Caesar the War Dog

by Stephen Dando-Collins

‘See, Father?’ said Nasir, almost dancing with glee as he pointed to Haji and Caesar.

  ‘Hajera, my son, what have you done?’ The boys’ father stood in the open doorway glaring at the pair who sat together in the flickering candlelight. Both boy and dog looked guilty. The tone in the Afghan man’s voice was enough to tell Caesar that the man was displeased, so Caesar lowered his head and did not look at him.

  Haji decided to try to charm his father. Forcing a smile, he said, ‘You did not tell me when I should make this soldier dog wander away, Father.’

  ‘Do not be cheeky with me, boy!’ his father growled. ‘You disobeyed me!’

  ‘But, Father, I thought that if I could train the soldier dog to be a guard dog, he would be of much use to you.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Haji’s father returned. ‘And have you trained this dog to be a guard dog? I think not.’

  ‘I think not either, Father,’ said Nasir, delighting in the moment.

  ‘Be quiet, Nasir, I was not speaking to you,’ he commanded, cuffing Nasir around the ear.

  ‘Ow!’ Nasir grabbed his stinging ear. ‘But, Father –’

  ‘Be quiet, Nasir.’ Returning his attention to Haji, his father said, ‘Well, Haji? Have you trained this dog to be a guard dog?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Father,’ Haji replied.

  ‘Then show me.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ Jumping to his feet, Haji turned to Caesar. Hoping that this was going to work, and save him from a beating by his father, Haji lifted his right hand high as he always did when he had a piece of meat for Caesar. Caesar’s eyes followed the boy’s hand. Then, clicking his fingers, Haji said, ‘Bark, soldier dog, bark! Woof! Woof!’

  And, as Haji had hoped, Caesar barked. It was only a solitary bark, but it was a bark.

  ‘You see, Father,’ Haji said, smiling with relief. ‘Now the soldier dog barks like a real guard dog. I have trained him to do it, you see?’

  His father tried to hide a smile. ‘One bark does not make a guard dog, my son. And would you stand on guard with him to tell him when to bark?’

  ‘He can do more than bark, Father,’ Haji insisted. ‘He can chase intruders. See how he runs? Come, soldier dog.’ Quickly untying the rope, Haji led Caesar past the men and out into the courtyard. There, he squatted and unfastened the now grubby cloth that Meena and he had tied around Caesar’s injured leg. Fortunately for Caesar, the injury had not been serious and no bones had been broken. The deep cuts caused by flying mortar bomb fragments had healed during the past two weeks. But never again would fur grow on that part of the leg where he had been cut, and where an ugly weal would remain. While his paw was still a little tender, the pain had gone, and Caesar could once more walk and run freely.

  Haji led Caesar on a run around the courtyard at the end of the rope. Caesar trotted along with a wagging tail. He was enjoying stretching his legs for the first time in weeks. Then Haji came to a halt and, while pointing a finger at Caesar, said, ‘Sit, soldier dog.’

  Caesar couldn’t understand Pashto, the language that Haji and his family spoke. He could understand at least two hundred words in English, and had always immediately known what Ben meant when he said words like ‘seek on’, ‘come’, ‘heel’, ‘stop’, ‘lie flat’, ‘sit’, and so on. He also knew English words such as ‘shoes’ and ‘newspaper’, and would fetch both on command. He knew ‘food’, ‘car’ and ‘swim’, and would become excited when he heard them. He knew ‘bath’, and would try to hide when he heard that word. But he also connected various motions by Ben – and others such as little Maddie back in Holsworthy – with their commands. To Caesar, Haji’s pointing finger meant he was to sit, so Caesar sat.

  ‘You see, Father,’ said Haji, proudly, ‘the soldier dog obeys my commands.’

  ‘Very impressive, Hajera,’ said his father, ‘but I fear that this dog is still not a guard dog that will bark and bite and scare away intruders. You must get rid of him. Today! Do you hear me?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And this time, my son, you must not disobey me.’

  At this point, one of Haji’s uncles took his father’s arm. ‘Mohammad, a word,’ he said, before steering Haji’s father aside. Haji watched, full of hope, as the two elders of the family spoke in whispers for quite some time. Perhaps, Haji thought, his uncle was speaking up for him.

  Then, Haji’s father returned and said, thoughtfully, ‘I am reminded by your uncle that we are to host an important visitor for dinner tomorrow evening. This important visitor may be interested in your soldier dog. The dog will remain, until tomorrow evening.’

  Every day, Josh and Maddie had phoned their father at the hospital, and every weekend Nan took them to visit him. After the first-time shock of seeing their father swathed in bandages, they had almost forgotten the bandages were even there. On their latest visit, Josh was especially excited. He had brought the Fulton family’s laptop with him. He set up the computer on the roll-away table that usually went over Ben’s bed at mealtimes.

  ‘Here, Dad, look what I found,’ said Josh, pointing to the computer screen. ‘Like you said, I did lots of detective work. To begin with, I thought it’d be impossible – Google ‘Caesar’, and you get zillions of mentions of Julius Caesar, the ancient Roman general. But look here. See what I found on this website? There’s a story about our Caesar. He’s been seen in Afghanistan!’

  Following Josh’s pointing finger, Ben saw an article by an Australian newspaper reporter named Amanda Ritchie. Headlined ‘Australian War Dog Missing in Action’, this was the first mention by the Australian media of the fact that Caesar had been with the Special Forces during Operation Comanche, and of how he had been left behind during the battle outside FOB Python. Ben read the article, his heart beating a little faster toward the end of it when he saw the words: ‘The Australian Army has recently received a report that their missing dog Caesar turned up at the gate of the forward operating base the night after the battle. The Afghan guards did not know that Caesar was missing and, thinking the dog a local stray, they shooed him away.’

  Ben was smiling by the time he finished reading. ‘Good job, son! This means that Caesar definitely survived the battle. He’s out there in Uruzgan Province somewhere and he’s alive.’

  ‘Does that mean Caesar will be coming home?’ Maddie asked.

  ‘We hope so,’ said Nan, placing a hand on the little girl’s shoulder.

  ‘He will,’ said Ben definitely. ‘Caesar will find his way back to Australian troops. I’d bet my last dollar on it. Meanwhile, Josh Fulton, super detective, keep up the good work, please. There are sure to be more mentions of Caesar on the net in future.’

  Josh was smiling from ear to ear. ‘You can count on me, Dad.’

  A little fearful, Haji lingered in the doorway as the barefoot men sat down to eat. The family’s special guest had arrived, and he was the first to sit in the circle of cushions on the floor of the dining room. Haji’s father also took a seat, then turned to Haji and clicked his fingers. ‘Food and water, boy. Bring the water for Commander Baradar and his men at once.’

  The family’s guest of honour was the famous Commander Baradar, the very same Taliban commander who Ben Fulton, Caesar and the Special Forces troops had hoped to capture during the failed Operation Comanche. The commander had come with two of his fighters, and now all three bearded, turbaned visitors joined the men of the Haidari family for dinner. A solid man with deep-set eyes, Baradar had ugly scars on the back of both his hands. These scars were a graphic reminder of burns he had received years ago during a US Air Force attack on the mountain cave where he had been hiding. After they sat down, he and his men placed their AK-47s on the floor in front of them, close enough to grab if they needed their weapons in a hurry.

  Haji quickly brought bottled water and filled the cups of Commander Baradar and his men, and of the others present. This bottled water, purchased in the local village especially for the visitors, was more drinkable than the kal’s well water. As Haji worked, he listened intently to the conversa
tion that passed between the men.

  ‘Thank you, Mohammad Haidari, for allowing my men and myself to eat with you,’ said the Taliban commander.

  ‘You honour my household with your presence, Commander Baradar,’ said Haji’s father, with a bow of the head.

  Anxious not to miss any of the conversation, Haji hurried from the room to bring in the first plate of food from the kitchen. When he returned, the men were talking about farming and the weather. It was the Afghan way to take time to reach the actual subject of a meeting. It was only after many courses that Commander Baradar spoke of what was really on his mind.

  ‘Mohammad Haidari, you know that devil soldiers of Australia took my father and uncle to prison in Tarin Kowt?’ he said.

  Haji’s father nodded. ‘I also heard that your uncle was before long released, Commander Baradar.’

  The commander nodded. ‘That is true. But my father is still being held. My father has done nothing to deserve being locked away, other than be the father of a son who fights the infidels. How many of your sons fight the infidels, Mohammad Haidari?’

  ‘My sons are all very busy,’ Haji’s father replied. ‘They either do their schoolwork, or help their father and uncles in the fields. We have many mouths to feed in this kal.’

  ‘You could not spare even one son to join me and my men fighting the infidels?’

  Haji’s father shrugged. ‘My first duty is to my family.’

  ‘You know, Mohammad Haidari, the infidel generals say that in time they will beat the warriors of the Taliban because they have the superior weapons. But time is something we have much of. Time is our weapon. This is our land, and we have been fighting infidel invaders for a thousand years. And we have always won, in time. We have won because men, like yourself, have supported us. God willing, we shall win again. But the time has come for you to play your part in this war, Mohammad Haidari. You will give me a son to fight with my men, or you will allow us to use your kal to store weapons and ammunition, and allow us to hide here when we have need to hide. Perhaps you will do all three of these things.’

  Haji’s father had been expecting an ultimatum of this kind from the Taliban. For years, he had been polite to them, to the Afghan Government, and to the foreign soldiers who supported the government. He had never told one what he told the other, and he had been trusted by all sides. This war was not his war. He was from a different Afghan tribe to that of the Taliban leaders. He thought that the government in Kabul was corrupt, but he also thought that the Taliban were cruel and were trying to hold back his country. He particularly wanted his daughters to receive an education, and that was something the Taliban didn’t agree with.

  But, eventually, Haji’s father knew, the day would come when he would have to choose sides. Whichever side he chose, it would be at the price of offending the other. If he chose the Taliban, he was sure that government soldiers would one day discover arms and ammunition if the Taliban stored them at his kal. Then he would be arrested and taken away, or, worse, an American jet could drop a bomb on his kal and kill his family. On the other hand, if he chose the Afghan Government, he knew that the Taliban would come to his kal, shoot him, and take his sons away to fight, and die, for their cause.

  ‘I will need time to think,’ said Haji’s father with a sigh.

  ‘Time?’ Baradar smiled, revealing a mouth missing several teeth that had been lost in battle. ‘Of course, my friend, you shall have time to consider. As I said, time is something we have plenty of in Afghanistan. One of my men shall return in a week for your answer.’

  Then one of Haji’s uncles said, ‘Mohammad, tell Commander Baradar about the dog.’

  ‘Ah, the dog,’ said Haji’s father, nodding. ‘Commander, I have a gift for you.’

  ‘A gift?’ said Baradar with surprise. ‘Is it not the custom for the guest to provide the gift?’ Baradar had left the traditional gift of fruit at the door when he had arrived.

  ‘This gift may be of some use to you,’ said Haji’s father. ‘And perhaps it may show that my family can be of aid to you in ways other than those you suggest. Sometimes, it is useful to have a man such as myself as a malek, a go-between. In walking the road that separates you and the infidels, perhaps I can be of more use to you … over time.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Baradar returned, unconvinced.

  Haji’s father turned, and, clicking his fingers, called, ‘Haji, bring the soldier dog for Commander Baradar to see. At once!’

  Haji’s heart sank. ‘Yes, Father,’ he glumly replied. Haji hurried out to the shed that had become Caesar’s temporary home. Caesar was curled up, asleep, when Haji opened the shed door. ‘Come, soldier dog,’ said Haji, as Caesar opened his eyes and lifted his head. Tugging on the rope attached to the labrador’s collar, Haji led Caesar out into the night. Then he paused, and, squatting down in front of Caesar, he whispered, waving his finger at him, ‘Soldier dog, you must be a bad dog for Commander Baradar. He must not like you, do you understand? If he does not like you, he will not take you away, and then you will be able to stay here at our kal with me.’

  Caesar cocked his head questioningly to one side, as if to say, What’s that, new friend? What are you saying?

  ‘Come, soldier dog,’ said Haji. Rising to his feet, he led Caesar across the courtyard. Haji’s father, Commander Baradar and his men, and all the men and boys of the kal came to stand outside the door to the building. Here, with several of Haji’s brothers holding lanterns to light the scene, Haji presented Caesar to the commander.

  ‘This dog, Commander Baradar,’ said Haji’s father, as they all studied the brown labrador sitting by Haji’s side, ‘came into my possession only recently. If you look at its collar, you will see that it bears the identification of a soldier dog of the foreigners.’

  Baradar walked to Caesar and, bending, looked at the tag on the dog’s collar. ‘Indeed, an animal of the Americans or Australians,’ he deduced. ‘Two such dogs were seen with the infidel force that my men and I thoroughly defeated outside the base they call Python, some weeks ago. Could this be one of those animals, I wonder.’

  ‘It is a very naughty dog, Commander Baradar,’ Haji spoke up. ‘It would not be of any use to you.’

  Haji’s father glared at him. ‘Boy, you know that you only speak when you are spoken to! Not another word from you!’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ said Haji, dejectedly sinking his head onto his chest.

  ‘I would be honoured, Commander Baradar, if you were to accept this dog as a gift,’ said Haji’s father. ‘And to accept my services as a malek.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Baradar, thoughtfully rubbing his whiskered chin.

  Haji’s father was clearly offering the Taliban leader a deal. If Commander Baradar accepted the dog, he would also have to accept the offer from Haji’s father to act from time to time as a go-between, an envoy between the Taliban commander and the government and military. If Baradar did that, he would have to give up his demands that one of Haji’s older brothers join the Taliban, and that the Haidari kal be provided as a hiding place for the Taliban’s weapons, ammunition and fighters. On the other hand, Baradar knew that if he accepted the dog, it would add to his prestige among Taliban fighters to have a captured infidel soldier dog as his prisoner. That would be almost as good as having an infidel soldier as his prisoner.

  ‘Of course,’ said Haji’s father as the Taliban leader hesitated, ‘if you are not interested, I could offer this soldier dog to the government, to be returned to the soldiers who owned it.’

  ‘No,’ said Baradar firmly. ‘It will not be necessary to do that. As you say, it is sometimes valuable to have a malek one can rely on. I will take the animal off your hands, Mohammad Haidari.’

  ‘Then it is agreed?’ Haji’s father responded.

  ‘It is agreed,’ Baradar replied. Turning to one of his men, he said, ‘Abdul Razah, you will take charge of the infidel soldier dog.’ Abdul, an obese man with a double chin and a broken nose, came forward and snatched t
he rope from Haji’s hands.

  ‘You will be kind to him?’ said Haji, softly, to the Taliban fighter, realising that Caesar was being taken from him. ‘He is not really a naughty dog.’

  ‘Dogs are a burden, boy,’ said Abdul gruffly. He looked down at Caesar. ‘Dogs are only good for eating.’

  Caesar, looking up at Abdul, began to emit a low growl. He had taken an immediate disliking to this man.

  ‘You cannot eat my soldier dog!’ Haji protested.

  ‘Be quiet, my son!’ Haji’s father said with exasperation. ‘No one will be eating this soldier dog. Is that not so, Commander?’

  Baradar nodded. ‘This infidel soldier dog is much too valuable to go into a cooking pot.’

  The three Taliban men shouldered their rifles, then, with a traditional touch of cheeks, farewelled Haji’s father and thanked him for his hospitality. But as Baradar and the third man headed for the gate, Caesar refused to budge when Abdul pulled on the rope, planting his front legs in front of him. In response, Abdul kicked the dog in the ribs. Caesar let out a yelp of pain and, rather than receive another kick, reluctantly allowed the man to haul him out of the kal.

  Haji, standing with the other men of the family and watching the Taliban party depart, said, half to himself, ‘Farewell, soldier dog. I will not forget you.’

  Standing behind Haji, his brother Nasir was smirking. ‘See, little brother, how foolish it was of you to try to keep the soldier dog for yourself. You are only a child, and soldier dogs are the business of men.’

  Haji did not reply, but only watched until he saw the last trace of Caesar’s drooping tail passing out the gate as he was led away by the Taliban. Haji could not know, nor could any of the members of his family know, what the future held for Caesar. Little could they imagine that Caesar had many adventures ahead of him in Afghanistan. Adventures that would make him famous.

  In a busy Sydney cafe, newspaper reporter Amanda Ritchie looked up from the laptop on the table in front of her and saw a uniformed man standing across the room at the entrance. The man wore the khaki slouch hat of an Australian soldier and had two stripes on his sleeve, denoting that he was a corporal. This, Amanda decided, must be the Corporal Ben Fulton who had arranged to meet her here. Smiling, she waved at him, catching his eye. He nodded, then began to make his way toward her. The cafe was close to full, and was noisy with lively chatter and the sounds of coffee-making. It was December. Christmas decorations hung on the walls and there was a sense of seasonal joy in the air.