One Dog at a Time

by Farthing, Pen

  I knew he needed exercise otherwise he would spend the entire day lying out on his cushion, getting up only to go for a wee. But as he was getting so unpredictable around more or less everyone in the compound, I could only take him out safely at night.

  It was frustrating. It wasn’t that he was naturally a vicious dog; it was just the training and the treatment he’d been given in his previous life. I hadn’t had the time to retrain him, but I couldn’t risk him biting someone so I had to keep him on a tight leash, literally.

  I’d made a thick strap I’d cut from one of the ripped resupply parachutes as a lead. Even with it around his neck he would still lurch forward and attempt to rear up at strangers. It was so dispiriting. It didn’t matter what I said to him or how firm I was, he just wouldn’t stop with the evil guttural growl and the snarling teeth whenever anyone walked within ten feet of us.

  I understood what was at the root of his aggression: he wanted to protect me. I knew I could cure that. It would just take time. Time I didn’t have.

  Of all the dogs, Nowzad was the one whose future most worried me. Even if I got him safely to the rescue, I guessed that nobody would choose to take him as a pet. The result would be that the rescue staff there would unfairly be lumbered with a fighting dog that was set in his ways. They would then probably be left with only one option.

  That didn’t bear thinking about.

  John was at the water pump, topping up the jerry cans. I turned to walk towards him; even though he was a young lad we got on well and I enjoyed passing a few minutes while we chatted about whatever was on our minds. It dawned on me that I had never asked him where he was from or even how old he was. Now seemed as good a time as any.

  ‘All right, Nowzad?’ he said, turning off the tap as he turned to face us approaching.

  Suddenly, without warning, Nowzad lunged at John’s legs and let loose his most evil-sounding bark. Luckily John was too quick and moved away before Nowzad could sink his teeth in. If he hadn’t been so sharp, he would almost certainly have been badly bitten.

  ‘Bugger, what the hell was that about?’ John shouted.

  He couldn’t understand it and neither could I. It wasn’t as if he was a stranger; John fed Nowzad occasionally, for Pete’s sake.

  Somewhere deep inside me a switch flipped. The frustration of being target practice for the Taliban, the days and months of sleep deprivation, burst to the surface. I had had enough.

  ‘Nowzad! That’s it! No more,’ I shouted as I yanked back hard on the improvised lead, almost forcing him back on his haunches with the force of the pull. I then dragged him towards the gate. ‘Nobody will want you at the rescue; you’re a total pain in the arse,’ I yelled.

  John stood there slightly shocked before heading back to the well.

  As soon as I got the gate open wide enough I pushed Nowzad’s thickset body out through the gap. He tried to resist at first by digging in with his front paws, but I had the upper hand. He wasn’t making a noise at all. I think he was in a state of shock as I shoved him out into the night.

  The moon was particularly bright, and the frost-covered ground sparkled as I watched Nowzad wander away from the gate, heading off across to the far corner of the next compound and the open spaces on the east side of town.

  As he reached the corner he stopped and turned to look back towards me for a split second before disappearing into the night.

  I took two deep breaths and realised what had just happened. After all we’d been through together, I’d kicked Nowzad out. It was over.

  I felt a pang of guilt. But there was nothing I could do now. It was done.

  I walked back across to my bed, the now useless lead in my hand. I needed to sleep. I felt tired.

  I had been beaten. The last two months, all the time I had spent desperately trying to convince myself that I could look after an Afghan fighting dog, had been a waste. It wasn’t Nowzad’s fault; it was just the way it was. Again I told myself I had done the right thing. I sat down on my bed in the ice-cold room and removed my boots. I couldn’t be bothered with getting undressed. I had only three hours’ sleep before I was on watch again.

  I tried not to think of Nowzad as I drifted off to a better world.

  I woke to the sound of my alarm piercing the darkness. I had ten minutes until it was my turn to man the ops room and the radio. Almost three in the morning and all was well.

  Well, not quite all, I thought to myself as I quickly laced up my cold boots and stamped my feet around to get some warmth while I slipped on my down jacket and hat.

  I walked outside. The moon was still crystal-clear and everything was laced in an icy sheen. The ground crunched softly as I made my way over towards the ops room.

  It was then that I heard the sound quietly floating on the still early-morning air.

  It wasn’t a howl or the werewolves’ cry of the movies, just a low, whimpering cry for help, a dog’s cry.

  I knew who it was.

  I had a few minutes to spare and I could always pretend I had overslept so I headed for the home-made wooden ladder that leant against the wall, then climbed up and popped my head over the top so that I was looking down into the open space immediately to the front of the gate.

  ‘Oh shit.’

  I felt numb inside.

  There was Nowzad propped against the gate, looking lost and rejected. He was waiting to come in, waiting to come back to what he regarded as his home. The home I had created for him.

  ‘Don’t do it,’ I scolded myself climbing down. ‘He’ll get tired soon. He’ll find shelter soon enough; just leave him be. There is no other way.’

  I had to fight against myself to keep walking towards the ops room.

  I drifted through the handover. It was the same shit as before, just as it had been for the last two months.

  As the minutes on the clock painfully ticked by I sat and stared at the wall decorated with maps in front of me. The line drawings of the buildings and alleys seemed to blur into one swirling black blob.

  I kept seeing the image of Nowzad, sitting against the fence, howling. If dogs felt loneliness and fear then that’s what Nowzad was going through now.

  ‘Shut up, Farthing,’ I told myself. ‘Nowzad had his chance. Just let it go.’

  I looked at the clock again. The minute hand seemed suspended in space.

  I punched the desk.

  ‘Fuck it!’

  Slim the signaller shot up in his seat. If I didn’t know better, I might have said I’d just woken him up.

  ‘What’s up?’ he spluttered as he got his bearings.

  ‘Nothing,’ I replied as I stood up. ‘I need a swamp, back in three minutes.’

  I was already out the door and running.

  I climbed the ladder again and looked over the wall. Nearly an hour had gone by since I’d spotted him by the gate. Nowzad wasn’t there.

  I didn’t know if I was relieved or not.

  But then, as I went to take a step back down the ladder, I caught sight of a curled-up figure at the foot of the gate. It was huddled up in the lengthening shadows.

  Nowzad was curled up as tightly as possible, his head buried under his rear legs for warmth. I could now see why. His coat was camouflaged with the glistening frost. No wonder I hadn’t seen him the first time I’d looked. He had blended into the lengthening shadows as if he wasn’t there.

  I almost slid down the ladder. My pulse raced.

  In the dead of the night, the noise of the huge metal bar being lifted and the rear gate opening made me wince. It sounded like I was banging on the hull of the Titanic.

  I opened it just enough to stick my head through. Nowzad had lifted his head up but had not moved.

  ‘Nowzad, it’s me, come on, dog,’ I whispered.

  As he recognised my voice Nowzad pushed clumsily to his feet. I felt as guilty as sin. His stumpy tail wagged uncontrollably as I gave his coat a good brushing down, the ice crystals sparkling as they fell to earth.

  I ru
bbed his head. ‘Sorry bud, let’s not do that again, eh?’

  As I stood up Nowzad pawed my foot in his excitement at being back in. I danced around with him by the gate feeling just as happy to see him as I believe he was to see me.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Laughing Policemen

  AS THE DUST cleared and I stared at the huddled group of shapes on the desert floor my first feeling was disbelief. Even though a thin layer of dust covered the half dozen or so kneeling figures, I could clearly distinguish the dull blue clothing and the distinctively shaped muzzles of the AK-47 assault rifles they were carrying on their backs. ANP policemen.

  ‘Did they just get off the helo?’ I asked myself.

  It was a dumb question – there was nowhere else they could have come from. But it would have been nice if someone had told us we were getting a new ANP police unit.

  The previous unit had left in a hurry, a few days earlier. Their departure had caught us all by surprise. During our time together I realised that we had probably completely misunderstood them and they us. Our two totally diverse cultures and beliefs clashed appallingly, with neither side prepared to compromise. During the past month or so they had carried out a few more so-called patrols into the local area, occasionally coming back with supplies, but that was it. But then just before they had left, they suddenly called on Harry the terp to inform us that they were heading for Lashkar Gar. Before anybody knew it we heard the familiar sound of their old 4x4 truck coughing out fumes as the engine roared to life.

  We stood there and watched them go. The commander was at the wheel as they sped out the back gate heading south and leaving wet tyre tracks in the damp earth. The younger members of the contingent, their AK-47s poised and ready, were riding high among the stacked bags and bundles in the back of the flat bed as they bounced along the makeshift track. As they disappeared into the badlands, the hill kept 0 informed of their progress southwards.

  ‘How the hell are they going to get past all the Taliban checkpoints?’ John asked as we stood in mild shock at their sudden departure.

  ‘Guess they are happy to take their chances,’ was all I could say as we trudged over to shut the gate they had been in too much of a hurry to secure.

  I looked at John and then back at the six new ANP who were dusting themselves off and chatting excitedly to each other as the Chinook became a black dot in the cold evening sky. They appeared a right motley crew, their blue uniforms covered in dirt from where they had lain on the ground as they were blasted from the helo. Immediately I could see there was a vast range of ages. One looked no more than 13 while the eldest looked around my age, in his late thirties, I guessed.

  Standing next to them was just one British marine, covered in mud himself, slowly picking up his belongings from the midst of the huddle of blue mail sacks. The ANP seemed to be lacking any equipment of their own.

  ‘Let’s see what this lot are like then,’ I said to John as we walked towards them from our hiding place behind the side of the 4x4. The side of the truck was becoming extremely dented and chipped as it took a hammering every time we positioned it to protect us from the blast of the helo. I was glad I didn’t own it.

  A tallish dark-skinned Afghan with a well-trimmed full-face beard stepped forward. His bushy curled hair was layered with sand and grime from the helo cloud.

  ‘Salaamu alaikum,’ I offered as I held my right hand up over my heart.

  He smiled and replied in kind and then just stood there staring at me as if waiting for me to crack on in Pashtu, his piercing stare making me feel slightly uneasy.

  ‘Okay then, buddy, that’s my Pashtu, all gone,’ I said, giving John a ‘what do we do now?’ look.

  Silence as all six Afghanis just stared back at me, their faces still beaming from the jolly of what I assumed was their first ever helicopter trip.

  ‘Okay, get in the wagon,’ I said, pointing to the back of the pickup truck. They took a quick glance towards the truck then turned back to me and nodded enthusiastically before walking off towards it.

  ‘All right, mate.’ I turned my attention to the lone marine. ‘Welcome to Now Zad.’

  ‘Smashing fella,’ he replied.

  I immediately recognised the voice. ‘Steve, am I glad to see you!’

  The first time I had met Steve he had smacked the back of my hand with a spatula as I attempted to sneak an extra sausage from the hot plate at breakfast time during our brief stay in Gereshk. He was only a corporal but I forgave him, especially now. Steve was a chef, a fairly good chef at that. Not that I would have let him know that as I’d never hear the end of it. Dutchy and I were saved.

  Steve could come across as slightly brash, someone who ruled the kitchen with a rod of iron and set high standards. But he had a heart of gold and would bend over backwards to help anybody, whatever they needed. He also had let me have that second sausage.

  ‘Heard that some sergeants can’t even boil eggs properly and need a grown-up’s help,’ he said, trying to wind me up.

  ‘Hey, mate, not sure why they sent you as I’m told that chef’s training is the hardest course in the world to pass …’

  He finished the gag before I could, ‘Yeah, yeah and you’ve never met a chef who has passed it yet. Ho ho ho, just show me the kitchen, loser,’ he smiled as we shook hands.

  ‘With joy my friend, with joy.’

  As always it was a short drive back into the compound. The new ANP party chattered away happily among themselves as we drove in. I was taken aback slightly as the ANP jumped down from the back of the vehicle into the soft mud of the yard almost before we had pulled to a stop.

  They seemed to know where the ANP accommodation was situated and before we could grab Harry to explain the rules of living in our compound they had disappeared off to root around.

  ‘I guess they have been here before,’ I said to John as we sat in the front cab and watched them walk off.

  I would have to introduce them to the boss later.

  Steve was itching to see our galley but he had to sit through the CSM’s welcome brief first before Dutchy and I took him on a tour of the kitchen.

  Steve mockingly ran his finger along what I thought was a reasonably clean gas hob, under the circumstances. ‘Tut tut,’ he muttered as he held up an index finger now smeared with dirty grease. ‘Don’t worry, boys: a professional is here now to save you all.’

  ‘Hey, I thought we were doing okay,’ I said, feigning mock hurt.

  As far as we were concerned Steve could have the bloody kitchen; I was well chuffed that we were rid of it.

  Neither of us would ever admit it to Steve, but he was definitely a better chef than either me or Dutchy. Not that we were bothered in the slightest.

  RPG was the latest to confirm it. Within a couple of days of Steve taking over RPG would somehow squeeze through a small gap in the run gate and casually trot over to join the hungry lads in the breakfast queue. He would sit on the sand-filled cardboard boxes that we’d placed along the back wall of the compound, waiting patiently for the queue to disappear so he could get stuck in to the leftovers.

  Steve would always save him a sausage, which RPG would gobble down faster than you could say frankfurter.

  The other new arrivals were changing the atmosphere in the compound as well.

  Our new ANP contingent was proving to be more outgoing and laid-back than their predecessors. Often they would sit on plastic chairs in the middle of their garden area, which was basically a trimmed square strip of grass, bordered on three sides by a mixture of small shrubs and weird-looking tall flowers.

  They were gathered there again today as Dave and I strolled back after another frenzied feeding time at the zoo. We couldn’t help smiling at their antics.

  Four of them were seated, clapping to an imaginary tune while puffing away on what I imagined were home-made smokes, their weapons abandoned haphazardly on the ground.

  Two younger policemen were attempting a slow-motion, high-stepping dance
. Their shoes were throwing up small globs of mud as the clapping encouraged them to dance more and more wildly.

  As we passed by, Dave and I both waved and said hello. I thought that was the least we could do. They couldn’t be any worse than the last lot.

  One of the police was a slightly more rounded character than the rest, his chubby tanned features framed by a short trimmed beard that covered the lower portion of his face. He was probably as old as the one who had spoken to me on the LS. He had apparently taken to hanging around the open door of the galley, chatting away happily in Pashtu, which had somewhat annoyed Steve as he sought to get to grips with our simple but demanding galley routine.

  The Afghan now stood up and bounded over to us as the two lads in the middle continued their dance uninterrupted. ‘Salaamu alaikum,’ he said, holding out his hand.

  His eyes shone as his big face formed itself into an enormous grin. His smile was infectious and we both grinned inanely back, shaking his hand back and greeting him in our best Pashtu.

  Encompassing us in his enormous arms he pulled us towards the chairs. The commander, who had come forward at the LS, remained seated wearing an impassive grin as we reluctantly went along with our new chubby policeman friend.

  ‘We’re not dancing,’ I said, even though I knew he had no idea what I was saying.

  As he playfully led us into the garden he barked at two of the younger lads sat on the chairs. They immediately jumped up and dusted down the seats to make way for us.

  ‘Thank you,’ we said, although we weren’t sure that they understood us.

  After receiving directions from the commander, the younger boy, who looked no more than 13 or 14 years old, disappeared. Dave and I sat in silence while the rest of the policemen continued clapping for the two lads who were still performing their dance routine in the middle of the circle. Both were dressed in their long blue uniforms. I guessed they were both in their early twenties. As they threw themselves about in what I figured was a well-known traditional routine, their wild, curly jet-black hair bounced out from underneath their dress caps.