Caesar the War Dog

by Stephen Dando-Collins

  With a bob of thick blonde hair, Amanda was slim, and dressed in a jacket and jeans. Closing her laptop, she rose to her feet and held out her hand in greeting. ‘Corporal Fulton?’ she asked.

  ‘Call me Ben,’ he replied, shaking her hand. She reminded him a little of his late wife, Marie. Same hair colour, similar age. And she had the same confident air about her that Marie had possessed.

  ‘And I’m Amanda,’ she said, sinking back into her chair. ‘Please, join me.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Ben sat down across the table from her, removing his hat as he did.

  Only then did Amanda get a good look at Ben Fulton’s face. She gasped as she took in his battered, lumpy cheeks and chin, still red and raw.

  ‘Not a pretty sight, am I?’ Ben remarked, with an embarrassed smile. ‘Frag wounds,’ he explained. ‘From a mortar. The docs tell me they can make me look like new with plastic surgery, but I have to wait awhile for the scar tissue to settle before they’ll operate. Meanwhile, I have to live with this face. My kids, Josh and Maddie, and my mum got used to it faster than I did. Only took a week after the bandages came off for them not to notice any more.’

  ‘You got that in Afghanistan?’ she asked.

  ‘Uh-huh. Confidentially, I was involved in the Special Forces engagement you wrote about a couple of months ago – the one outside FOB Python.’

  ‘Oh, yes. But you’re not SAS?’ Amanda had been writing about the military long enough to know that SAS soldiers wore a sandy-coloured beret, not a slouch hat like the one Ben had arrived wearing.

  ‘I’m with the IRR, the Incident Response Regiment. I’m Caesar’s handler. Or, at least, I was.’

  Amanda frowned. ‘Caesar? I’m sorry, I don’t …’

  ‘Caesar, the explosive detection dog. The one that went missing during that mission.’

  A look of realisation came over the reporter’s face. ‘Ah, of course! Caesar was your dog? You must have been really upset to lose him over there.’

  ‘Devastated. I still am. That’s why I asked you to meet me.’

  ‘You want to talk to me about your dog?’ she said, sounding disappointed. ‘When you rang the office and asked to meet me, I thought you might want to give me some juicy military secrets to print in my paper.’

  ‘I was hoping you would be the one providing the information, Amanda.’ He tried to put on his most appealing smile.

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Where did you hear that Caesar hadn’t returned from that operation?’ Ben said, leaning in. ‘The Australian Army never officially released the news.’

  ‘I heard it from an American officer in Tarin Kowt. I was over there on assignment at the time and he happened to mention it in passing. Apparently all the troops in Uruzgan knew the story about an Australian war dog missing in action. The American officer joked that maybe Caesar had been deliberately sent on a secret mission behind Taliban lines, but had become a prisoner of war. Cute idea, don’t you think?’ She grinned.

  Ben wasn’t smiling. ‘Cute? Not really. Caesar has been missing for a couple of months now. Winter has set in over there in Afghanistan. If Caesar’s not with people who will look after him, he’ll die.’

  Amanda’s grin quickly faded. She now looked embarrassed. ‘Sorry. You and that dog must have been pretty close.’

  ‘Caesar was like my brother, and in other ways like my child. It’s hard to explain. Without him, I feel like I’m missing my right arm. And he was as much a soldier as I was. At least I volunteered for what I do – Caesar had no choice. I was responsible for him and I let him down. I left him behind.’

  Amanda was feeling guilty now. ‘It was insensitive of me to joke about your dog like that. Forgive me.’

  ‘Do you have a dog?’ Ben asked.

  ‘No, I travel too much for my job to keep a dog. My daughter would love one, but she’s at boarding school. If I had a dog, it wouldn’t be fair on the animal – locking it up in kennels every few months when I go away on news assignments.’

  Ben nodded. ‘Most people,’ he said, ‘especially those who don’t have dogs of their own, don’t appreciate the bond that exists between an EDD and his handler – and the handler’s family. My son, Josh, has been scouring the net every day for any mention of Caesar. So far, your article is the only thing we’ve found – the only news we’ve had of him.’

  ‘That must be rough on you and your children.’

  ‘Yes, but in a way, Caesar’s loss has brought my family closer together. Before I went to Afghanistan on my last tour of duty, my boy wasn’t a big fan of Caesar. But since Caesar has been missing, Josh has dedicated himself to helping me find him.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’ Amanda smiled.

  ‘The problem is, both my children have been losing sleep worrying about Caesar. Even if we learn that Caesar is in Taliban hands, at least we’ll know he’s alive. I was hoping, Amanda, that you might be able to use your contacts to give us some hope to hang on to. It occurred to me that reporters like you hear things – rumours, gossip – that they don’t always end up using in their media reports. Even a rumour about Caesar’s whereabouts would be a great Christmas present for my family.’

  Amanda nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do. I’ll try the contacts I made with the Australian and US military while I was in Afghanistan. I can’t promise anything, Ben, but I’ll give it a try. Where are you going to be? Are they sending you back to Afghanistan soon?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘I’ll be at Holsworthy for a while. In their wisdom, my superiors have decided to send me on a promotion course, to get my sergeant stripes. At least I’ll have Christmas with my family.’

  ‘Okay, Ben. Let me see what I can find out for you and your kids.’ She held out her hand.

  As Ben took her hand and firmly shook it, he looked into her eyes. When he departed the cafe, he felt sure, from what he’d seen in those eyes, that Amanda Ritchie was genuine, and that he could count on her to do all she could to help him find Caesar.

  Outside the caves, the snow was a metre deep. Deep inside the mountain, a series of caverns had been fashioned into quarters for Taliban fighters, with beds, heating and cooking facilities, ventilation equipment, and lavatories. Many Taliban fighters went home to their families for the winter – back to the kals, villages and towns they came from. Some Taliban fighters were from neighbouring Pakistan, and they crossed back over the mountains to cities and towns there. Other men who fought for the Taliban were from more distant Muslim countries and they, like the better known Taliban leaders, spent the winter in the eastern mountains bordering Afghanistan and Pakistan to await the spring melt and new campaigning season.

  In these particular caves, Commander Baradar and the core of his insurgent fighting group lived out these winter days, only occasionally venturing out to obtain information and supplies, and to bury IEDs to be activated in the spring. With the reduced Taliban force this winter was a brown labrador – their prisoner. Caesar’s coat had grown thick for the winter, as labrador coats do. While he was being fed daily, the quantity of food was not great and, as a result, he had lost a lot of weight. For many weeks, Caesar was left in a dark corner of a cave and only saw Abdul, his keeper, once a day when he brought Caesar food. Then, one evening, Commander Baradar came with Abdul.

  ‘The animal is looking thinner,’ Baradar remarked, surveying the Australian dog as it sat, tied via a three-metre rope to a ringbolt in the stone wall, waiting for his food. ‘What are you feeding the infidel soldier dog, Abdul?’

  ‘Scraps,’ Abdul grunted.

  ‘Improve the animal’s diet,’ Baradar commanded. ‘Give it more meat.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’ said Abdul. ‘Our supply of meat is poor. Even we must eat meat sparingly over the winter months here.’

  ‘Because, Abdul Razah,’ said Baradar, with rising anger, ‘I am the commander here. I do not have to explain myself to you or anyone else.’ He paused to calm himself, then went on. ‘Because I am a wise man, I shall share my wis
dom – even with a fool such as you. There is no point keeping this infidel soldier dog. I have decided to exchange it for my captive father and a great deal of American money. With that money, we shall buy much ammunition and explosives in Pakistan.’

  ‘How would such an exchange be arranged?’ Abdul asked, sceptical.

  ‘With the coming of the spring, I shall send a malek to the infidels to propose such an exchange. And when they demand proof that the dog is alive, you shall photograph it on a mobile telephone to show them. But the dog must look well-fed if I am to win my price. Now do you understand why this dog must eat more meat even than yourself, Abdul Razah?

  ‘Yes, Commander, I understand,’ Abdul sulkily replied.

  Ben walked out of an office at Holsworthy army base. It was March, and Ben had just been informed that he had passed his examination and been promoted to sergeant. He had also received orders to take over the training of a new EDD after its assigned handler had come down with a long-term illness. This news both pleased and saddened Ben. It meant that he could get back to doing what he did best – working with elite explosive detection dogs – but it also meant that now Caesar had been missing for six months, the Australian Army had given up all hope of finding him.

  As he was walking, Ben’s mobile phone rang. When he answered, a female voice said, ‘Hi Ben, this is Amanda Ritchie.’

  ‘Oh, yes, the reporter. Hi, Amanda.’ Ben hadn’t heard a word from her since their meeting just before Christmas, and he’d recently been thinking of contacting her again to push for information. Now, his heart rate increased in sudden expectation. ‘Do you have any news for me?’

  ‘Actually, Ben, I thought you’d like to know, I’ve heard from one of my American contacts in Uruzgan Province.’ She paused. When Ben said nothing, obviously waiting for her to tell him whether the news from her contact was good or bad, she continued. ‘The US Army there has been approached by a malek who says he’s operating on behalf of the Taliban’s Commander Baradar. This guy says that Baradar has your Caesar and is willing to exchange him for his father and $100,000 in cash.’

  Ben’s mouth dropped in astonishment. ‘You’re joking! Is it a hoax?’

  ‘No, seems like the approach is for real. This malek even showed the Americans a photo of a brown labrador, on his mobile phone.’

  ‘Amanda, this is amazing!’ said Ben, with a rare outburst of excitement. ‘How did Caesar look? Was he fit and well?’

  ‘Ben, slow down, slow down! The malek says that it’s Caesar in the photo, but there’s no way of knowing for sure – the picture could be of any brown labrador.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Ben responded, taking deep breaths to calm himself. ‘So, what’s the US Army going to do about it?’

  ‘They’re asking for proof of life. They want to see this dog in the flesh. But I’ve got to warn you, Ben, even if this dog is Caesar, my contact doesn’t think the US would agree to the price. And I know the Australian Government wouldn’t pay $100,000 for him. That’s like paying ransom for a terrorist hostage – and they never do that.’

  ‘They’d find a way of paying $100,000 if the Taliban were holding one of their men,’ Ben retorted with frustration.

  ‘They might be able to haggle the figure down … There is another problem. It’s unlikely the Afghan Government will agree to release Baradar’s father – not as a trade for your dog, or anything else.’ Realising this sounded discouraging, she added, trying to be more upbeat, ‘But you never know what might eventuate. I’ll keep you posted.’

  When Ben ended the call, he had new hope of Caesar’s return. But as he drove home that evening, he weighed up in his mind whether he should tell Josh and Maddie the news. Would it raise their hopes of Caesar’s return, only for those hopes to be dashed if the brown dog on the malek’s phone turned out not to be Caesar?

  It eventuated that he didn’t have to make that decision anyway – Josh and Maddie already knew. When Ben pulled into the driveway, his two children were waiting for him at the front door with big smiles on their faces. Both ran to him as he climbed from his vehicle.

  ‘Dad, Nan helped me find stuff about Caesar on the net,’ said Josh excitedly. ‘The Taliban have got him, and they’re trying to sell him back to us. Come see!’

  ‘Yes, Daddy, come see,’ said Maddie, taking Ben’s hand.

  They led him inside to the computer, where Josh showed Ben the Facebook page of an American soldier in Afghanistan. It told the same story Amanda Ritchie had passed on to Ben that afternoon – of the malek and the offer from Commander Baradar for the return of Caesar in return for the release of Baradar’s father and a large sum of cash. The soldier also said that the malek had told the US military his own son had looked after Caesar following the battle outside FOB Python, and that the Taliban had later come and taken the dog from him. Ben, Josh and Maddie couldn’t know that this malek was none other than the father of Haji Haidari, who was keeping his promise to Commander Baradar by acting as an envoy between the Taliban leader and the foreign military.

  ‘We will get Caesar back, won’t we, Daddy?’ said Maddie, studying her father with wide, trusting eyes.

  Looking up, Ben saw his mother standing in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. And he saw the look on her face that signalled the need for a cautious approach in case things didn’t work out and the children faced a big let-down. But Ben’s own determination to be reunited with Caesar, no matter what, shone through. ‘We sure will get him back, princess,’ he replied, giving Maddie a cuddle. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes to get Caesar back, don’t you worry. And Josh, keep up the good work on the net. You told me about this even before the army did!’

  ‘I’m on it, Dad,’ said Josh, smiling proudly.

  Later that night, when Josh and Maddie were in bed asleep, the Fultons’ house phone rang. When Ben answered, he found, to his surprise, Major General Michael Jones on the line, calling all the way from Tarin Kowt, Afghanistan. Generals usually don’t telephone sergeants – and certainly not from halfway across the world.

  ‘Fulton, I promised you six months ago that I would do everything I could to get your EDD back,’ General Jones said. ‘Well, it looks like Commander Baradar might have him.’

  ‘I know, sir,’ Ben replied. ‘I’d already heard. Baradar’s offering a swap – Caesar for his father, and $100,000.’

  ‘News travels fast.’ The general sounded surprised. ‘Of course, we’re not going to give the Taliban $100,000. They’d only buy more arms and ammunition to use against us. And we would have to convince the Afghan Government to release Baradar’s father. But, first things first. We need to establish that this dog really is Caesar. Can you email me a good photograph of him? One we can compare with the photo the malek’s provided.’

  ‘Right away, sir,’ Ben responded, enthusiastically. ‘By the way, my gut feeling is that it is Caesar that the Taliban are holding.’

  ‘Mine too,’ the general agreed.

  That night, Ben didn’t email General Jones a photo of Caesar – he sent him a dozen, showing Caesar’s head from a variety of angles.

  The next day, Amanda Ritchie’s newspaper ran her story about the latest turn of events, the headline reading: ‘Taliban Demand Ransom for Aussie War Dog’. Ben, while trying to prevent Josh and Maddie from becoming too excited about the possibility of Caesar’s return, was determined not to let this opportunity slip. Picking up the telephone, he sought a meeting with his local member of Federal Parliament, Warren Hodges MP, aiming to get him to push the Australian Government for Caesar’s return.

  It helped that Hodges had once been an officer in the Australian Army. Hodges knew all about EDDs, and since publication of Amanda Ritchie’s latest newspaper article about Caesar, which had been followed up by countless other newspapers and radio and TV stations, he had been following Caesar’s story with keen interest. He agreed to a meeting at his electorate office.

  When they got together that weekend, Ben was able to tell Hodges that General Jo
nes had come back to him the previous night. The general had said that he and his staff in Tarin Kowt had compared the Taliban’s photo of the brown labrador with the pictures of Caesar that Ben had sent, and were ninety per cent certain that Caesar was indeed the dog in Taliban hands. The main problem now was meeting Commander Baradar’s ransom demands for Caesar.

  ‘It’s a tricky situation, Sergeant Fulton,’ said Hodges to the uniformed Ben, who now wore the three stripes of a sergeant. ‘Officially, the Australian Government will never agree to pay the Taliban a cent. But this Baradar character might settle for a much lesser amount than $100,000. If he did, is there any way you could organise the money?’ He looked questioningly at Ben.

  Ben hesitated for a moment then said, ‘You mean, set up a “Bring Caesar Home Fund” that people could donate to? My kids have suggested we do that.’

  Hodges shook his head. ‘No, our government would frown on something as public as that. It would signal to the world that Australia was giving in to the insurgents’ demands. Personally, I’m all for doing whatever it takes to get your EDD back, but the ransom money would have to be raised secretly. And that wouldn’t be easy.’

  ‘If it was a matter of a few thousand, sir, I’d gladly pay it out of my savings to get Caesar back,’ Ben quickly volunteered. ‘Even if it was $10,000.’

  ‘Okay, good,’ said Hodges, nodding. A fit-looking, broad-shouldered man with a very military-style moustache, he decorated his office with photographs from his years in the army. It was as if, in his heart, he had never entirely left the military. Helping Ben, a serving soldier, was something Hodges felt compelled to do, like helping a brother. ‘Hopefully, a much smaller figure can be negotiated,’ he went on. ‘The other problem we have to overcome is getting the Afghan Government to agree to free Baradar’s father from prison.’