Caesar the War Dog

by Stephen Dando-Collins

  He received a brief and worrying reply from the controller. ‘Er, Redback from Mother. Extraction delayed. Revert to Bravo. Mother out.’

  ‘Extraction’ was the military term for pickup by helicopter and ‘Bravo’ referred to the second letter of the alphabet, ‘B’. The team was being told that their pickup by helicopter had been delayed and that they should revert to their plan B. This involved walking all the way back to Tarin Kowt, which could take days.

  ‘Why would our extraction be delayed?’ Lucky Mertz wondered out loud. ‘They’ve got a lot more than one heelo at Tarin Kowt.’

  Charlie shrugged. ‘Who knows, Lucky, but the fact they haven’t suggested a new extraction time means Mother has a problem at Tarin Kowt.’

  There was a problem at Tarin Kowt. A big one. The Taliban had chosen this very night to launch an attack on Tarin Kowt airfield, using rockets and mortars. That attack made it too dangerous for helicopters and other aircraft to fly in or out for the time being.

  As they were contemplating their situation, Trooper Baz, who was on watch with night-vision binoculars, called a warning. ‘We’ve got company! I can see movement down the hill behind us.’

  Charlie quickly focused his binoculars in the direction Baz had indicated. He could make out a number of men climbing the slope, moving from the cover of one set of rocks to another. ‘We’ve been followed!’

  ‘Do you think the headman’s sons followed us?’ Ben asked.

  ‘It’s possible,’ Charlie responded, ‘but whoever they are, they’re armed.’

  ‘Do we stay and fight, or move out?’ Ben asked.

  Before Charlie could answer, a rocket-propelled grenade – an RPG – came flying up from below and burst close by. The shockwave from the blast knocked Charlie off his feet and sent him sprawling into the open. Bullets fired from AK-47 automatic rifles, carried by the men climbing the hill, now began to spray around the Australian soldiers, chipping the boulders and humming by their heads. Four of the SAS men began to return fire, but Charlie was not moving.

  Ben wasn’t firing. His eyes were on Charlie’s still form. Letting go of Caesar’s leash, he was tensing his muscles to leap into the open and grab his best friend when Caesar himself jumped up and dashed out to Charlie. Caesar, much lower to the ground than Ben, grabbed hold of Charlie’s backpack with his teeth. Slowly, Caesar began dragging the sergeant toward Ben, who, on his hands and knees, scrambled to join his dog and get Charlie back behind the boulders.

  ‘Well done, Caesar!’ Ben yelled, above the noise of weapons going off all around them. ‘Good dog! Brave dog!’

  Ben took hold of Charlie’s Kevlar vest, and between Caesar and himself they were able to drag Charlie behind cover. Fortunately, Charlie had not been seriously injured. He had only been knocked out by the blast, and was now coming round.

  Looking up at Ben, Charlie said, groggily, ‘Someone pulled me into cover – was that you, Ben?’

  Ben burst into a grin. ‘Yep, but with a lot of help from Caesar. That wasn’t something he learnt at training school, I can tell you.’

  Slowly sitting up, Charlie reached over and patted Caesar. ‘Thanks, Caesar, mate,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to get you a medal, for bravery above and beyond the call of duty.’

  In response, Caesar let out a little whine, as if to say, I hope you’re all right, Charlie, and licked Charlie’s face.

  All around them, the four other SAS men were laying down a fierce response to the attack from below, firing machineguns, grenade-launchers and rocket-launchers down the hill. As a result, the bottom of the hill was being lit up by explosions, and hostile fire quickly slackened.

  With his head beginning to clear, Charlie looked around the small group and called, ‘Where’s our prisoner? Where’s the headman?’

  ‘Fear not, Charlie boy,’ Bendigo Baz cheerfully called back. ‘The headman isn’t going anywhere.’

  Peering through the darkness, Charlie and Ben were able to make out the sight of Baz sitting on top of the very unhappy headman, who, still blindfolded, was lying on his stomach. Using the headman as a seat, Baz was all the while firing his machinegun at their Afghan attackers down the hill. As Charlie rejoined the battle, firing his carbine at flitting shapes and muzzle flashes, Ben attached Caesar’s leash to his belt, then he too opened fire with his rifle. As Ben fired, Caesar lay down beside his master, with his head resting on his paws, and waited for the noise to stop. After several minutes of intense shooting, Charlie called on the others to cease fire. No longer was there any return fire coming from below.

  ‘If any of those blokes down there are still breathing, they’ll either be calling in help from their Taliban mates or moving around to cut us off,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Or both,’ said Ben.

  ‘One way or another,’ Charlie responded, ‘we can’t stay here. Any of you blokes been hit?’ When the others all replied that they were unhurt, Charlie said, ‘Okay, let’s move out!’

  Pulling the terrified headman to his feet, they set off again, marching quickly over a flat plateau toward the north and then slipping and sliding down a rocky slope to reach another valley dotted with farms. They kept walking until the sky to their right began to streak with the yellow rays of the rising sun. Charlie then led the way up onto a rocky ridge. From there, they had a good view of their surroundings. The men and Caesar lay down among the rocks and covered themselves with the camouflage net. It would be too dangerous to travel in daylight – they would be spotted by Taliban, or by friends or spies of the Taliban among the farmers and villagers of the district.

  All day they lay there, watching vehicles travel distant roads, hoping that no bad guys would come looking for them. The whole point of a Special Forces operation like this one was to slip in, do a job and slip out again without attracting attention. They were not supposed to get into a firefight. The team was heavily armed – more heavily armed than ordinary infantrymen – to enable them to fight their way out of trouble if they found themselves in a tight corner. But that was supposed to be a last resort. This morning’s short, sharp encounter had shown just how lethal they could be, despite their lack of numbers. But it had also alerted the Taliban that a small Special Forces operation was going down in their midst. And the Taliban would now be out looking for them – in big numbers.

  Through the day, Caesar lay by Ben’s side, panting in the hot sun. After a while, Ben unravelled his camouflage-patterned sleeping bag and put it over them both to create a little shade. But the air was thick with heat. Occasionally, Ben would give Caesar a little water from a plastic cup, and Caesar would gratefully lick it empty. For a large, energetic dog like Caesar, it was difficult to remain in the one place for so long, and several times throughout the day he became restless and got to his feet. Each time, Ben pulled Caesar back down beside him, ruffled his neck, tickled his ears and spoke quietly, soothingly to him, telling him that they would be on the move again soon enough, but that, for now, they had to stay where they were.

  On another occasion, Ben felt something drop onto his stomach. Looking down, he saw a round stone the size of a golf ball lying on his tunic. Caesar sat looking at him expectantly. Ben smiled to himself as he realised that Caesar had dropped the stone there, wanting Ben to throw the stone so he could fetch it. ‘No, mate,’ he said softly, ‘we can’t play yet.’ Pulling Caesar close, he tickled his ear. ‘Later.’

  Several times, the headman, a Muslim, asked permission to pray to meet the requirement of his religion to kneel, face east and pray five times a day. But Charlie, wary of an attempt by his prisoner to escape or attract Taliban attention, wouldn’t permit it.

  After sunset, the men and Caesar ate their day’s cold rations, and Caesar, again, scored a few leftovers. The soldiers offered the headman an MRE pack, but, refusing to eat their Western food, he would only take water. Again, he asked permission to pray, and now that it was dark, Charlie agreed and freed the headman’s hands. As he knelt and prayed, still blindfolded, two of the SAS men
guarded him with their rifles at the ready. When he had finished his prayers, his hands were bound once more behind his back and he was again made to lie in the midst of his captors.

  By midevening, the last light in the distance went out. The valley below was going to sleep. Charlie checked his GPS, then got back on the radio.

  ‘Redback now at X-Ray Victor 9,’ he reported to Tarin Kowt. ‘All intact and with one guest. Request extraction. Over.’ He didn’t mind walking all the way back to Tarin Kowt through enemy territory, but there was an unwritten SAS rule: only an idiot looks for an unnecessary fight. A lift from a heelo would eliminate the risk of another dangerous engagement with the Taliban on their way back to base.

  ‘Wait, Redback,’ came a brief reply. ‘Mother out.’ Twenty minutes passed. Then, the radio crackled in Charlie’s waiting ear. ‘Redback, this is Mother. Extraction at 0100 hours is now possible, at X-Ray Romeo 8. Advise. Over.’

  ‘Wait, Mother.’ Charlie checked his GPS, assessing the time it would take for them to walk the distance from where they were to the new grid-reference point. ‘Roger, Mother,’ he then advised. ‘Redback can do. Over.’

  ‘Roger, Redback. X-Ray Romeo 8 at 0100 hours. Do you copy? Over.’

  ‘Copy that. X-Ray Romeo 8. The spider will be on the toilet seat at 0100 hours. Redback out. Over.’ He switched the radio off.

  ‘How far do we have to walk this time?’ Bendigo Baz asked, as Charlie packed the radio away.

  ‘A few clicks,’ Charlie replied. ‘Just a stroll for a fit bloke like you, Baz. Okay, let’s pack up and make tracks, people, before the moon rises and lights us up on the skyline.’

  They were soon back on their feet and on the march again. Caesar’s tail was wagging excitedly. He hadn’t enjoyed being cooped up under the camouflage net all day and was glad to be on the move. Keeping to high ground, the team made good time and reached the new RP a little after midnight. First, they found a piece of clear, level ground that would serve as an LZ for a helicopter. Then Charlie turned on an electronic homing device that would allow a friendly helicopter to pinpoint their location. Again, the men and Caesar settled down to wait.

  Just before one in the morning, Ben noticed Caesar’s ears prick up and felt him tense a little. Caesar had heard something – something the humans around him could not hear. Not only did the labrador have a far better sense of smell than humans, his hearing was more acute, too. And Caesar’s ears had picked up a high-pitched sound emitted by a powerful helicopter’s engines. Not long after, Ben and the others heard the deeper whoosh-whoosh sounds of an approaching helicopter’s spinning rotors, coming from the direction of Tarin Kowt.

  On hearing this, Charlie and Lucky took flares from their backpacks and lit them, marking the LZ to guide the helicopter’s pilot. At the same time, Ben fitted Caesar with his doggles and puppy Peltors, then slid his own goggles over his eyes. Out of the darkness came a Chinook, descending with its flat underside at an angle, tail first. The downwash from the rotors kicked up a small dust storm, which swirled around the landing zone. The helicopter’s rear wheels touched the ground first, followed by its front wheels.

  ‘Let’s go!’ Charlie yelled above the noise of the helicopter, while tugging at the headman’s arm.

  But the headman refused to budge. ‘No!’ he cried. ‘I no go! They torture me at Tarin Kowt.’ He threw himself to the ground.

  ‘Mate,’ said Charlie, slowly, deliberately, ‘my orders were to bring you in if we found Taliban explosives at your kal, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Baz, give me a hand with this bloke.’

  Charlie took the headman under one arm and Baz took him under the other. Between them, they half carried and half dragged him up the ramp and into the hull of the waiting Chinook. Ben and Caesar followed close behind. Lucky Mertz and the two other SAS men in the group, who had been covering the landing of the Chinook, now rose up from where they were lying and came running up the ramp.

  The Chinook’s loadmaster, standing at the mouth of the ramp, spoke briefly to the pilot via his headset microphone, telling him that all passengers were aboard. The tail of the Chinook immediately rose up, followed by its nose. As the big helicopter swiftly gained height, Ben half fell into the webbed seating and strapped himself in, then pulled Caesar in between his legs, giving him a solid pat and ruffle of the neck. Bending low to the labrador’s ear, and lifting one side of his puppy Peltors, Ben told him, ‘The mission’s almost done, Caesar – you did a great job. Good boy!’ And Caesar’s tail wagged with delight.

  The Chinook returned them to Tarin Kowt without incident. As the headman, minus the blindfold but with his hands still tied behind his back, was being handed over to waiting US Army Intelligence officers, Ben returned the man’s glasses, slipping them in place for him. The headman looked away while Ben was doing this for, in Afghanistan, it is considered rude to look someone in the eye for any length of time.

  ‘Taliban – they are forcing me to help them, soldier Australia,’ he said glumly, bowing his head. ‘I am having no choice.’

  ‘So you said before,’ Ben replied, wearily. ‘But if the Taliban had a chance to use what my dog found in your compound, they could have killed a lot of my comrades. Maybe even my dog and me. Whether you wanted to or not, you would have helped the Taliban kill people. Probably including innocent civilians.’

  The headman didn’t reply. If he was telling the truth, Ben could feel some sympathy for him. It was widely known that the Taliban threatened to kill local people if they failed to help them, and often carried out those threats. But a lot of locals in Uruzgan Province helped the Taliban voluntarily. After all, it was in Uruzgan that the chief of the Taliban, Mullah Omar, had been born. It was possible this headman was lying. Maybe he secretly supported the Taliban, had willingly buried those explosives, and would gladly see Ben and his mates blown to smithereens.

  As the headman was led away, Charlie came over and patted Ben on the back. ‘We got a good result out of this mission, mate – and all because of you and Caesar. It was great working with the pair of you. Let’s hope we can do it again sometime.’

  ‘We hope so too, Charlie,’ Ben replied.

  Caesar, nuzzling up against Charlie’s leg with a wagging tail, seemed to agree.

  The day after returning to Tarin Kowt, Ben gave Caesar a bath. All dogs hate being bathed, even labradors like Caesar who will swim and romp in open water with the greatest of glee. A bath of soap and water is, to them, a mild form of torture. But Caesar was in dire need of one – his brown coat was greasy, and smelled of dirt and dust and chicken droppings.

  Caesar stood on a cement pad in the base kennels, covered in soap suds, his tail drooping. Looking up at Ben, he had a sad, sad look in his eyes, as if to say, Was this really necessary, boss?

  ‘Caesar, you can’t make me feel guilty for giving you a bath,’ said Ben, with a chuckle. ‘It’s for your own good, mate. And you’ll be getting steak for dinner tonight as a reward for a job well done.’

  After Ben hosed him down, Caesar shook himself to dry his coat, but to dry him off completely, Ben still had to kneel beside him and towel him down. Caesar liked that. He liked the closeness. As Ben towelled, Caesar turned and licked him on the face, making Ben laugh.

  ‘Seems like you two are having fun, Corporal,’ said a voice behind Ben.

  Turning in the direction of the voice, Ben came face to face with two officers. One was a general – Major General Michael Jones, commander of the Australian forces at Tarin Kowt. The other was a captain, the general’s assistant. Ben immediately sprang to his feet, came rigidly to attention and saluted. And Caesar, without being told to, sat down, soldier-like, beside his master.

  ‘Stand easy, Corporal,’ said Major General Jones, returning his salute. ‘I wanted to congratulate you on an outstanding job on the Redback operation. Outstanding.’

  ‘All the credit goes to Caesar, sir,’ Ben replied. ‘If he hadn’t led us to the chicken coop, we would have missed the T
aliban hoard.’

  ‘He’s one heck of a fine EDD, by all accounts,’ the general acknowledged. ‘But like a soldier, an explosive dog is only as good as his training. Full marks to you for giving him that training, Fulton.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. But,’ Ben said, shaking his head, ‘with respect, there are some things you can’t train a dog to do – things some dogs do purely by instinct. My last dog was terrific, but Caesar has instincts that make him just about the best EDD I’ve ever come across.’

  The general nodded. ‘Well, we’ll be making full use of his special talents. Make sure you look after him. We need him, and you, here in Uruzgan.’

  ‘I sure will look after him, sir. And he’ll look after me,’ replied Ben, smiling fondly at Caesar.

  ‘I imagine he will,’ said the general, smiling. ‘Carry on, Corporal.’

  Charlie and Ben soon got their wish to work together again. After several weeks of routine explosives patrol work on roads and in villages, Ben and Caesar received orders to join a major Special Forces mission. When Ben reported to the Special Operations Headquarters for the mission briefing, he found Charlie there along with Lucky Mertz, Bendigo Baz and eight other Australian SAS men.

  The briefing was led by an American Special Forces colonel, a man with a thick bull neck and a shaved head. He told the Australians they were being airlifted into an FOB, a forward operating base, named Python. This FOB was a hundred kilometres to the north of Tarin Kowt, deep inside what the Australian and American troops called ‘bandit country’. A dozen American Special Forces soldiers were already located at FOB Python, along with soldiers of the Afghan National Army.

  It was late August, and the winter weather would soon arrive in Uruzgan Province. Before long, snow and ice would make travel by vehicle impossible, and the Taliban would melt away into the mountains to await the next spring, when they would return to launch new attacks. While the weather was still favourable, the Australians were to join the troops at FOB Python for a week, carrying out missions in the area to seek and capture as many Taliban insurgents as possible before winter. In particular, they were to try to seize the Taliban’s most senior man in the region, Commander Baradar, who was reportedly operating in the valley. The American strategists behind the seven-day joint operation had given it the codename Operation Comanche.