Wardogs

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

From two kilometres out the attack helicopter lines up on target and fires, the flash of the Hellfire missile leaving its stub wing blooming in front of the cockpit. Seconds later a black, needle-like object flashes through the air above and tears into the roof of the building, hurling a plume of rock and debris high into the air. Hunter's got his paws over his ears, and he's not the only one who's been deafened. But for my dog's first time under fire I figure he's doing more than OK.

Once the Hellfire's gone in, the Bravo lads are up on their feet and charging down the compound. It's a full-frontal assault, before which the enemy resistance withers and dies. Hunter and I go in with them, and we round up the two remaining enemy. We rendezvous with the Vikings, load up our three prisoners -the two Taliban fighters, plus our suspect bomb maker - and head back to Sangin.

It's three o'clock in the afternoon by the time we're through the base gates, and that's it: patrol done. My main concern now is for the welfare of my dog. I get Hunter back to his dingy cage and check his paws for any thorns, cuts or cracks. I'm aware that he's been thrown in at the deep end with no time to accli matise. I give him buckets of water to drink and I chuck the rest over his back to help cool him. And I heap his bowl with scoops of Eukanuba dog food.

Eukanuba have the contract to supply the RAVC because their dried food provides exactly the kind of nutrition dogs need under such stressful and demanding conditions. We're on call 24/7 now, and I have no idea when our next patrol will go out. I need to get Hunter fed, watered, rested and checked over as quickly as possible, but as far as I can tell he seems just fine.

Once he's eaten and drunk his fill, he does one of those Hunter stretches, starting with his bottom up high and head down, then swinging his body forwards until his head's up high and his bottom's on the ground. Ah, lovely. He glances up at me, head tipped to one side and an inquiring look in his eyes: Any chance of walkies?

Were we back at home I'd take him for a stretch on the lush green of the Lincolnshire fens. It's as flat as a pancake and you can see for miles and walk to your heart's content. The best I can manage for Hunter here is a quick mooch around the helipad - a bleak stretch of dirt that's barely enough to stroll a poodle.

After walkies, I leave Hunter to get some rest and go and mingle with the Bravo Company lads. We're going to live and breathe the Afghan heat and dust for weeks now, so they're going to become like family. They all know who I am by now: I'm Dave Dog. But I've got dozens of names to learn and I don't want to keep calling them all simply 'mate! I share a brew and watch them open their mail. It'll be weeks before Hunter and I start getting ours, and I'm not kidding myself for one moment that Hunter won't get the lion's share. He always does.

One or two of the young lads ask if they can get their folks to mail out some treats for Hunter. I sense that it's all good. After today's patrol we've gone from being the comic man-and-dog team who jump on and pee on warheads to being the dog whis perer with his magic-nosed hound who can sniff out the enemy's bomb factories. I just hope Hunter and I can keep delivering the goods, because the lives of these lads depend upon his nose, and upon my eternal vigilance.

Late that afternoon Major Dan Cheeseman, the Officer Commanding of Bravo Company, calls me to an Orders Group. He's six foot three and whippet-thin, with close-cropped sandy hair above ice-blue eyes. He speaks with a cut-glass English accent, and there's something of the great British eccentric about him. His blokes say that he'll try just about anything to get the job done, and that he's fiercely loyal and dedicated to those under his command.

The major tells me that he wants Hunter and me out on ops the following morning. It's a follow-up mission to today's highly successful patrol. I explain to the major all my concerns about Hunter being out on patrol two days running during the heat of the afternoon; I explain that my dog's new into theatre, and yet to acclimatise properly; I tell him that whatever we do out here, I won't put any more risk on my dog than is absolutely neces sary.

The major's clearly not used to having someone question his orders, and especially not from the junior ranks. But whilst I may be a corporal and he a major, no one can order my dog what to do. I'm under the major's command, but my dog is only ever answerable to me.

Eventually, the major and I settle upon a compromise. Hunter and I will head out early on foot, and we'll catch a ride back with the Vikings. That way Hunter's not kept working during the heat of the day. All being well the vehicles won't be loaded up with wounded, so there'll be plenty of room for us. I'm good with that.

That evening I manage to log onto the internet. Along with some messages from my folks there's a typically cheeky one from Ken, up at Inkerman. It's something about how he's in Taliban Central whilst I'm sunning myself down by the river at Black pool-on-the-water. It gives me a good laugh before bed.

That night is the third that I bed down with my dog stretched out beside me. Today's mission has exhausted us but I'm feeling pretty good about it. Hunter and I have had our baptism of fire and we've done OK out there.

The following morning we muster at first light at the front gate - two dozen Bravo Company lads plus me and my dog. I've got this nasty voice banging away in my head: Is this your day, Dave, the day that you and Hunter are going to get smashed? Right before we'd left our kennel I'd had Hunter's steady, trusting amber eyes holding my own, as if to say: What are you so scared of - I'm here with you, Dad.