the open. 'Only a couple of miles and we're home?

The journey back turns into an epic. It's a good three hours of pushing forward, then going to ground and trading fire with the enemy, before we finally approach our Sangin base. I've had Hunter on-leash for the entire time, and all we've been able to afford is a quick sniff of the route ahead, before taking cover from fresh bursts of enemy fire.

My dog and I have been playing a deadly game of cat and mouse with the enemy and it's largely luck, coupled with the Rangers' warrior spirit, that gets us home. But I'm not kidding myself any more: doing that search under fire was at times more terrifying than unearthing an IED. And no doubt about it, the enemy is hell-bent on nailing me and my dog.

The men of Ranger Company are known as "The Warriors' I was wondering how they'd measure up to the Royal Marine Commandos. From what I've seen so far they are every bit as fine a bunch of soldiers. I felt them watching over us out there in that shitfight, and that makes me even more determined to bring every man amongst them home alive.

As we step through the gates I see the young lads visibly soften and relax. A couple of them turn to Hunter and me.

How yer doin', Dave?' 'You OK? Hunter OK?'

I tell them that my dog and I are good. I've never spoken to those lads before, and I don't know them from Adam. Hunter doesn't either. But their expressions of concern for us are totally genuine, and testament to what a close part of Ranger Company they feel that my dog and I have become.

Although we're fine, the bomb-disposal guy who defused the IED only envisaged being out on the ground for an hour or so. As a result he only brought the one litre bottle of water with him. By the time we're back to base, he's going down with heat exhaustion. It just goes to show: never underestimate the enemy here in Sangin, or for how long they might keep you pinned down.

Whilst the medics are getting some rehydration salts into him, I grab the IED so I can take some photos. The bomb-disposal boys will do a proper study of it back at Camp Bastion, to try to discover all they can about how the enemy construct such devices, and maybe even who it is that made this one. But I want some photos myself. Next time Hunter's nose nails something, I want to have the best possible chance of recognising what it is before it can blow.

I put Hunter into his kennel and give him a juicy bone to gnaw on. That'll keep him busy, and Lord knows he deserves it. If he hadn't unearthed that IED, the likelihood is that the Taliban would have detonated it under the rear part of our patrol. My dog has saved a number of young lads today, and he deserves a hero-sized bone. I'll take him for a run and a swim just as soon as I'm done with my photographs.

I carry the three-RPG IED to a remote area and stop between a massive set of HESCO walls, will shield the rest of the base from any blast. In theory, a camera flash or even a video signal can trigger an IED. This one has been disarmed, but even so I'm not taking any chances. If it goes off, it'll be only me that gets hurt.

In Northern Ireland we learned how the IRA developed a new type of roadside bomb. The IED would wait for a flashgun to go off, which was the trigger that made it fire. I've no idea if the Taliban have become that sophisticated yet, but they're obvi ously evolving their technology, as signified by their adoption of ANAL as one of their explosives. There's no harm in my being extra careful.

Once I'm done shooting my photos, I return the IED to the bomb-disposal bloke. Word has gone around the base like wild fire that Hunter's outsmarted the EBEX metal detector on today's patrol. He's becoming like this miracle dog. Major Shannon calls me in for a chat and gives me a few heartfelt words of thanks. If Hunter hadn't sniffed out that hidden bomb, the odds are that the major would be sending some of his boys home in body bags, and he knows it.

'Dave, if you're not able to get out on patrol 'cause your dog's being used too much, I still want you in on the Orders Group, he tells me. 'Can you manage that? That way, if you see a better way for Hunter to get used, we can shift around the schedule. I want you guys out and used in the best way and as often as possible.

I tell the major that I'm good with that.

It's nice for Hunter's skills to get recognised, but it's a double edged sword. We're being asked to up the tempo even more now.

I guess it's a case of beware of what you wish for, for you may end up getting it ... I've always craved approval, but out here it spells added danger, stress, pressure and fear, not to mention repeated brushes with death.

Hunter and I have a few hours' down time before our next patrol. The major asks me how I'm going to spend it. I tell him that I've got to get Hunter out training with this new explosive that the Taliban are using. I've got to get his nose in.

'What's this new one called?' the major asks, curiously.

I give him a kind of a half smile. 'Sir, they call it ANAL?

'You what?"

'ANAL, sir. Or Ammonium Nitrate Aluminium, to use its full name.'

I explain what it is and why the Taliban have likely started using it.

'Understood, the major tells me. He gives me a wry grin. 'Best

you get Hunter out there training with this ANAL...

Once I'm done with the major, I get collared by Frankie O'Connor, the Ranger Company sergeant major. Frankie is one scary-looking bloke. He looks like some Irish bare-knuckle boxing champion. He's tattooed up to the eyeballs, and he's obvi ously been in his fair share of street fights, and you'd not want to take him on down a darkened alleyway.

To offset his scary look he's got this quiet, lilting Irish brogue. I've never seen him once having to raise his voice, for he's not the kind of guy who'd ever have anyone question his authority. He's a natural at getting the best out of his men, and it's a given that he'd never send a Ranger out to do a job that he wouldn't do himself. He's been keeping his distance up until now, as if he's been watching Hunter and me at work and withholding his judgement.

Today that's all changed. Frankie gives me a heartfelt 'well done' on the IED find. As the Royal Marines are a Navy unit, they'd given everything in Sangin these weird Navy names. In a pally kind of a way, Frankie tells me we're done with all of that

'From now on, Dog, the cook house is going to be a feckin' cook house, and not a "galley". And the shitters are the shitters - not the feckin' "heads" ...

"Too right, mate,' I tell him. And a brew's a brew, mate, not a bleedin' "wet"."

Frankie and I have a good laugh about it. We're not exactly making eye contact yet, because his gaze is far too scary for that, but I sense that Hunter and I are going to be part of Frankie's family from now on.

Frankie tells me he's keen to get Hunter and me out with their Seven Platoon. They're the Ranger's bomb-search specialists, and they're the guys that he wants us working with most closely over the coming days.

After a brief rest and some food I take Hunter out for a special treat. A tributary of the River Helmand runs through the base to the rear of our new kennel. The first time I took Hunter down there I had to more or less force him in. I had to jump first, with the lead tied to my belt, pulling Hunter into the raging torrent after me. But once he had that first dip there was no stopping him.

Now, my dog acts as if he thinks he's just another crazy soldier. He joins the other lads on the bridge a good ten feet off the water. For a moment he stares at the frothy white surge and then he leaps with all fours in a massive belly-flop. He hits below, the surface with a mighty splash, goes under, and comes up splut tering to the wild cheers of the assembled Rangers.

He's swimming alongside the lads, diving under the water with them, then trying to float on his back, just as if he thinks he's a human. It reminds me of the time when he and I were tasked to clear a royal palace, in preparation for a royal tour of Northern Ireland.

We'd just finished the main stateroom when Hunter noticed the ornate throne set aside for Her Majesty's esteemed posterior. He gave me a look: head c****d to one side and his eyes alight with mischief. I knew exactly what he had in mind.

'Go on then, I told him. 'Bup! Bup! Bup!'

And that was it Hunter jumped up and plonked his backside on the Queen's throne. He sat there, back straight, head up and lip quivering ever so slightly, looking entirely regal and imperi ous. He was now King Hunter, and I was some kind of grovelling minion at his feet.

Sometimes in this relationship I swear I feel like I am the dog and Hunter the human.

After finding that three-RPG roadside IED, I decide to give my dog an extra treat. I throw his ball - his beloved tennis ball - into the river just a little ahead of him.

"There

you go, big lad!' I yell, above the roar of the current.