One Dog at a Time

by Farthing, Pen

  I walked back across the silent compound when the duty finally finished, because I needed to get some personal admin under way, but halfway towards our living compound I decided to check on Nowzad and see how he liked his new home.

  I stood open-mouthed when I saw what had happened to the run. I had left it with just the gridded fencing in place, but Nowzad was now lying in the shade under part of a desert camouflage net. What really took me by surprise though was the fact that a quarter of the run was now taken up by Nowzad’s very own mortar shelter. It was two foot high and had walls made of filled sandbags and a piece of plywood covered in a layer of sandbags for the roof. A small entrance facing away from the vulnerable fenced end of the run was Nowzad’s way in and out. I smiled to myself and nodded approvingly.

  I knew how much the lads hated filling sandbags – I can’t have been the only one with a soft spot for the big dog. As I admired their handiwork, I only hoped Nowzad wouldn’t need it.

  The evening scran queue was waiting patiently and the lads were full of jovial banter and gossip from the sangars. For such a small group we managed to create some monster rumours. The latest one was that Gordon Ramsey was coming to cook for us at Christmas.

  Our young chef emerged and placed two pots of steaming hot chicken curry on the fold-away table that acted as a serving counter. As we’d been discovering these past few days, the fresh-faced lad had been volunteered to train as a chef. Sadly he had only paid attention to part of the course as he only really knew how to cook a curry.

  No sooner had he put the food down than the sky above our heads simultaneously burst into thousands of red streaks as tracer rounds from the hill raced eastwards. The Taliban were obviously back in town.

  We didn’t need to scream ‘Stand to!’ But both I and the other troop sergeant reacted together anyway, yelling at the queue of marines to disperse. Most were already on their way.

  ‘What the hell am I meant to do with this now?’ the chef yelled, just audible above the ‘boom boom’ of the .50 calibres firing overhead. Out of frustration he threw his serving spoon into the yard, just missing my head as I grabbed my weapon and body armour from the doorway

  ‘Put it in the fridge, we’ll be back later,’ I yelled as I charged off.

  I just caught his reply as I raced out of the living section of the compound towards my position in the northern sangar.

  ‘But Sergeant,we don’t have a bloody fridge …’

  *

  The explosions were probably only 700 metres away. The blinding split-second flashes as our mortars hit their targets lit up the surrounding buildings as if they had been caught in the white flash of a camera.

  I heard over the radio that the hill was taking accurate incoming small arms fire. The Taliban were obviously making up for the quiet of the last few days. The OC ordered our sangars into action and between us we directed fire back towards the enemy position. The sangar to the east of me reported small arms fire being directed at them, too. It was clear that we wouldn’t be eating curry any time soon.

  The hill intensified its bombardment of the enemy position but was now split between two reported firing points. The company sergeant major was directing our own mortars within the compound to put up illuminating rounds to help the machine gunners pinpoint their targets.

  The noise was deafening. The sky was ablaze with tracer rounds going both ways. We scanned the darkened ground to our front, mindful that it could be a diversion to allow the Taliban to get in closer.

  I thought of Nowzad and hoped he would be okay. I was shit-scared myself, so I had no doubts a caged, already nervous ex-fighting dog would also be terrified. I was even more glad and grateful that the lads had built him that mortar shelter. I hoped he would be safe in there. The pack of dogs outside the walls was certainly nowhere to be seen.

  As the noise intensified I had to push my headset to my ear to hear the shouted messages over the radio between the hill and our compound. The OC had declared a TIC (troops in contact), which meant that back at Camp Bastion the HQ staff would now focus on our situation and that meant going to the top of the list for any available fast jets that were on call. In other words some heavy ordnance would soon be dropped on any positions we had identified as Taliban.

  ‘0A this is Hill, widow maker ETA figures 5 over.’ It always amused me that one of the fast jet pilots called himself the widow maker.

  ‘0A, roger, give me the one-minute heads up, out.’

  To any non-military person listening in to the radio conversation it would sound like gobbledygook. To us though, it was a short, sharp conversation that conveyed key information. I now knew that in five minutes the big bangs would really kick in.

  I tried to ignore my thoughts of Nowzad in his run. I had a responsibility to the lads I was commanding. I felt guilty that I couldn’t tell him it would be okay and lead him away from this madness. But I couldn’t do anything about it; my hands were tied.

  Our translator was eavesdropping on the Taliban as they sent radio messages to each other. They didn’t seem to be that bothered by the amount of ordnance being sent their way. I had a sneaky feeling they would be in a minute or so.

  ‘All stations this is 0A, stand by – 30 seconds to impact.’

  The hill had already stopped the mortar barrage to allow the F18 to come in low, ready to drop two 500-pound bombs on the identified targets.

  For a split second everything went quiet as we all waited for the impact. The two flashes were blinding. For a moment even the mountains in the far distance were lit up against the perfect black night sky.

  Then the force from the blast arrived.

  A wave of air radiated outwards from ground zero. It hit our position with an audible oomph that caused the wooden sangar roof to shake.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said my GPMG gunner, crouched in the sangar next to me.

  The noise was next to hit us and the boom vibrated around the mountains as it faded to nothing.

  ‘Cease all firing,’ I yelled along the line of my sangar while we waited for the hill to survey the scene and report in.

  The translator had been quiet for a while, normally a sign we had hit the right spot. Not that I wanted to be responsible for someone’s death, but the Taliban had been given more than enough chances to settle their disputes around the debating table. And, more importantly, they had started firing first.

  Everything was still, quiet. Now Zad was dark again. The air smelt of gunfire, but nothing moved. Two illuminating flares were fired towards the last-known enemy position. They burst into two brilliant floating lights that slowly sank earthward under their parachutes. The shadows danced on the ground as the flares moved with the wind.

  ‘0A this is Hill, negative movement at the firing points, over.’

  ‘Hill, 0A roger, keep eyes on. Over.’

  For the next half hour or so we sat quietly in the dark waiting to make sure the Taliban we had fired upon were indeed dead. I desperately wanted to check on Nowzad, but I couldn’t risk the Taliban kicking off again while I wasn’t where I should be. Beyond our sangar the darkness was all-encompassing. If anybody was out there then they had had enough. The only chatter on our radio was confirming that all of our call signs were okay. Nobody had been injured.

  The OC broke the silence over the net.

  ‘All stations this is 0A, chatter received. And I quote: “All okay. That was close. Meet back at house.” 0A out.’

  We all started laughing. After nearly an hour and a half while there had been a constant exchange of fire we had only managed to scare them into going home.

  ‘How the hell did they survive that?’ Dave asked from his position in the left-hand firing point of the sangar. ‘No way could anybody get out of that, the jammy bastards.’

  Dave was right: it was unbelievable.

  I waited another five minutes and then climbed out of the sangar. I still had all the radios on and could hear the hill reporting that nothing was to be seen in the two target area
s.

  I jogged round to Nowzad’s run.

  All seemed as it should. The gridded fence was still in place with the old rope to secure the gate as I had left it. I quickly untied it and squeezed into the run, using my fingers to shield the torch light as I waved the beam across the floor. I didn’t want to be responsible for giving the Taliban a target.

  Nowzad must have been petrified; he didn’t come out to see me. Normally I would see his blackish muzzle with its prominent white streak poking out of his shelter. He would then emerge eagerly anticipating the unlimited supply of biscuits that I would bring with me.

  But not tonight. There was not a sign of him.

  ‘Nowzad, come on bud, where are you?’ I crouched down calling out his name as softly as I could.

  With still no sign of him I walked towards the back of the run looking for the opening to the mortar shelter. I knelt down and shone the torch carefully into the shelter. It was empty as well.

  I stood straight up and double-checked around the run in case I had missed Nowzad curled up in a corner. There was nothing there. I hurried over to the gate again. Had I missed something? It was done up when I got here, wasn’t it? Surely my mind was playing tricks. I tried to remember if I’d definitely had to untie the gate as I entered.

  It hadn’t been forced open. I closed it to make sure it wasn’t bent and sure enough it closed forming a smooth seal against the metal picket.

  I scanned along the bottom of the run’s only fence. I had purposely dug it a half a foot or so into the ground so that Nowzad wouldn’t be able to dig his way out. The ground was still undisturbed, so he hadn’t got out that way.

  The only other way of escape was over the top of the fence. But that was at least five foot high. I was sure Nowzad didn’t have the physical ability to clear it. I looked at it again; he couldn’t jump that high, could he?

  Not that it mattered now anyway. Nowzad was gone.

  The off-duty lads had been required to spend the battle hidden away in their small cells. Some had actually relished the opportunity for some enforced shut-eye; there was not a lot they could do so why waste the opportunity? Most were now coming out to form the queue that was snaking towards the barely warm curry that was still sitting where we’d left it. The chef hadn’t bothered to move it during the entire battle.

  Although I was apprehensive about Nowzad I was also anxious about the lads. Nowzad still didn’t get on too well with strangers and the last thing I needed was him deciding to bite somebody as, scared and desperate, he roamed around the compound. This would have sealed his fate immediately.

  How would he have reacted if the lads had tried to catch him? I just hoped he hadn’t done anything that we would both regret. Of all the dogs that I had watched roaming outside I had chosen to keep the fighting dog in the compound, although to be fair, hadn’t he chosen me? I quickened my pace as I realised I needed to find him; after all I couldn’t abandon him now.

  As my mind went into overdrive, I was brought back to the compound by Dan, the lad who had given Nowzad his name, whom I just avoided bumping into as he ran out of the small mud archway that formed the entrance to the living area.

  ‘Sergeant, come and have a look at this,’ he spoke quickly. He looked slightly bewildered, his eyes wide.

  ‘What Dan? I’m looking for Nowzad,’ I replied. ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘It is Nowzad.’

  ‘What?’

  I followed him over to one of the old cell doorways. The glow from a small candle on a high home-made shelf partially lit the cramped room.

  ‘He’s in here,’ Dan said, pointing to one of the three military-issue beds that were squeezed into the small space.

  I crouched down and looked under the bed. Sure enough, there was Nowzad, curled up in a small ball, legs tucked under his body, eyes wide and looking at directly at me. I reached under the bed and rubbed the soft stump of his right ear.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Halfway through the contact he just barged into the room,’ Dan explained. ‘We all shat ourselves wondering what he was going to do, but then he just looked at us and squeezed under the bed.’

  I gave Dan a slightly disbelieving look.

  ‘Yeah, he did, and we haven’t been able to get him out since, not even with food.’

  Nowzad had never been over this side of the compound, yet he had found his way to safety, just one room away from where I slept. I was fairly sure he’d have forced his way in there if my door had not been closed while I was in the sangar.

  I coaxed him out with his favourite biscuits as he crawled out from under the bed. He even let Dan stroke his head as I led him out the door.

  We must have looked an odd couple as we walked back across the darkened compound, one fully laden soldier holding out biscuit after biscuit for a dog with no ears.

  ‘It’s okay, mate, the fireworks are over now.’ I patted his head, which was just level with my knee as I led him back towards his run.

  As we approached his makeshift home I marvelled at how he had managed to jump the fence. That could be the only explanation for his escape. As I opened the gate Nowzad pushed past my leg to get back in the run. I looked at the fence again and then at Nowzad. ‘How did you clear that fence, bud?’ Nowzad was no springer spaniel and I just couldn’t picture him scaling the fence like a spider dog.

  Nowzad trotted over to the mortar shelter and disappeared into the dark hole. ‘I’ll get you somewhere safe, Nowzad, just give me time,’ I said, knowing full well he was no longer listening. Which was a good job as I didn’t like promising something I wasn’t sure I could deliver.

  Now I really needed Lisa to come up with some good news.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Rocket-Propelled Grenade

  I WAS IN the middle of carrying out my morning rounds, when I noticed a marine with a faded-yellow truck over by Nowzad’s run. I knew it was John – he was the only person who drove a vehicle within the compound. Although he was only a young marine, he had shown he was keen and reliable and had been given the task of coordinating and gathering all of our intelligence reports. Unfortunately he had also been volunteered for dropping off each day’s allocation of washing and drinking water to the sangars. Rather than delivering the jerry cans around by hand, John had used his initiative and taken to using the old Toyota pickup truck we had inherited from the ANA when we took over the compound for the daily water deliveries. It made the job a lot easier.

  ‘All right, mate, how’s the water boy today?’ I said mockingly, as I approached the run.

  ‘Doing just great, cheers Sergeant,’ he replied, his dark hair already growing down around his ears. The regimental sergeant major would have had a fit had he been here.

  ‘I brought Nowzad this,’ he said, holding out an old red satin cushion decorated with a faded gold leaf design that, had it been clean, would not have been out of place on a settee back home.

  ‘Where did you get that from?’

  ‘Found it loafing,’ he replied with a knowing smile.

  I smiled back. I wasn’t going to ask too many questions. Nowzad was about to be given his first ever dog bed.

  I opened the gate and walked over to Nowzad’s normal spot under the cam net. As soon as I placed the cushion down Nowzad sniffed it suspiciously a few times before stepping on to it and then plonking himself down into a tight ball.

  ‘Good choice, John. I think he likes it.’

  We left Nowzad to spend the remainder of the day curled up on his cushion, watching a very slow world go by through the fencing of his run.

  A few of the lads were now regularly visiting Nowzad during their downtime. I figured they enjoyed the normality of feeding him biscuits even though they took care to stay on the safe side of the run. Nowzad still didn’t let anybody but me get near him without letting out an evil-sounding growl and none were brave enough to find out if he meant it or not.

  Keeping him in the run would be safer for everybody. So far he hadn’
t attempted to jump the fence again and I reckoned he wouldn’t until the next firefight we were drawn into. All of the lads knew to avoid him if he was out. I’d thought about getting him a collar but I would have to wait for Lisa to post one to me.

  To be truthful I was still slightly wary of him and wasn’t sure how much he actually trusted me. He might still bite me if I attempted to tie anything around his neck. Added to this, I was always keeping an eye out in case the ANP decided to try and use him for another fight even though they had been warned by the OC that those sorts of activities would not be tolerated within our compound.

  Nowzad looked chilled enough about being left in his run but whenever I entered to feed him, he would try to squeeze out of the gate. He made it every now and again, haring off on a tour of the entire inner perimeter of the compound, sniffing, scratching and marking his territory as I tried to coax him back in. Food was usually the key to persuading him back into the run. An open bag of pork and dumplings wafted under his nose worked every time.

  Since my conversation with Lisa, I’d been wondering whether my cunning plan to save Nowzad was a good idea or not. At the moment I was leaning towards the latter.

  Who was going to want to rehome a former fighting dog? How could they, even if they wanted to? Nowzad knew no house rules, he hadn’t been socialised. But he was quiet enough during the day – surely I could spend what few minutes I had each day at least trying to socialise him? After all, he hadn’t exactly been well treated in his experiences with humans so far, had he? So he deserved a shot at a decent dog’s life. Deep down, though, I knew Nowzad would be a nightmare for any prospective owners.

  I delayed making any decisions; I would wait and see what Lisa found out. Maybe I just wasn’t brave enough to face up to reality. It was the coward’s way of delaying the inevitable.

  The onset of winter was becoming more apparent; it was getting a lot cooler in the evenings and we guessed that it wasn’t far off hitting zero degrees during the early hours of the morning. I was now pulling on my duvet jacket more or less as soon as the sun dropped below the western compound wall.