by Sandra Lee
What was worse remained unspoken. No point jinxing yourself.
Sarbi’s orientation was top-notch. The unfamiliar terrain and swirl of invisible new scents that danced across the airwaves kicked her olfactory senses into overdrive. And she was becoming a hit around Camp Holland.
Sarbi didn’t recognise rank or nationality but returned whatever affection was sent her way with a waggle of her rear end and a front-pawed dance. D didn’t mind her popularity with the troops. He knew how important Sarbi and her fellow dogs were for morale. A couple of soldiers told him they appreciated seeing her on her morning runs in the exercise area; it took their mind off the quotidian routine of army life, the distance from loved ones thousands of kilometres away, and the threat beyond the wire.
‘It was a huge boost for them because it made them think of their dogs back home,’ he says.
The experienced EDD handler was relaxed about allowing soldiers to pat and interact with Sarbi. He understood the psychological benefit his dog brought and had studied the scientific literature that explained the positive physiological changes that canines cause in humans. Patting a dog, he knew, can be its own opiate. Some of Sergeant D’s peers preferred to quarantine their dogs to maintain their focus and drive. D’s strategy was to ‘turn off the pats’ to instil discipline if Sarbi misbehaved or went rogue on patrol, but she hadn’t so he didn’t. She was working well, never missing a beat or a scent.
Sarbi’s only moment of canine uncertainty occurred when she first set eyes on a man wearing the traditional Afghan shalwar kameez and turban. Sarbi went stiff, raised a paw, stared, cocked her ears at a comical angle, and tilted her head. She was a picture of concentration, focused on the strange new sight. Her highly trained nose went to work, inhaling the novel hybrid odours of the Afghan’s exotic diet and, perhaps, his less than rigorous approach to hygiene. In weeks to come D would suffer the same, courtesy of the unloved Dutch stodge served in the mess tent at Camp Holland and days-long patrols under a crucifying summer sun, with only a splash of water to keep clean.
Sarbi decided the foreign figure was no threat and moved on. But her handler concedes she never developed a great affection for the locals. She didn’t bark at them but Sergeant D could feel the tremor of a low-pitched growl vibrate up from her collar through her leash when she was close to a local. And she never romped over for a pat as she did with the Aussies behind the wire, or arch her back and flex into the downward dog position—a pose well known to yoga aficionados—with her front toes splayed as wide as they can go, waiting for a tickle. Sarbi kept the locals at a distance, even when she became more familiar with the friendly men who set up their weekly bazaars outside the base.
Sarbi’s inbuilt radar was alert to the rhythms of hazard and danger. Perhaps she intuitively knew that Afghans do not share Westerners’ inexplicable love for dogs. Or maybe, as Sergeant D says, she was just more familiar with combat fatigues!
Chapter 13
OUTSIDE THE WIRE
Sergeant D and Sarbi had deployed into a hornet’s nest. More than 4000 people had been killed in 2006, making it the deadliest year in Afghanistan since the Taliban was ousted in December 2001. As the insurgency escalated into full-blown slaughter one Taliban leader, Mullah Hayat Khan, swore to make 2007 the ‘bloodiest year’ yet, using a martyrdom army of 2000 suicide bombers against the coalition forces.
Suicide bombers had been on the rise. In 2002, there was just one recorded case of a suicide bomber in Afghanistan. The following year that number had doubled to two. In 2004 it tripled to six. In 2006, the number had multiplied to 139. The rise was significant. The increase marked a radical change in tactics as Afghans traditionally had not included suicide bombings in their deadly arsenal.
Remotely detonated bombings more than doubled from 783 in 2005 to 1677 in 2006; armed attacks tripled, soaring from 1558 in 2005 to 4542 by the end of December 2006. IEDs killed 492 civilians and injured at least 700 more. NATO troops held the major towns throughout the country, but it also suffered 90 fatalities in 2006.
The local population was helpless. The ruthlessness of the Taliban’s ‘retribution against “collaborators” neutralised much of the Afghan population’. They terrorised villagers into supporting them by delivering pamphlets known as ‘night letters’—shabnamah—warning the impoverished people of horrendous retaliation if they aided the coalition forces or Afghan government. According to Thomas H. Johnson from the United States Naval Postgraduate School in California, the ‘Taliban relies on the educated populace to transmit the shabnamah to illiterate villagers. Often these “letters” are pasted to the walls of mosques and government buildings and promise death to anyone who defies their threats or instruction.’
‘A bullet to the head is all it takes,’ a soldier said.
The Australian Special Operations commander Major General Tim McOwan described the night letters as ‘death threats to intimidate and terrorise’ and said the Taliban contrived ‘situations where innocent men, women and children are likely to become caught up in their fight’.
Afghan observers noted the insurgency ‘has become ever more daring and deadly in the southern and eastern parts of the country, while extending its presence all the way to the outskirts of Kabul’.
That was exactly where Sarbi and Sergeant D were operating, ‘striking . . . at the heart of the Taliban strength’ and doing ‘the heavy lifting’ with the US, the Netherlands, the United Kingdom and Canada.
The bleak news and statistics didn’t bother Sarbi. She was happy to be with her handler and he was more focused on ways to avoid adding to the statistics. Tactics, techniques and procedures.
Sarbi quickly attuned to the thrum of life on an army base, the rockets and weapons fire and constant noise from hundreds of aircraft movements daily. She recognised the start-up groan of the LRPVs and the rumble of the Australian workhorse, the fifteen-tonne Bushmaster with its distinctive V-shaped hull, designed to save lives.
The LRPV was a specially adapted Land Rover that the enemy years earlier had dubbed the ‘devil vehicle’ because of its sheer versatility. The vehicles were like six-wheeled motorised mountain goats. No enemy sanctuary was beyond their reach. They were heavily armed and mounted with a 50-calibre heavy machine-gun and two 7.62-millimetre MAG 58 general-purpose machine-guns. They were also loaded with extra weapons systems in the back, including a Javelin anti-armour missile system, a Swedish-made Carl Gustaf 84-millimetre anti-tank rocket launcher and 66-millimetre rockets—for use whenever and wherever needed.
Sarbi had learned that the Bushmaster engine revs were a call to work. She eagerly leapt into the back, and tucked herself in between D’s legs next to his automatic rifle— barrel pointed down. He kept a tight grip on her leash as they bumped along the potted roads and dirt tracks, until they reached a search destination or a forward infantry scout radioed for the EDD team to search a defile or vulnerable point. Their job was to provide manoeuvrability and survivability for RTF2 troops to and from construction destinations.
But they weren’t going in blind. The soldiers relied on field intelligence and had a good handle on whether the situation was benign or hostile. ‘Generally, if a compound is occupied, you know the locals aren’t going to booby-trap their own house or have an IED set up in there,’ Sergeant D says.
As soon as the request came over his communications (comms) system, D removed Sarbi’s collar and snapped the search harness around her chest, attaching the leash. He sensed the instant shift in her concentration and interpreted it as a comment, as if she was trying to tell him, now this is going to be fun.
Sergeant D’s rifle was locked and loaded and ready to engage. Awareness levels were elevated but he was conscious of not feeding his nerves to Sarbi. He surveyed the ground to determine the search type and unhooked Sarbi’s leather leash, giving her distance to ensure the safety of the platoon. He didn’t like sending her out on her own, but safety protocols were non-negotiable. The dog waited, obediently.
‘Sarbi, seek on.’
The 27-kilogram black mass moved off, following the route patterns drilled into her at the SME. D’s heart rate went up; he was relying on Sarbi more than any other soldier. So were his mates out on the flanks. He watched her backside swing with each step as she padded along silently, alert to every noise and movement in the immediate area, ready to ‘take a knee’ (kneel down) to reduce his profile if he detected her tell. The hyper-vigilance was a learned skill.
Soldiers work as a team and each also has his own responsibilities. D was responsible for reading and understanding his dog’s body language, and recognising indicators of unexploded ordnance and IEDs. He kept his eye out for irregular signs on trees or stakes that had been posted by the insurgents to signal to their fellow fighters where they had planted bombs. He checked for piles of stones and random objects and debris that looked deliberately placed on the road. Similarly, recent road repairs and new or covered tracks were considered suspect until proven otherwise.
D kept a watchful eye on any Afghan locals and observed their movements around the compounds. The human terrain was loaded with information. An absence of women or children in a village usually indicated potential ambush or attack. A lone man sitting on a hill could be watching, spectator-like, knowing action was about to unfold. Someone hurrying away could be departing the scene after planting an IED or a knowing civilian not wanting to get caught in the crossfire. A teenaged boy on approach could be about to blow himself into martyrdom.
The first searches were the hardest. Sergeant D’s heart pumped faster as he worked out the most likely place for an IED and positions from where the enemy or unfriendly locals could be watching. TTPs. ‘After a couple of searches it started to become more streamlined and instinctive,’ he says.
The Australians had been lucky and, as every soldier going into battle knows too well, luck eventually runs out.
On 24 July Sergeant D and Sarbi were on patrol, performing routine clearances in and around the fortified compound housing the governor of Uruzgan, on the main road to Tarin Kot. An infantry section was on a dismounted patrol through TK, on a road leading away from the compound. Intelligence intercepts picked up local radio chatter, a warning that the insurgents were using certain types of trucks as vehicle-borne IEDs. In particular, the ubiquitous Toyota Hilux.
Around 1pm, with the sun directly overhead, a truck fitting the description came in from a side street and made its way up the road towards the patrol, gaining speed as it approached the soldiers at the top of the hill. Men yelled at the young male driver to stop but he stepped on the accelerator. They signalled visually, their hands held aloft in the internationally recognised halt signal. The vehicle continued speeding. D and Sarbi were in the governor’s compound, at the bottom of the hill about 150 metres away, watching.
The Australians immediately took up fire positions. Just in case. They had experienced too many near misses to give the driver the benefit of the doubt.
Weeks earlier a young male had approached Australian and Afghan soldiers at a vehicle checkpoint. A teenager. He refused to stop when ordered and walked purposefully towards the unit. The task force took up fire positions and aimed their weapons but before the soldiers could fire a thunderous boom shook the checkpoint. The Taliban extremist had blown himself up using a crude homemade device. His torso was ripped in half, limbs dismembered.
One Australian and two ANA soldiers were wounded. It was the first suicide bomb attack against the RTF. The Australians were lucky. Or as defence boss Angus Houston preferred to say—equipped and prepared. ‘The situational awareness of the RTF patrol, their reaction to the bomber and their personal-protective equipment ultimately prevented a more serious incident.’
It was a salient lesson.
The Australians on patrol outside the governor’s compound in Tarin Kot were equally prepared.
Insurgents had warned they would attack Afghans who worked with coalition forces. The Uruzgan governor’s compound was a high value target. Dozens of soldiers and civilians near the building were at risk. So, too, those working inside.
Sergeant D watched as the truck drove faster up the road. Under their rules of engagement, the Aussies could use lethal force when they faced a ‘real and present danger’ and this was as real and present as it gets.
The Australians fixed their target. The driver was not slowing down and went about 50 metres after being ordered to stop. They opened fire.
D, prone in the dirt with his weapon ready, watched as bullets cracked overhead. Sarbi, clipped to his hip, instinctively dropped on her belly on the dirt, lying next to her handler.
‘Sarbi, stay.’
‘Everyone was running around and taking fire positions until we realised what was going on. Sarbi was calm. She just dropped down next to me and didn’t move,’ he recalls.
The bullet-riddled vehicle limped to a stop but the danger wasn’t over. The truck could be packed with high explosives and armed by a remote control detonator.
Troops cordoned off the area and moved locals to safety, out of a possible blast zone. A platoon commander radioed D and Sarbi with instructions to conduct the initial search, to make sure the dead driver wasn’t behind the wheel of a booby-trapped truck.
‘If it had been a vehicle borne IED it could have taken all of us out,’ he says.
Sergeant D brushed himself off. He called Sarbi to heel.
He was about to go on what seemed like the longest walk of his life.
With an engineer team behind him, Sergeant D stepped off, in tandem with his dog. Weapon locked and loaded. Scanning for enemy snipers or spotters.
He approached from the rear, straight up the hill from the Governor’s compound. Out in the middle of the road he may as well have had a target on his chest. Forty metres away from the disabled vehicle, D released EDD 436 from her leash. Okay girl, don’t let me down, he thought. The engineers stopped a few metres behind him.
‘Sarbi, seek on.’
Sarbi trotted up the driver’s side of the vehicle, her nose testing the wind for explosives, quivering and twitching with each inhalation and exhalation. She moved at a steady pace around the front of the truck. The seconds she was out of sight dragged on and felt like minutes. D was relieved to see her black nose round the corner, followed by her solid torso.
Sarbi manoeuvred down the passenger side of the vehicle, clinging to it like a limpet, her head bobbing up in short, sharp bursts with each sniff as she air-scented. Her methodical drive reaffirmed D’s faith in his hound and their training. He watched for her tells—freeze, front paw up, stare, slow-motion sit. Nothing. He searched for any slight change in her behaviour that might indicate uncertainty, something not quite right. Nothing.
Sarbi turned again and walked across the back of the truck. Search complete.
She did not indicate the presence of explosives. Right, D thought, that meant one of two things. No explosive or Sarbi had missed it.
Highly unlikely, but not impossible. Every dog can have its off day.
D was composed and in control, but still apprehensive.
His adrenalin pumped and his pulse thumped. Better that than being complacent, he figured. Complacency kills.
‘Sarbi, come.’
She trotted back, happy at her master’s positive tone of voice, her bright pink tongue hanging out of her mouth. She had her usual look of expectation that she’d be rewarded with a tennis ball, which, of course, did not materialise for safety reasons.
Sergeant D grabbed his push-to-talk radio mike off his shoulder and spoke to the platoon commander.
‘EDD did not indicate explosives. Will conduct systemic search, over.’
Could Sarbi have gotten it wrong?
The handler reassured himself. ‘During all of our training previously in TK and back at home she very rarely missed any explosive.’
D checked his weapon. He reattached Sarbi’s leash to his hip and slowly walked to the truck, in sync with his hound. He scanned around the
area for potential threats, hoping no insurgent lay in wait with a remote control detonator. The Hilux truck could still be a death trap. All eyes were on Sarbi and Sergeant D.
As they drew closer, D saw the driver, dead, slumped forward in the seat. The blood-splattered windscreen was shattered; bullet holes pierced the metal door panels. A thought raced through his head. He just should have stopped.
D guided Sarbi as close to the truck as possible and they began the painstaking process of searching around and under the car. He gently directed Sarbi’s nose to the door cracks, the wheels and wheel hubs. She sniffed as trained, paying particular attention to Sergeant D’s splayed hand indicating each location. With the external search complete, he began the internal search. Slowly, with as much care as possible, D opened the driver’s door.
‘Go on, Sarbi.’
With balletic grace, the big girl gently reared up on her hind legs to rest her front paws on the doorstep, hindquarters planted on the road. She ignored her primitive canine instinct with its preference for blood. She sniffed as if the corpse was another inanimate article to search, not a human being that seconds earlier drew breath. Sergeant D was quietly proud. ‘She was nice and focused on the job,’ he says now.
No signs of explosives. He exhaled with quiet relief.
Sarbi hopped down.
Ten minutes and they were done. D radioed the commander.
‘All clear.’
He patted his dog.
‘Good girl, Sarbs, good girl.’
The engineer team moved to search the stalled Hilux and driver for a final clearance before it was towed away.
For whatever reason, the civilian driver simply had not stopped and it got him killed. The needlessness of the man’s death was evident but there was no good to come from dwelling on it. No point weighing the ‘what ifs’. It was a war zone. There were rules and regulations. Number one: you stop at vehicle checkpoints. Obey orders.
