Wardogs

Chapter 33

Chapter 33

I tell Frankie that whenever we've asked for volunteers to get bitten, it's always 'Private Snodgrass' who's got pushed forwards. I figure the officers should get bitten just as much as the ranks. Frankie loves the idea. He reckons it'll be great for the lads' morale seeing the officers getting chomped. He tells me to clear it with Major Shannon, and we'll start that very evening.

I find the major and explain my thinking. 'Sir, wouldn't it be better to see the platoon commanders getting bitten? Wouldn't the men appreciate that more?"

The major gives an evil smile. 'Sure, that's a very fine idea. I'll send around a directive asking for volunteers?

'Might I suggest, sir, we started with your good self?' The major's smile disappears. All in good time, he grates, all in good time.

At eight o'clock that evening a large crowd of Rangers has gathered by the kennel. I kick things off by getting them all prop erly wound up. I tell them the dog will go for anything that moves, which has them standing still like statues. It's nice to see that Lieutenant Wilcock - Hunter's old adversary - has been volun teered to take tonight's bite.

Truth be told, over recent days the lieutenant has proven himself to be as fine a soldier as you could wish for, and a real convert to my dog. He and I have become good mates as well. Still, for old times' sake it'll be nice to see him getting bitten.

The lads have just about got used to having Hunter, the dog with attitude, around. Now they've got Leo the war dog with jaws to match. This is going to be a great bit of theatre: Let's see which officer's getting mauled today.

I help Lieutenant Wilcock on with the bite sleeve, which is made of thick, impenetrable jute. It's a natural vegetable fibre, which can be spun into strong, coarse threads; doormats are commonly made of it. The sleeve is designed to take a dog's bite whilst preventing the wearer from coming to any harm.

Lieutenant Wilcock's got to be the highest-ranking person that Leo will ever have bitten, so this had better go entirely to plan. I send him off a good few paces, whilst Harry readies Leo. We call the guy we send the dog after the 'intruder. The dog has to bite and hold and bring the intruder to a halt - to 'apprehend' him, and ideally you want the dog to go for the arm wearing the bite sleeve.

I coach the lieutenant on how to present the bite sleeve to Leo. Harry's got his dog held firmly by the collar, and he shows him the 'intruder. Leo knows what's coming and he's looking at Wilcock with an expression like he can't wait to get him.

Harry gives the command 'Get him!' And Leo's gone, like a bullet from a g*n.

He streaks across the ground, launches himself into the air and his jaws clamp shut on the lieutenant's arm. Thank God he's bitten the bite sleeve, and not ripped Lieutenant Wilcock's head off. He knocks him a good few feet backwards, and all the while the Rangers are cheering wildly. Leo keeps a good chomp on the bite sleeve, until Harry calls for him to let go.

That done, a couple of the young Rangers volunteer to take a bite. Just as I thought it would be, this is great therapy for guys who've been at war for weeks on end.

A couple of days later we're briefed on a second three-day mission that we'll be joining. We're heading for a notorious patch of Taliban territory, which the lads have nicknamed 'Wombat Wood. We are to clear the area, establish a presence and try to capture some senior Taliban figures. There's one huge difference to all of our previous patrols. This time the major briefs us on what exactly he's got in store for us - for Hunter and me.

With the poppy harvest more or less done, the enemy is gearing up for battle big time. Until now we've found a good deal of bombs, and we've not lost a single soul. Hunter and I are right in the flow of things, and we're forging a great bond with the Ranger Company lads. We're keeping them safe, and the Taliban don't like it.

Major Shannon mentions using some 'bait' to lure out the enemy. Often I'm half switched off during briefings, my mind scanning the chat for the word 'dog. This grabs my attention by the throat, and largely because the bait Major Shannon intends to use is myself and my dog.

He wants us out on a long and high-visibility patrol, one designed to really get the Talinet buzzing. Then he'll find out their location, and send in a snatch patrol to lift the bad guys.

When he's finished outlining his plan I let out a half chuckle: "Tell you what, sir, how about I carry Hunter on my shoulders and you can pin a target on my back 'n' all?'

At first light Hunter and I set out with the Ranger lads, acting as the bait in Major Shannon's trap. We're going in to take a known Taliban stronghold and we're to prove we can hold it for several days. We've got a quad bike with us to carry all the extra supplies. Hunter and I are going to sit there, waiting for the Taliban to hit us. Nothing like this has been tried before.

I show my dog a flash of the ball, and we take the lead on an open dirt path winding through the bush. I'm scouring the way ahead for even the slightest sign of a disturbance. In the back of my mind I know how hard they're trying to kill us now, so I'm doubly nervous and hyper-aware.

The Taliban have a technique wherein they dig in an IED, smooth the mud and sand over, and pour water onto the disturbed ground. The fierce sun bakes it hard as concrete, so it ends up looking like the rest of the path. I'm scanning for raised areas roughly the size of an IED, or any other tell-tale signs of disturbance.

As Hunter and I push onwards I can't shake off this creepy feeling like I have got a target on my back, and that Hunter's got one too. I do a quick check, just to make sure his Shamrock is securely attached to his harness. I'm relieved to see that it is. But still I can't shake off this conviction that this time, they're going to get us.

We're forced to navigate our way through several irrigation ditches, over each of which we have to build a makeshift bridge to get the quad across. It's painstaking and exhausting work. Although we set out at first light, it's the height of the day and furnace-hot by the time we're visual with the target compound.

We take cover fifty metres back, in a position from where we have eyes on the target. It's a straggle of dun-coloured, dome roofed buildings, surrounded by a high mud wall. The surface of that wall is spattered with bullet and shrapnel holes, testi fying to the ferocity of the fighting that's gone on here.

Hunter and I will go in first, using a scaling ladder to get across the wall, and with a couple of security Rangers on our shoulder.

The scaling ladder is a dozen rungs high and it's made of a tough but light aluminium. I glance down at Hunter, where he's slumped on the ground in the shade of a wall. He stares at the ladder for a second, sniffs at it, then gives me a look, like he knows exactly what's coming.

Whoa... Just hold on a minute. If you think you're getting me on that ... I see him glance down at his feet, then back at me: These paws can do a lot, but they're just not made for ladders....

I crouch down so I'm eye-level with him. I talk him through what we're about to do; that we're going to go up and over that wall. We can't go through the main door, because that's the route the bad guys will expect us to take. This way, we go in with maximum surprise. Then we've got to clear the place of threats, and for that I need him right there with me on the search.

On the patrol commander's word we scuttle forwards. I'm half bent-double so as to present less of a target to the enemy, and with me are the two Rangers carrying the ladder. We reach the cover of the base of the wall without a shot being fired, and the Rangers raise the ladder to just past vertical. In spite of its height, it still barely reaches the apex of the wall.

I squat down, eye Hunter and present my shoulders to him. I whisper: ‘Bup! Bup! Bup!

Get up lad, only this time I mean onto my shoulders. Back at the 104's base, in Leicestershire, we have a doggy obstacle course. It includes a tunnel, a catwalk, hurdles, a window frame and a six-foot wall. But there's a big difference between a six-foot wooden wall and a scaling ladder twelve feet high and especially when all around us there's an enemy hell-bent on killing or capturing my dog.

Hunter steps forwards and nuzzles at me, nervously. I murmur some reassuring words, then take his front and rear legs and raise him into a fireman's lift. I can feel the weight of him up there, and how any residual fat my dog may have had has been honed into toughened muscle and sinew. Muscle weighs more than fat, and as I turn to face the wall he's the heaviest that I've ever felt him.

I put one foot on the lowest rung, and I can feel my dog's heart pounding in my ears. He doesn't like this at all. I flick my eyes left, and there's Hunter's head on my shoulder, his with what almost looks like fright. I've rarely seen Hunter show eyes wide real fear. He's not the biggest of dogs, but he's solid and hard as nails.

I whisper a few words of reassurance, raise my head and take the first step. I've got one hand gripping Hunter's paws, my stubby SA80 in the other, a heavy dog on my shoulders, plus a pack weighing a good fifty pounds on my back. I feel like I'm carrying a mountain. But worst is that I can't get a proper grip on the ladder with my hands holding my weapon.

Either I get rid of it, which means I'll be going over the top unarmed, or I'm going to lose my grip and Hunter and I will fall. I take a step backwards and turn to face the Ranger on my shoulder.

'Here, take this. I pass over my weapon. I've got the dog. I'll have it back when we're on the far side...

I'm half tempted to go up with a grenade or a knife gripped in my teeth, so at least I've got something to fight with and defend my dog. But it's a bit too dagger-between-the-teeth Rambo-esque for my liking. Still, with the enemy out to get us, I figure this has to be their golden chance to blow our heads clean away. The Stubby gone, I go up the ladder like a rat up a We're horribly exposed, and I'm not armed, so we're doubly vulnerable. By the time I reach the apex of the wall I'm sweating buckets and gasping for breath. Somehow, I manage to swing myself and Hunter off the ladder and onto the wall, which we're halfway done getting into the compound. means drainpipe.

For several seconds I'm forced to sit there, with Hunter perched on my shoulders, as the Ranger lads scale the ladder then haul it up after them, so they can drop it down the far side. I feel this river of steaming sweat cascading down my back. I can just imagine a Taliban sniper's cross-hairs nailing my head, or worse still that of my dog. If they're going to get us, now's the perfect chance. I'm tensing myself for gunshots, and practically shitting myself with fear.