Saving Private Sarbi

by Sandra Lee

  Merlin had successfully uncovered weapons caches and defied the Taliban’s best attempts to kill him with IEDs and landmines, which made his accidental death seem especially cruel. No one expected the four-legged warrior who looked like he had a permanent smile on his face to be run over while taking a rest break.

  The driver of the ASLAV was gutted. Like Lawlis, he blamed himself.

  ‘He was a bit ashamed to come up to me for about a week after that but I didn’t blame him. It was my fuck up; it was my fault. I didn’t hold anything against him,’ Lawlis says now.

  He took full responsibility but manning up didn’t make losing his mate easier to bear. Merlin had worked with the soldiers for months and been on patrols that lasted several days. He woke up in the harsh landscape next to his two-legged brothers in arms, sleeping beside them and keeping his ears and snout sharp to alert them to looming disaster. He waited patiently, politely and bravely for scraps from the pre-packed Meals Ready to Eat (MREs) and loped around expecting free rubs behind the ears for being so damned cute. The mixed-breed mutt, whose coat was flecked with grey, somehow made things seem less warlike, if that was possible. Tipdog had become everyone’s best friend, irrevocably wriggling his way into their warrior hearts. It was hard not to fall in love with the hero hound ready to sacrifice his own life for theirs. Possibly because he was a rankist—a dog who had a habit of having a go at the officers whenever they appeared, much to the amusement of the sappers and privates.

  It was even more gut wrenching knowing that EDD 437 Merlin was the first explosive detection dog to be killed on operations. That was a milestone no one wanted to claim.

  Back at Camp Holland, Lawlis put Merlin’s body in refrigeration and smoked three packets of cigarettes with an EOD technician at the back of the medical facility, next to the watch-house. The brass wanted him to see the padre for counselling but Lawlis wanted to be left alone; he was trying to figure out a way to get his dog repatriated to Australia. It was the least he could do for his four-legged mate.

  Back in Australia, Brigadier Andrew Nikolic announced the terrible news of Merlin’s death. ‘Merlin is the first army explosive detection dog to die on operations. His death will be keenly felt by the RTF and the wider Royal Australian Engineers, particularly their specialist dog handlers,’ he said.

  Nikolic’s comments were poignantly borne out five days later when dozens of soldiers from the RTF and Special Operations Task Group gathered at the kennels complex for a memorial for Merlin. Army Chaplain Craig Potter presided over the service. Merlin’s fellow explosive detection dogs were also present, sitting at attention at their handlers’ sides, paying their last respects with doggie dignity.

  Task force tradies from the RAE built a special coffin for their little mate, and fashioned a metal plaque and nameplate they attached to the outside. They also built a headstone with a commemorative inscription. The talented craftsmen wanted the casket and final resting place to reflect the esteem in which Merlin was held.

  Before the ceremony got under way, Lawlis and Zeke Smith dropped a couple of tennis balls in the coffin, with some snacks and a picture of Smith’s dog, FloJo. ‘FloJo and Merlin had a bit of a love affair in Afghanistan,’ Lawlis says fondly. ‘They hung out together. We put a photo of FloJo in the coffin so he wouldn’t be lonely.’

  Sergeant D, a Browning 9-mm strapped to his thigh, and another Doggie with his AuSteyr assault rifle slung over his back, carried Merlin’s coffin to a burial plot overlooking the kennels where he’d lived for the past four months. The casket was draped in an Australian flag, as is customary to honour the fallen. A photograph of the little fellow, sitting in a green field dotted by blossoming red poppies and wearing his search harness, was fixed to the wire-meshed fence. It bore the words, Merlin Oct 03–Aug 07. He was two months shy of his fourth birthday.

  Soldiers stood at attention as the padre said a prayer and paid tribute to Merlin. Then, with a solemnity to match the occasion, Sergeant D and two others gently lowered Merlin’s remains into the ground.

  There you go, boy. Good fella, Merlin. Rest in peace, Digger.

  There were no tears, but there were many among the toughened and battle-scarred soldiers happy to have their eyes shielded by impenetrable wrap-around sunglasses.

  Afterwards, the soldiers named the dog complex Merlin Kennels, upholding an Australian Army tradition to honour those killed in action.

  Three weeks had passed since the EDD Section interred Merlin in the red earth of Afghanistan. Sergeant D received a call from the Special Operations headquarters at Camp Russell on the other side of Camp Holland—then home to a mix of commandos from the Fourth Battalion Royal Australian Regiment (4RAR) and troopers from the SAS. Together, the highly trained soldiers formed the elite of the Australian Army and had been taking the battle to the insurgents and Taliban fighters beyond the wire as part of the Special Operations Task Group 4 (SOTG4) component of Operation Slipper.

  SOTG4 also had its own Doggie contingent and explosives ordnance disposal team, made up of Lance Corporal Craig Turnbull and EDD 409 Razz from the Incident Response Regiment, and a handful of specialist explosive ordnance engineers.

  Razz was a textbook perfect black Labrador retriever with softly rounded features and eyes the colour of melted cocoa. He had a sweet habit of lolling his big, rose-pink tongue out the front of his mouth—a welcoming gesture that never failed to get a smile in return. Razz began his working career with Australian Customs before transferring to the army in 2002. Like the other dogs in Afghanistan, he was experienced and proficient. ‘A top EDD and very intelligent,’ Turnbull said. Razz had worked on the Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting in Coolum on the Queensland coast in 2002, and the Commonwealth Games in Melbourne alongside Sarbi.

  Turnbull and Razz were tight. In fact, the soldier regarded Razz as a member of the family. ‘We spend every minute with the dog, even while asleep,’ Turnbull said later. ‘You are with the dog 24/7. It’s brilliant. It is great teamwork.’

  Sergeant D was told that the headquarters had taken a call from the area of operations, requesting an explosives detection dog be sent out urgently to link up with the SAS units.

  He and Sarbi were good to go.

  The SAS boys had been tasked with providing intel to members of 4RAR, who were conducting a series of village clearances in a vast sweep of the valley floor, a 36-hour operation. A six-man SAS patrol with an Afghan interpreter staged out of a remote American forward-operating base (FOB) known as Anaconda. Anaconda was named for a massive US-led operation in 2002 during which SAS Signalman Martin ‘Jock’ Wallace became the first Australian soldier since the Vietnam War to receive the prestigious Medal for Gallantry for courage under fire and bravery in perilous circumstances in the Shahikot Valley, otherwise known as bandit country, in Paktia Province.

  Anaconda was in hostile country. In August insurgents had failed to capture the base during four separate large-scale attacks. They roamed the countryside in small, fluid units, launching hit and run attacks on the coalition troops. The SAS patrols established observation posts several kilo-metres out of FOB Anaconda. Before long, SAS snipers identified and killed several insurgents and 120-plus 4RAR commandos, travelling in a convoy of about 40 vehicles, successfully pushed the enemy out of the valley.

  On 21 September, a day after the SAS celebrated its fiftieth anniversary with a bells and whistles ceremony at its home base in Swanbourne, Perth, the Australian contingent began the long trek by road back to Tarin Kot. They kept an eye out for enemy fighters and Taliban spotters.

  The vehicle-mounted patrol was travelling along a route when the interpreter picked up radio chatter that insurgents had been monitoring their movements. The road was a choke point and there was no way around it, with the mountain rising on one side and a slope running down to a creek on the other, and the open dasht (desert) off in the distance. It was a perfect site for ambush or IED.

  Boom!

  The lead LRPV struck an IED, detonat
ing two Russian anti-tank mines stacked on top of each other, packed with enough high explosives to leave a crater several metres wide and half as deep. Troopers were thrown from the trucks and two sustained serious bruising. One also smashed an elbow in the blast. Miraculously, no one was killed.

  Bloody lucky bastards.

  Soldiers rushed to help their fallen mates and the injured were treated at the site. Their wounds were assessed as slight by combat standards but one trooper eventually would be returned to Australia for further treatment. The six-wheeled LRPV was out of action.

  An SAS sergeant coordinated an American air medical evacuation and before long the two injured men were on a Blackhawk medevac chopper back to the ISAF hospital at Tarin Kot, escorted by the ferocious AH-64 Apache attack helicopters that fire 625 rounds per minute and are renowned for being ‘as close to “one shot, one kill” as you can get’.

  Hours later, the Afghan interpreter intercepted more enemy traffic over the radio. A second IED was in the area.

  The Doggies were called forward and Turnbull unleashed Razz.

  ‘Seek on,’ Turnbull instructed.

  The black Labrador padded forward, following his nose, with his handler and an EOD engineer armed with a mine detector a few metres behind.

  The rest of the patrol stayed back a couple of hundred metres for safety and to provide covering fire if needed.

  Razz indicated an explosive and sat down but the indication was vague and he returned to his handler. Turnbull needed a stronger tell to positively identify an IED; he needed Razz to sit and stare at the spot as trained, perfectly delivering the required passive response.

  The slow, methodical process was deliberate.

  ‘Razz, seek on,’ he said.

  He trotted back to investigate, tail wagging, happy to be working. He hadn’t got far when—bang!

  A massive explosion roared through the defile and sent shockwaves echoing up the mountain, blasting rocks and debris hundreds of metres in every direction. Turnbull was knocked off his feet. Unconscious.

  ‘It was a huge bomb and poor Razz wasn’t only killed in action, he was vaporised,’ said George Hulse, the president of the Australian Defence Force Trackers and War Dogs Association.

  There was nothing left of Razz, no remains to bury. The only evidence of his existence was some black fur that fell over the front cars and a few bits of harness.

  There was nothing left of the massive IED, either, and no way to determine if the bomb was detonated by remote control or pressure plate. Fortunately, Turnbull regained consciousness and was well enough to resume work to help secure the patrol. But they were down a dog.

  Back at Camp Holland, Sergeant D listened to the news, absorbing the information.

  Not again, he thought to himself, anguished by the loss of another fine four-legged soldier.

  Time was of the essence. He and Sarbi had to replace Razz and Turnbull as soon as possible, to maintain protection for the force out among the bad guys.

  Sergeant D returned to the Feldlager on the other side of Camp Holland and gathered his pack and weapons. Sarbi was in the kennels. She began to dance with excitement when she saw her master, as if to say, let’s get going then!

  An Australian Chinook dropped the EDD team in later that day and extracted the damaged LRPV along with Turnbull. The two handlers tag-teamed on and off the chopper and Sergeant D was relieved to see Turnbull standing on two legs unassisted. He didn’t appear too badly wounded.

  Turnbull was gutted and blamed himself for the death of his beloved Razz, feeling he’d cheated the covenant of loyalty between dog and handler by sending him directly into harm’s way. Yet he had had no choice.

  ‘He was devastated,’ says Sergeant D.

  Razz was the first member of SOTG4 killed in action.

  ‘It was pretty harsh, but he saved my life,’ Turnbull said later. ‘A bad experience, but better than one of our soldiers.’

  A fellow soldier who survived the blast acknowledged Razz’s ultimate sacrifice with a tattoo that read In dogs we trust.

  The SAS patrols and commandos were still a couple of days out from Tarin Kot and Sergeant D and Sarbi had to fit in with a new bunch of blokes, with whom they’d never worked. They were Special Forces and did things their own way.

  ‘All our drills are standard across the board and you can jump in and out as required, but it is better to work with them pre-deployment so that you know their idiosyncrasies, the little quirks that they may have,’ D says now.

  The SAS boys were kitted out with different body armour, and were more agile and faster over the ground. Sergeant D noticed the difference instantly, but he was super-fit from daily hour-long sessions in the gym and hauling Sarbi’s extra load on his back. He kept up. Sarbi had no problems.

  The next morning Sergeant D and Sarbi moved out with the SAS patrols in LRPVs, through a village suspected of housing a known IED facilitator. The troop cleared the village and searched the young men who had gathered around the central bazaar. Sarbi went to work with her handler but there was nothing to find.

  That night they slept in the open and the temperature bottomed out close to zero. Sarbi was fine. She had already begun growing her winter coat. It bulked her up, particularly around her chest and neck. The miracle of breeding and genetics kept her as warm as toast. She snuggled up next to Sergeant D and they fell asleep.

  The following day the patrols came to another village, with the 4RAR convoy trailing them. Sergeant D and Sarbi were in the second LRPV. Just luck.

  The Afghan interpreter with the unit intercepted more Taliban chatter over the radio. This time, the Taliban had set up an ambush for the infidels but they weren’t in place fast enough.

  ‘The SAS boys were leading and we had gone through the area before the Taliban managed to set up,’ recalls Sergeant D. ‘When the commandos came through, that’s when the Taliban initiated the ambush.’

  As the convoy moved through the valley between the mountain and green belt the Taliban opened up with small arms fire. The SAS circled around to take the high ground, to provide cover and put flanking fire on the enemy. The commandos got through the ambush zone without taking any casualties. But they were angry and ready for a fight.

  ‘All of a sudden half the countryside was being shot at from the 4RAR boys who were itching to get among it,’ Rob Maylor wrote in his book, SAS Sniper: The World of an Elite Australian Marksman.

  Maylor and his mates spotted two bad guys running for cover behind a mud building and used two 84-millimetre anti-tank rocket launchers to fire high explosives simultaneously over the compound. Sergeant D and Sarbi were sitting on the LRPV next to them.

  ‘I covered Sarbi’s ears with my hands to protect her from the 84s firing, which is enough to knock your teeth out,’ D says now.

  Maylor gave the fire command to his fellow troopers.

  ‘Ready, ready.’ He paused. Standard operating procedure.

  ‘Ready, ready, ready. Stand by. Fire!’

  Shwwooosh. The soldiers saw a bright flash and a split second later the sonic boom of the explosions hurtled through the valley and up the hills.

  ‘We were covered in rocks and dust by the rockets,’ D recalls.

  The powerful 84s made a mess but they did the job.

  ‘If the blast didn’t kill them the shrapnel would have.

  There was no movement after that,’ Maylor wrote.

  The commandos and SAS patrols moved off, heading back to Tarin Kot.

  ‘It was one contact. It was quite small,’ says Sergeant D with typical understatement. ‘We just went on. We didn’t bother following up, mainly because of the area.’

  Back at Camp Holland, Sarbi and her handler returned to the Reconstruction Task Force. The rotation was drawing to a close and Sergeant D began preparing a hand-over brief for the incoming Doggies. He considered himself lucky. He and Sarbi got through the deployment without any injuries and had performed solidly. Sarbi got a bath and a bone for her efforts.<
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  The command in Australia recognised the operational efficacy and great sacrifices of the explosive detection dogs and announced a memorial would be built at the SME to specifically honour the hard work of the EDDs and remember those who lost their lives while serving their country. Merlin. Razz. Two months later on 23 November, a black and tan kelpie named Andy was also killed, hit by a car at Camp Holland.

  ‘In this case, the dogs have paid the ultimate sacrifice to ensure the safety of the Australian soldiers on operations,’ said Major General Ash Power.

  The dog mafia in Afghanistan were quietly pleased. No longer were the military working dogs relegated to the lowly, inhumane status of ‘engineers stores’.

  On 11 October Sergeant D and Sarbi arrived in Sydney, where the four-legged hero spent a month at the Australian Quarantine and Inspection Service, to ensure she hadn’t picked up any exotic diseases during her seven months in Afghanistan. She had passed the requisite veterinary checks before leaving Afghanistan but was still kept in isolation as a precaution.

  It was a lonely time for the sociable hound used to company 24/7, and hardly seemed a fitting reward for her good work, but those were the rules. At least times had changed since the Vietnam War when the dogs were left behind, as soldiers were forced to walk away from their best mates, tearful and heartbroken.

  Sergeant D took a well-earned break. He needed it.

  He and Sarbi were heading back to Afghanistan in 2008 six months later as part of Special Operations Task Group 7, working with the Commandos and SAS to kill or capture the Taliban and insurgent leadership and give the Afghan people a real chance at a peaceful future, free from the tyranny of oppressive rule.

  Sergeant D didn’t know it then, but he and Sarbi were about to become a part of Australian military history.

  Chapter 15

  ONCE MORE UNTO THE BREACH

  Sergeant D and Sarbi rotated out of Sydney with Special Operations Task Group 7 (SOTG7) on 24 June 2008. He was 32 years old, unattached, as fit as he’d ever been, physically and mentally, and at his peak in command of the Explosive Detection Dog Section in Uruzgan. He had spent the previous six months in a series of exacting pre-deployment exercises in Sydney, practising ways to minimise battlefield risks and improve operational effectiveness. He was ready for the hardcore work with the Commandos and SAS.