Wardogs

Chapter 31

Chapter 31

I take Hunter down to our kennel and into the air-conditioned cool and shade. I check his paws for cuts, scratches and thorns, and get a load of water into him. I also take the liberty of sticking a thermometer up his bum, to check on his core temperature. I know the major's going to keep trying to push us, and I've got to check whether my dog's in a fit state to go.

I'm giving Hunter and Jihad a quick feed, when Ronnie and Speedy from Seven Platoon pitch up. Both men are looking uncharacteristically serious.

'Listen, Dave, we really need you on this one,' says Speedy.

'It's a heavy search tasking that could go badly wrong for us. 'Dave, just tell us how long you need,' says Ronnie. 'We'll hold off until you're ready.

I ask them for two hours. They're happy with that. It's going

to be a night mission, so the delay doesn't matter much.

It'll be dark, whatever time we hit bandit country.

We pack our gear for the coming mission. I've been told it's a company-level op: and we might be out for as long as three days. The major's received intel that a c***k IED-laying team has been at work, and we're going out to hunt for the bombs before they can kill any of us, or any Afghan civilians.

We set out an hour after last light, all moving on night vision goggles. Eight and Nine Platoon are with us, one force moving forwards on our left flank and one on our right. We patrol for two days, scouring the ground for IEDs and sleeping out in the bush. We're pushing the enemy ever backwards, but the non stop pressure and tension is exhausting, not to mention the fero cious firefights.

We're searching for our third night running, and my eyes are aching and bloodshot from staring into the artificial glow of the NVG, plus trying to keep a close eye on my dog. He comes and nuzzles his nose into my hand. His muzzle feels dusty and dry, which is a sure sign that he's flagging. I signal we need to stop, because Hunter's close to finished. We need to go firm for a quarter of an hour to rest him.

Hunter and I take time out slumped in the bush by the roadside.

In the darkness and the eerie silence I give him a good cuddle and a bit of Dave 'n Hunter time to help revive him. Just that phys ical and verbal comfort can make all the difference with my dog, reinjecting some vitality into him. Oftentimes, it's that which he needs, as much as he does a good long drink from my water carrier.

Davy, the EBEX operator, has been patrolling right behind us, using his metal detector to help verify finds. As we lie at rest, Davy asks me who I had with me in my kennel on our last night at the base.

So, who were you talking to all that time?' he asks. 'Who's Tippy-Toes?'

It's true, I did have Tippy-Toes in my kennel. Tippy-Toes is my new nickname for Hunter. I've watched him trying to walk around on the metal floor of the new kennel, his claws scrab bling for grip, and that's what made me think Tippy-Toes. When it's just the two of us alone that's what I've been calling him.

I tell Davy it was Hunter that I was speaking to. Davy can't under stand how I can spend hours talking to a dog (let alone give him such ridiculous nicknames). But the thing is with Hunter he's the perfect listener. He can't reply verbally, but I can see in his eyes that he's hearing my every word.

To show Davy what I mean, I turn to Hunter: 'Tippy-Toes, are your pawsies hurting?' He holds one paw up for me and I give it a good rub. I'm not surprised, lad, my feet ache like hell.

I get my Camelbak out of my backpack, take a sip, then Hunter opens his mouth so I can squirt some in. I hold out my hand and Hunter places his paw into it.

'Little bit higher, lad, I tell him.

I raise mine and turn the palm towards him, and Hunter gives me a high-five. I do a twisting motion in the air with my hand, and Hunter flips over and does a few rolls.

Then I freeze the hand: 'Steady...

Hunter freezes in mid-roll. He's lying on his back with his four legs limp as if he's just died. I go over and start to pump his chest with my hands, like I'm doing resuscitation. He springs up into my arms.

'You're alive!' I exclaim. 'You're alive!'

Davy laughs quietly to himself. He's forced to admit that my dog understands me on a level that goes far deeper than purely verbal communication.

A figure appears beside us in the darkness. It's Ranger Cupples. 'Mind if I give Hunter a little something?" he asks, speaking in that soft, classy American way of his.

Since the Ranger lads got their mail delivery, Hunter's never been without a doggy treat whenever we're out on patrol. Each of the Rangers is carrying a shedload of kit on their back, but they still find space for a little something for Hunter. And Cupples is proving one of the biggest treat-carriers of the lot of them.

'Yeah, go for it, I tell him. "But best move your hand away quickly, or I'll get Hunter to bite you. I've still not forgotten your "officer" wind up.'

Cupples laughs good-naturedly. 'Bite me? Not Hunter... No one bites the hand that feeds them, eh?"

I let out a snort of derision. "Hunter b****y does!'

Cupples reaches out his hand a little nervously. As with the rest of the Rangers, he's still a bit wary of Hunter. If they can get just a passing feel of my dog without him nailing them, then they're mostly happy. It's like they're thinking: Yes! Got a touch of the dog without him biting me... Fantastic...

Cupples offers him the doggy chew. Hunter glances over at me for an instant, and gets the look that tells him he can have it: Yes, lad, go on - you've earned it. He opens his mouth ever so slightly and gently takes the treat.

Ah, he's just one big soft pussycat, Cupples purrs.

No one ever calls my dog a cat, I tell him. And the way you're carrying on, Hunter will be thirty-two b****y stone by the end of this tour.

I'm curious about Ranger Cupples, and how on earth he got into the Irish Rangers. I've found out he was originally in the US Navy, and moving from there to a British infantry regiment recruited from Ireland is one hell of a journey. I ask him what happened.

Cupples tells me that he served with the US Navy in Iraq during the 2003 conflict. Before that he'd grown up in Florida, in the southern US, but the family also had a home in County Cavan, in Ireland. The family was of Irish origin, and eventu ally they moved to live there. That's where Cupples met his young wife, a Lithuanian girl called Vilma.

Living in Ireland, he'd been drawn to the Irish camaraderie and fighting spirit. He'd decided to join up with the Royal Irish Regiment, and that's how he'd ended up deploying with them to Afghanistan. He'd learned to speak Pashto with the Army, and as a result he's often employed as an interpreter when out on patrols.

Here in Sangin, his gift for languages brings him closer than most to the locals, which means he has a more in-depth and nuanced understanding of the impact the war is having upon them. I can tell that, at times, it has him really troubled.

As with so many of the Rangers, I've warmed to Cupples. He's a real thinking-man's soldier, and he's just one more guy that my dog and I have to safeguard out here, and bring home alive.

We're ready to move again, and I slip the ball out of my pocket. I show it to Hunter and he's transformed. I pretend to throw it down the path ahead of us, and then sneak it back into hiding. Hunter's up instantly and raring to go. I fall back to Speedy's posi tion and have a quick word. My dog's not got much left, I tell him. We'll need to get some proper kip somewhere soon.

Speedy adjusts the pace of march accordingly. We're back out front and we've been clearing terrain for an hour or more, when I hear a message go out over the radio.

'Get the dog handler over to Eight Platoon. I recognise Major Shannon's voice instantly. It's crackling with tension. 'They've found a pressure plate?

I press my send switch and come back instantly, and before anyone else can reply: 'Not a chance, sir. No way. Not with a pressure plate?

He tells us to go firm and that he's sending a runner over. A few minutes later this figure emerges from the darkness. He proceeds to tell me that the major hasn't much appreciated my remark. He tells me that it's actually a pressure cooker that they've found, not a pressure plate. Somehow, it's been lost in transla tion over the radio.

"Well, you lot should get your comms sorted, I tell him. "There is one huge difference between a pressure plate and a pressure cooker?

I explain to the runner that a pressure plate IED will go off with as little as a touch of a dog's paw. That's why I refused to send Hunter. A pressure plate's a job for the bomb-disposal boys, not a K9 team. If it's a pressure cooker device, then it's most likely packed with explosives to form a very crude but effective shrapnel bomb. Either way, it's still a job for the EOD bomb disposal lot, and that's whom the major should have called.

A few hours later we're back at base. No sooner have I got Hunter into the kennel than Major Shannon sends for me. Barely have I stepped into his room when he unloads on me.

'Dave, I didn't much like what you said over the radio. How about explaining to me why you reacted like you did when I called for your assistance.

'Sir, it's like I've said - it's about what we're here for. We're an AES team - Arms Explosives Search. My dog and I find arms and explosives, and just as soon as we suspect there's something there it's a job for the bomb-disposal lot. We're not here to verify the nature of a find, or to disarm it or make it safe.'

So if my men find something suspect?'

"You get 'em to call out EOD. We do what it says on the tin, sir. We find devices - we don't defuse them?

Once the major's heard me out, he's fine with it. He's not the type to pull rank or to insist that orders are orders, or that his way is the only way. In any case, I sense he's got my measure by now. He realises that to try to overrule me would only serve to ruin his relationship with one of his most vital assets - his dog

team. The major goes on to mention a problem that he's been having on base. We've had intruders come over the wall at night, and it's only been the alertness of the sentries that's saved the day. In both cases they opened fire but missed, which means the intruders got away. The major asks me if there's maybe a dog based solution to the threat.

I explain how we had a patrol dog team out here - in the form of John and Toby - but the previous base commander sent them back to Bastion. I suggest getting a replacement team in. A patrol dog goes in fast and silent and brings down an intruder. It grabs and holds by the arm, or any body part that comes to its jaws.