Wardogs

Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The young Afghan fears I'm about to kill him, or to get Hunter to bite him half to death. As I try to reassure him - suspect bomb maker or not, he's still human and I'm no murderer - I realise that this is my first up-close encounter with a local. He's shaking like a leaf and the fear in his eyes unnerves me. He seems convinced that I'm about to slot him, and that I'll enjoy every minute of it.

I'm not a small bloke. I'm six foot two and fifteen stone, though I'm sure the weight's going to start dropping off with six months of patrols like this one ahead of us. But I didn't think that I looked like your typical cold-blooded murderer. I guess the Taliban have got to the locals to such a degree that this is what they think of us that we're ruthless executioners.

In truth, I'm horrified. As for Hunter, he's looking at the skinny Afghan as if to say: What's he done so wrong, Dad? If Hunter knew that this was the guy trying to blow up his dad, he'd grab him by the trouser leg and not let go. But he doesn't know, and all he can sense is the smell of fear and desperation about him.

I'm trying to get the interpreter to talk the guy down from his terror, when a couple of the Afghan National Army (ANA) lads sidle up to us. They've found some photos of the guy posing with weap sand bomb-making kit. They're convinced that he's a major player - a bomb-making mastermind out here. They start firing questions - and I figure threats - at the prisoner.

Before I can stop them, they start dragging him back towards the compound. I fear they're going to kick the living daylights out of him in front of the elders. Right now he's got his own fellow Afghans about to beat him to within an inch of his life. He probably is a bomb maker. He probably is trying to kill us. But unless we can show human compassion and decency, we're no better than the enemy we're trying to fight.

I step into the line of fire, Hunter one pace ahead of me baring his fangs and issuing a low and throaty growl.

It's my dog that makes the ANA guys back off. As with most Afghans, they seem to have a deep, ingrained fear of dogs. In this they're the complete opposite of us. There's not a bloke on the patrol that hasn't had a smile or a good word for Hunter, and that was before he found the bomb-making factory. As one of my fellow handlers was fond of telling me back home, for us Brits, "God is dog spelled backwards.

The ANA guys take one more look at Hunter and decide discre tion is the better part of valour. They turn on their heels and they're gone.

Twenty minutes later the bomb-making factory has been dismantled and its contents bagged up. We move out with the prisoner in tow. Hunter and I push ahead, and after what we've found here our spirits are sky high. We're walking on clouds. Thirty shells amount to thirty IEDs, so that's thirty blokes saved from horrible injury or worse. And there's no better feeling than going to war to save the lives of your fellow soldiers.

When we're a good distance from the compound we go firm, so we can take a much-needed breather. We've stopped beside a river and I decide to let Hunter go for it. He's in there like a flash, sploshing and splashing about, and he's loving it.

After a good twenty minutes' rest the patrol commander gives the order to move out, which means Hunter and me taking up pole position again.

I call my dog: 'Come on, lad, get here. Time to get going again on those tired pawsies.

Unfortunately, Hunter's having none of it. He glances up at me: Aw, come on, Dad, it's paradise in here...

The patrol commander tells me that we've got to move because the Taliban are closing in. There's an edge to his voice now that I haven't detected before. Stay static too long and we're a sitting target, he explains. I tell him that Hunter's a dog, and that he's got to cool down. But at the same time I can sense the threat all around us, and my instinct is screaming danger. I call my dog again, more forcibly this time: "Hunter, get here,

now!'

He lifts his head from the river: Ears full of water, Dad, I can't hear you!

The patrol commander's becoming more and more impatient. 'Dog, we've got to move - like now!

'Sir, I know.' I nod in Hunter's direction. He's doing somersaults

and rollicking in the water. 'But my dog's still a dog...

I know exactly how Hunter's feeling. He's a big, solid black dog, so he's got the worst of all possible coat colours for being in the furnace of the Afghan heat. He's in the river thinking this is lovely - and you want me to come out there and follow that hard, sun baked track... But the longer I stand here with everyone watching me, the more wound-up I get, especially as we're about to get ambushed at any moment.

"Come on!' I yell at him. 'GET HERE - NOW!' He glances over his shoulder, his muzzle showing a wet, toothy grin: Dad, you want me, come and get me...

I know I've got no choice but to go in.

I scramble down the muddy bank and slide into the water. I wade across to Hunter and grab him by his harness. I try to kill my anger, and I do my best to haul him onto dry land with humour and a smile. I've got no choice, really: the entire patrol seems to have formed up to watch and the lads are rolling about with laughter. We're about to get smashed by the Taliban and there's this comedy scene playing out before them. They're loving it.

I dump Hunter on the path, squat down and get my face right up close to his, noses touching and eye-to-eye. 'Now, you listen to me, lad...

His ears droop almost imperceptibly, and I can see the look in his eyes: Hey, Dad, I was only joking - I'm sorry.