‘Dude, do I look like a veterinary surgeon to you?’ the medic said, grumpily. ‘Humans are my only concern. Dogs can take care of themselves.’
‘Please, Caesar was with the third Humvee the last time I saw him,’ said Ben. ‘Can you ask around? Can you ask the people who were with the last Humvee? They must have seen what happened to him.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said the medic, as he cut away Ben’s camouflage trousers to tend to his leg wound. ‘When I find the time – if I find the time.’ He worked away, soon commenting, matter-of-factly, ‘Nothing major to worry about with the leg.’
‘Great,’ said Ben, grimacing a little at the medic’s touch. Now that the adrenaline rush of battle had worn off, the leg wound and his face were both starting to really hurt. But if the medic said his leg was okay, he was happy to believe him. ‘So, I’ll walk again?’
‘Oh, sure. Your face will be a mess, though.’
‘Thanks for breaking that to me gently,’ Ben returned, bemused by the medic’s lack of bedside manner.
The medic momentarily raised his eyes. ‘Honesty, I find, saves a whole lot of time and trouble.’ The medic bandaged the leg before inserting an intravenous drip into one of Ben’s arms to feed a painkilling drug into his bloodstream. Then, peeling off his surgical gloves, the medic said, ‘You’re good to go, Aussie.’
As the medic went to leave, Ben reached up and grasped his arm. ‘My dog,’ he pleaded. ‘Please. Will you ask around about him?’
‘I told you before, I’ll see what I can do,’ the medic impatiently replied, before moving on to his next patient across the room.
Moments later, several Afghan soldiers appeared, and, taking hold of Ben’s stretcher, placed him to one side with other wounded soldiers from the battle. All were waiting for a medivac Chinook to arrive and take them to the military hospital at Tarin Kowt. Ben found several wounded men around him who had been with the last Humvee. One Australian said he was sure that Sergeant Hazard must have been the last to see Caesar. Hazard, it turned out, had been the only man with the rearmost vehicle to come out without a scratch. Ben, fighting the wooziness brought on by the painkillers, begged everyone who passed to send Sergeant Hazard to him. Determined to know what had happened to Caesar, he fought to stay awake, wafting in and out of consciousness.
‘You wanted to see me, soldier?’
It was Sergeant Hazard’s voice. Ben forced his eyes open to see Hazard standing over him. Still chewing gum, and with his hands on his hips, the sergeant looked down at Ben.
‘My dog, Caesar,’ said Ben weakly. ‘Did you see what happened to him?’
‘Your dog was left behind, buddy,’ the sergeant told Ben, matter-of-factly. ‘Sorry about that. We had to get the hell outta there, so we put the pedal to the metal. Your canine just couldn’t keep up.’
Ben was appalled by Hazard’s devil-may-care attitude to Caesar. ‘Couldn’t you have stopped for him? You could have put him in the Humvee. He was injured – I could see he was limping.’
‘Soldier, I don’t run a taxicab service for mutts.’
‘Send some men back out to look for him. Please.’
‘Back out there?’ Hazard scoffed. ‘Friend, the bandits are in control out there now, and they know it. I figure we just came up against at least two hundred Taliban fighters. No one is going out this camp’s gate. The only way in or out of Python in the foreseeable future is by heelo.’
‘But Caesar is one of ours,’ protested Ben. ‘We can’t leave him out there.’
‘He’ll come in of his own accord, you wait and see. If that dog is as smart as I think he is, he’ll be scratching on the base’s front door in time for supper.’ And with that, Hazard walked away, and Ben dejectedly closed his eyes again. All he could see in his mind’s eye was his last memory of Caesar, limping along beside the rearmost Humvee. Within minutes, Ben lapsed into sleep.
Before long, the sun rose on a new day, and a Chinook was making a noisy arrival at FOB Python, escorted by a pair of Apache helicopter gunships. The wounded were carried aboard the big heelo once it touched down, and the other Australian and American Special Forces men at the base joined them. All were being withdrawn to Tarin Kowt.
When the Chinook lifted off a little later and turned south with its Apache escorts, Ben awoke. Lying on a stretcher on the helicopter floor, dazed, drugged and weak from loss of blood, he reached out instinctively to feel Caesar at his side. But, of course, Caesar wasn’t there. Ben, more worried about Caesar than he was about his wounds, prayed that Sergeant Hazard was right – that Caesar would come into FOB Python of his own accord. Nothing was more important to him right now than knowing Caesar was safe.
All the shooting and explosions had ended a long time earlier. All day, as the sun travelled across the sky, Caesar had lain in a ditch near a road. After being unable to keep up with the last Humvee and being left behind, Caesar had found a hole in the ground where he took shelter. Picking up the scent of Afghans and hearing the voices of Taliban fighters shouting with glee after sending the Special Forces troops fleeing back to FOB Python, Caesar had lain low until he could no longer hear or smell them.
Then, cautiously, he had come out of hiding. After looking around unsuccessfully for signs of Ben and the other Australians, Caesar had limped east to a road, and there beside it he had rested, and waited. Remembering that he and Ben had come to this place by road the previous night, Caesar decided that Ben and the other soldiers might come along this road again. When he heard vehicles, he would emerge from hiding – that was his plan, anyway. But not a single vehicle came along the road as he lay there. Late in the day, Caesar decided to try to find Ben. Pain shot through his bloodied left leg every time he put his paw on the ground, so, keeping his front left paw off the ground, Caesar limped along the road in the direction that he believed would lead him back to Ben.
In twilight, Caesar limped up to the gate of FOB Python. A breeze had been blowing his way and, a long way out from the hilltop base, he had picked up the aroma of cooking food. That, combined with scents he associated with the base, and with Ben, had acted like a beacon to Caesar. In a metal tower rising above the camp wall beside the main gate, two soldiers of the Afghan National Army on guard duty spotted Caesar approaching. Sergeant Hazard had been right about the missing dog finding his own way back to base in time for supper, but no one had told the two Afghan sentries that an Australian military dog was missing and to be on the lookout for it. As Caesar limped up, the sentries thought he was nothing but a stray kal dog.
First, they yelled at Caesar to go away. In response, Caesar barked at them, as if to say, You silly humans, I’m on your side! Let me in! One sentry, angered by this barking dog, turned his machinegun Caesar’s way and fired a short burst of bullets into the air. When Caesar stood his ground, the sentry fired off another, longer burst now in Caesar’s general direction. This time, Caesar shied away. Getting the message that he was not wanted here, he withdrew into the growing darkness.
Eight wounded Australian soldiers lay in the same ward of the Tarin Kowt military hospital. Ben Fulton was one of those eight. In beds either side of him were Bendigo Baz and Lucky Mertz. Both had been shaved by nurses, and Ben hardly recognised them. Baz’s head wound was not as serious as had been first thought, and he was likely to be the first of the SAS men to be released from hospital. Lucky, on the other hand, had leg, arm and shoulder wounds, and would take a while to recover fully. As for Ben, the grumpy medic at FOB Python had been right – his leg wound would soon heal, and, while his face had been chewed up, it was not a life-threatening situation.
A party of Australian and American officers now entered the ward and came to the eight Aussies. Leading the group was Australian commander Major General Jones.
‘How are you blokes going?’ General Jones asked. ‘Are you getting everything you need?’
‘General, this place is like a six-star resort,’ Baz joked. ‘I’ll have to book in here again sometime.’
‘Where’s Charlie Grover, sir?’ Lucky asked. ‘Why isn’t he here with the rest of us?’
The general’s smiled faded away. ‘Sergeant Grover’s condition is pretty serious, men,’ he replied. ‘His legs were chopped to pieces. The doctors stabilised him, then flew him out to Germany last night.’ The Australians all knew that the US military maintained a vast military hospital in Frankfurt, Germany, with all the latest equipment and the best doctors. Any American or coalition troops seriously wounded in Afghanistan were sent there.
‘Will Charlie pull through, sir?’ Baz asked, sounding worried.
‘I’m sure the docs will do everything they can for Sergeant Grover,’ General Jones replied. ‘I also wanted to tell you all that your families back home in Australia have been notified of your wounds.’
Ben’s thoughts immediately went to Josh and Maddie, and how they would take the news that their father had been wounded. But knowing they were mentally strong, and that he would be going home to them, his main concern was for his lost labrador. ‘Any news of Caesar, sir?’ he asked.
The general looked at Ben’s heavily bandaged face, and frowned. ‘Caesar?’
‘We had to leave him behind out there,’ said Ben, his voice quavering.
A look of dismay came over General Jones. ‘One of our men was left behind? Why wasn’t I told?’ Angry now, he turned to his subordinates. ‘Is a Trooper Caesar missing in action?’
‘Not Trooper Caesar, sir,’ said Baz. ‘Caesar, Ben’s super-sniffer.’
The general turned to him, looking puzzled. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Caesar’s my EDD, sir,’ said Ben.
‘EDD? Ah!’ A look of realisation lit up General Jones’s face. ‘Is that you, Corporal Fulton? I didn’t recognise you under all that bandaging. You say that your dog was left behind?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ben. ‘Caesar was with the last Humvee, but he’d been hit by frag and couldn’t keep up.’
‘Leaving an EDD behind is almost as bad as leaving one of our men behind,’ the general said to his subordinates.
‘Caesar might come into Python under his own steam, sir,’ said Lucky. ‘We hope so, anyway.’
‘Caesar is our mate, sir,’ said Baz, and all the other wounded SAS men in the ward agreed.
‘Poor old Ben is miserable without him,’ said Lucky. ‘We have to get Caesar back, General! That dog is one of us.’ Again, the other SAS men agreed.
‘Leave it with me, men,’ said Jones. ‘We will do everything in our power to locate Caesar. You have my word.’
True to his word, Major General Jones returned to his office and drafted an order for all Australian personnel to be on the lookout for Caesar, wherever they were in Uruzgan Province. He then paid a visit to the American general in overall command at Tarin Kowt, and told him about Caesar. The American general, agreeing with General Jones that no soldier or dog serving in Uruzgan Province could or would be forgotten, issued an order to all troops in the province. That order required them to make it a priority to seek, recover and return Australian Army EDD 556 Caesar to Australian forces at Tarin Kowt.
Like many dogs, Caesar had a strong in-built homing instinct. Sensing that he had to go south to find Ben, after being frightened away from FOB Python, he began to slowly head in a southerly direction.
During his first full night on his own, Caesar came to a fast-flowing stream of clear, fresh water, and he lapped up his fill. He was hungry, but the water would keep him going for now. He slept under a bridge that night, then next morning limped across the bridge and continued south. His experience with the Afghan soldiers outside the gate of FOB Python made him wary of locals, so that whenever Caesar caught a whiff of the scent he associated with them, or heard vehicles approaching, he would leave the road and hide nearby. He spent his second night under the shelter of overhanging rocks. There he curled up in a brown ball and, hungry and exhausted, he slept a fitful sleep.
The next day, still limping and growing weak for lack of food, Caesar continued his slow journey southwards. Late in the afternoon, he picked up the scent of meat being cooked. Desperately hungry now, he followed it with his nose, leading him to a kal. Pausing outside, he sniffed the air. The scents he was picking up were all of Afghans, but overriding those was the aroma of stewing meat. His stomach now drove him forward. The kal gates stood open, so Caesar limped in through one of them. Away to his left, he heard children laughing. One of those children was a girl and her laugh reminded Caesar of Maddie. He limped in the direction of the laughter.
Two children were playing with an old car tyre, rolling it around a dusty compound. The girl whose laugh had caught Caesar’s attention was eleven-year-old Meena. Wearing a shirt and trousers, Meena was playing with her ten-year-old brother Hajera, the youngest of eight children in their family. When Meena was little, because it was easier for her to say Haji than Hajera, she had called her younger brother Haji, and the other children of the family had followed her example. The very same year that Hajera was born, the children’s father had undertaken the Hajj, the Muslim pilgrimage to Mecca, where the prophet Mohammad was born. And men who complete the Hajj often add the term Haji to their name to celebrate their act of faith. Because of this coincidence, the family had considered Hajera’s nickname lucky. So, while the boy’s official name would always be Hajera, within the family he was called Haji.
Now, Haji looked around and saw Caesar standing there watching them. Having established eye contact with the boy, Caesar sat down, still keeping his injured paw in the air, and looked expectantly at brother and sister. Perhaps, Caesar hoped, they would give him food.
‘A dog,’ said Haji, thinking aloud. ‘Where did it come from?’
‘This dog is hurt, Haji,’ said his sister Meena. Letting go of the rubber tyre, Meena advanced toward Caesar, then squatted down in front of him and surveyed him. ‘Where did you come from, dog?’
‘Be careful, Meena,’ said Haji, taking more care to approach the strange brown dog. ‘Remember what Father says – wild dogs can bite and kill you.’
‘This is not a wild dog, Haji. Look, he has a collar. This is a dog that is owned by some person. And look here.’ She took hold of the severed end of Caesar’s leash. ‘This dog has run away from his owner. Or perhaps he was stolen.’
Finding more courage now, Haji also squatted in front of Caesar and studied him. Caesar, meanwhile, sat there panting, his pink tongue hanging out, in turn observing this boy in a long white shirt, white pants and small round white cap.
‘Do you think, Meena,’ Haji asked, ‘that this dog’s owner is a very important person? The President of all Afghanistan, perhaps?’
‘The President of all Afghanistan lives far away in the city of Kabul, Haji. I do not think that his dog would run all the way here to our kal from Kabul. Do you?’
‘Hmmm.’ Haji thought for a moment. ‘A governor’s dog, perhaps? Or a general’s dog?’
‘A general’s dog?’ said Meena. ‘It is possible, Haji. It is a very fine dog. If it is a general’s dog, I would not be surprised if that general would pay a reward for his return. Father would be pleased.’
‘And if it is not a general’s dog, perhaps Father will allow us to keep it, Meena.’ Haji was excited by the prospect.
Meena frowned. ‘What do you mean, “keep it”?’
‘As a guard dog, perhaps,’ Haji suggested.
‘Ah.’ Meena nodded. ‘It is true we no longer have a guard dog since our last one died. But Father would gain great honour if he were to return a general’s dog to him.’
‘This could well be our family’s lucky day, Meena. And this could be a lucky dog.’
‘This lucky dog looks thirsty, Haji. We should give it water to drink.’ The two children filled a plastic container with water from the kal’s deep well, then set it in front o
f Caesar, who drank it dry.
‘This lucky dog was indeed thirsty, Meena,’ said Haji, inspecting the empty container.
‘Haji,’ Meena said, looking around the compound, ‘we should tie up this lucky dog so we can show him to our father when he returns home.’
Finding a length of rope, the pair attached one end to Caesar’s collar and the other to a post. Caesar didn’t resist and let them tie him up. The children had been kind to him, and he could smell that tantalising aroma of meat cooking coming from close by. For food, Caesar was prepared to put up with almost anything. Before long, a truck brought some of Haji and Meena’s older brothers, sisters and cousins home to the kal from the village school. They, too, all squatted around Caesar and gazed at him. And Caesar gazed back.
‘How do you know this is a general’s dog?’ said Haji and Meena’s sceptical fourteen-year-old brother Nasir. Nasir was growing a wispy beard, and considered himself a man. He was jealous of Haji, who seemed to him to be the favourite son of their mother and father, and could do no wrong in their eyes.
‘I did not say that he was a general’s dog,’ Haji replied. ‘I only said that it could be a general’s dog.’
‘Why would a general’s dog come to our kal?’ said Nasir, standing straight again. ‘This dog is a wild dog. Father will only shoot it, and then beat you and Meena for bringing it into our kal.’
‘We did not bring it in,’ Haji retorted. ‘It came of its own desire. I think it is a lucky dog, and that it was meant to come into our kal.’
‘And how could it be a wild dog, Nasir?’ said Meena. ‘See how it wears a collar.’
‘Then it is a wild dog with a collar,’ Nasir came back, with a shrug.
‘How can a wild dog wear a collar?’ Haji countered.
‘Because … because it was in prison,’ Nasir said, starting to walk away. ‘A prison for wild dogs.’
‘You are making that up,’ said Haji. ‘There is no such thing as a prison for wild dogs.’
‘There is too,’ Nasir called back over his shoulder. ‘I learnt about it at school.’
Caesar the War Dog Page 11
