by Mandy Magro
Releasing a long, drawn-out breath, Dean focused on the familiar surroundings as the rising sun lightened the far-reaching land to shades of fiery red and then dazzling gold. It looked like it was going to be a textbook autumn day — perfect for the job at hand. On the horizon, jagged mountain ranges knifed their way into the empty blue sky, the distant mountain tops revealing a hint of snow on their peaks. The mountains of Afghanistan were scenic from a distance, but up close, the land where most of the combat took place was always brutal, unforgiving and inhospitable. Men fought and died on barren dirt and rock, in medieval mud compounds, or in the menacing, claustrophobic fields of poppies and marijuana that choked the narrow strips of arable land along the rivers. It was such contrasting countryside to Whispering Meadows, his family’s lush green acreage in Australia, where rolling pastoral land met in an almost seductive embrace with the golden shores of Majestic Beach. What Dean wouldn’t give to feel the sand between his toes and smell the glorious scent of the ocean right now.
Although many were warm-hearted, the Afghans were certainly tough people and disputes over land, animals and women — in that order — were often sorted out with AK-47s or Dooshka heavy machine-guns. Women were at the bottom of society’s chain and young girls were even forbidden to attend school under Taliban rule. It was a common occurrence for fire bombs to be chucked into any school the government tried to open for both boys and girls, killing most of the children within. It always broke Dean’s heart to have to help sort through the aftermath. He was a tough bloke when he had to be, but children and animals — especially dogs and horses — were his weak spots.
The convoy had returned to the road, as it was the only way to the village now, and it slowed as it hit a choke point. The dusty ochre hills were rapidly closing in on either side and the radio crackled to life, Sergeant Harrison’s commanding voice loud and clear.
‘Canine team, you’re up. The ANA engineers are already up front searching the road.’
Dean and Tommy stood. Dean’s mouth was dry and his heart bashed against his chest. As a former professional bull rider, Dean had laughed in the face of danger many times before, but nothing could have prepared him for what he’d faced in Afghanistan. Being a dog handler and constantly searching for bombs, there was always one question at the back of his mind, taunting him: Would he be killed by an IED today? Swallowing down his fear, he attached the leash from his belt to Indy.
‘Righto, my girl, let’s get to it.’
Tommy jumped down first and Dean waited patiently for his mate to get himself and his German Shepherd, Rebel, sorted. He couldn’t risk Indy and Rebel getting playful together out there, even though the dogs were the best of mates. Seconds later, with Rebel attached to his leash, Tommy gave Dean the thumbs up and Dean jumped out of the Bushmaster with Indy right behind him.
The big man squinted into the sun as he gave his mate the once-over, watching intently as Dean shifted nervously from one foot to the other. ‘Shit, you’re keyed up today, Dean, what’s up? It’s not like you to be anxious — you’re normally the one telling me to chill out.’
Dean shrugged as he pulled a coin from his pocket. ‘Dunno, just one of them days, mate.’ He held the coin up. ‘Heads or tails, Tommy?’
‘Heads.’
The coin flipped three times before Dean caught it, revealing the outcome straight-faced. ‘Looks like you’re up first today, buddy.’
‘Shit it! I thought my luck was gonna run out soon. It’s been three missions since I’ve had to go in first, so about time I s’pose.’ Tommy shuddered as he turned around and stepped forward, calling over his shoulder while Rebel pulled at the leash like a freight train. ‘But keep your nerves to yourself, buddy, they’re bloody contagious.’
Dean watched Tommy and Rebel walk down the rutted dirt road that had the occasional bit of plucky scrub poking through. He ignored the beads of sweat dripping into his eyes; the forty-degree heat was suffocating. Fear once again threatened to overcome him, but he chose not to feed its predatory hunger. Pull yourself together, man! With about twenty metres between him and Tommy, Dean set off. The baked dirt crunched beneath his boots as he walked into the danger zone, well aware all eyes were on him from the stationary line of vehicles behind.
‘Fuck girl, I hope we don’t miss anything today.’ Indy gave him a look that said ‘As if!’ and Dean couldn’t help but smile.
Up front, the Afghan minesweepers the Australian Army engineers had helped train were already busy checking for booby traps along the hot, shadeless road. The poor buggers constantly feared for their lives, if not by an explosion then at the hands of their own people: if the Taliban captured them, they would either be tortured with knives then burnt to death, or have their eyes cut out before they were beheaded or hanged. The Taliban didn’t take traitors to their beliefs lightly, especially ones who aided their ultimate enemies, the soldiers.
After a few metres, Dean unclipped the leash and Indy waited for her command to begin searching, quivering with anticipation. The mind of a soldier and the nose of a trained sniffer dog were a formidable bomb-finding force and Dean was confident they were going to have plenty of work today.
‘Seek!’ Dean ordered. With her tail up and nose to the ground, Indy obeyed her master, bustling along as she quartered the road in an organised zigzag fashion. Dean kept up with her, his F88 Steyr rifle at the ready, the forty kilos of body armour, ammunition, and other combat gear attached to him not slowing him down one bit. He anticipated Indy’s every move, reading her body language, perfectly attuned after a year of working with her; understanding, respect and friendship bonding them on a unique level. Ahead of them, Rebel and Tommy were doing the same. Indy, like other Australian Army dogs, was trained to work off lead and she responded to Dean’s voice commands and hand signals as she roamed ahead. She had more freedom of movement and, in the tragic event she accidentally tripped a booby trap or IED, there was some distance between her and Dean.
Coming to a sudden stop, Indy indicated something of great interest by sniffing and wagging her tail enthusiastically, never taking her eyes from the patch of dirt. She lay down, still staring at the spot, ears pricked. Dean stopped walking, his breath held, watching her; rightly assuming that every man in the vehicles behind had their breaths held too. Indy’s wagging tail kicked up a cloud of dust as she panted heavily from the heat and excitement, unaware that her life was in extreme danger. For Dean, everything was silent now and moving in slow motion. Hair and uniform stiff with dust and sweat, Dean called her back, short and quick, his voice hushed yet enthusiastic. ‘Come back, girl, come back!’
Indy rushed to his side and he proudly rubbed her head. ‘Good girl, my good girl.’ Pulling a green and gold squishy ball from his pocket he passed it to her and she sunk her teeth into it, the ball squeaking with every bite.
With Indy content and by his side again, Dean turned to check on Tommy. At the same time, Indy dropped the ball and whimpered.
Boom! Sixty metres ahead, a black fountain of dirt and rock erupted, followed by the pungent smell of gutted earth, as though the ground was bleeding after having the life ripped out of it. Screams of pain and trepidation filled the turbulent air as dirt, grit, sand and chunks of rock rained down upon Dean and a thick spiral of smoke twisted and turned up into the blue sky. Was that Tommy he could hear screaming? Dean blindly reached for Indy and gathered her to his side, swiftly clipping the leash on his belt to her collar.
Boom! Boom! Two more colossal explosions followed, off to the left of Dean. The Taliban certainly hadn’t wasted a minute in welcoming the convoy. The bastards! Bullets started coming in like a swarm of angry wasps, landing behind him, zinging and pinging of rocks and boulders, puffs of dust and vegetation flying around his running feet. Indy stuck close to him, growling as if to protect him. He had to get her to safety; she was an easy target out here, unable to defend herself with weaponry. Ducking and weaving, he ran on as bullets continued to crack into the hillside behind. Dust sp
iralled around him like spinning devils, filling his eyes with grit and making it impossible for him to see clearly. Which way am I running — into the firing line, or out of it?
There was a distant thump and more black smoke billowed upwards as a body flew through the air and slammed down beside him. Cries of pure agony filled Dean’s ears as he rushed to the person’s side, ignoring the fact he was still in the line of fire. Oh dear God, please don’t be Tommy. Down on all fours and with the dust clearing, the sight before him made him heave: the Afghani minesweeper had had his legs and half an arm blown clean off. The man reached for him with his good hand, but as Dean fumbled for a first aid dressing taped to his harness, the Afghan cried out and his body shook violently as death stole his last breath.
Gathering Indy to his side protectively, Dean tried to stand, all the while still avoiding bullets. Two Afghani minesweepers ran past him, crying out in pain, one with blood pouring from his ears and nose, and the other with his arm missing from the elbow down. The intercom radio was squawking with urgent conversation, the joint terminals’ attack controller calling in the Apaches for much needed air support, and at the same time, Dean could hear the crump crump of mortar rounds leaving their tubes in the rocky hills.
‘Incoming mortars!’ someone yelled from the parked Bushmaster in front of him.
The chaos of enclosing gunfire, incoming mortars, grenade bursts and panicked shouting assaulted Dean’s senses. His pounding heart matched his pounding strides as he ran for the safety of the Bushmaster, diving in with Indy gathered in his arms. She whimpered and Dean buried her head in his embrace.
‘It’s okay, girl, it’s all going to be okay.’ Tucking Indy into a safe corner of the Bushmaster, Dean joined his comrades in a battle to defend their lives, wishing every second that he could believe his words to Indy. Tommy, his best mate of twenty years, was out in this bedlam somewhere. And because of the Taliban’s gunfire, Dean couldn’t get to him to see if he needed medical assistance. Please, God, don’t let him be dead. No, things weren’t okay, and by the looks of it, they were only going to get worse.
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ISBN: 978-1-74364-590-1
TITLE: DRIFTWOOD
First Australian Publication 2013
Copyright © 2013 by MANDY MAGRO
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilisation of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher:
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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