‘Did you see what Intelligent Dog did, brother?’ said Ibrahim.
‘I did, brother,’ Ahmad returned, continuing to bounce.
‘Spectacular, yes?’
‘Could we train Intelligent Dog to do that on command?’
‘Do you know, brother, I think this special dog could be taught to do almost anything.’
‘Perhaps we can teach him to drive our van,’ Ahmad joked.
‘Then we could sleep all the way to our performances,’ Ibrahim returned with a laugh. Looking down at Caesar, he said, ‘So, Intelligent Dog, show us how very clever you are. Perfect the trampoline trick, and you shall have your reward.’
In September, as the northern summer neared its end, the Three Brothers entered Kandahar Province. Australian soldiers were stationed at Kandahar airfield but, that being a large base, the brothers would not go there. As each day passed, Caesar’s chances of being reunited with Ben Fulton and his family became slimmer and slimmer. At the same time, being fed by friendly army-base cooks and receiving tasty rewards from his acrobatic partners, little by little the formerly skinny Caesar became fatter and fatter.
As Ibrahim and Ahmad had thought, Caesar was a fast learner. Not only did he now dive between the brothers’ legs when they did handstands, he dived on cue across the trampoline and beneath the bouncing Ahmad, ending up with a ball in his mouth. In another part of the act, Ahmad hung Caesar around his neck as he himself balanced on Ibrahim’s shoulders. This was similar to the fireman’s lift that Ben had taught Caesar, and the trick reminded him of Ben every time he performed it.
Caesar never stopped looking for Ben. At every military camp the troupe visited, he always sought Ben in the audience. But foreign troops serving in Afghanistan came from more than forty countries – from Bosnia to Britain, New Zealand to Norway – and none of the provinces that Ibrahim and Ahmad now passed through contained Australian soldiers.
The audience reaction to Caesar was always the same. He was a big hit. At a camp in the northern Kunduz Province, a German major said to Ibrahim and Ahmad, in English, ‘That is a very fine hound you have there.’ And, taking out his wallet, he asked, ‘How much do you want for this hound?’
Ibrahim and Ahmad both shook their heads. ‘This dog is our brother, sir,’ said Ibrahim. ‘He is not for sale.’
‘We would never sell our brother,’ said Ahmad.
In late September, when the autumn arrived, the brothers decided it was time to return to Uruzgan Province. A year had now passed since Caesar had been separated from Ben Fulton in Uruzgan.
By the first week of October, the brothers’ van arrived at a forward operating base in a lonely valley in the northwest of Uruzgan Province. This base was occupied by American troops, including a detachment from the US Rangers, a Special Forces unit. And on the Saturday morning, Caesar and the brothers gave a performance to a small but enthusiastic audience of American soldiers.
One of the Rangers in the audience was Sergeant Tim McHenry. A soldier with twenty years in the US Army, McHenry was a massive man, and as tough as granite. He wore army camouflage, but on his feet were cowboy boots, and a broad black Stetson sat comfortably on his head. The sergeant and his men weren’t even supposed to be here. The previous night, they’d been in a Black Hawk helicopter that had crashed while taking them into the hills on what was supposed to be their final secret mission before their tour in Afghanistan ended. The Rangers, having all survived the crash, had hiked to the FOB to await further orders.
This was Caesar’s best performance to date. Jumping, catching balls, balancing – he was in his element. The audience applauded, cheered and whistled its approval, and Caesar’s tail wagged with pleasure. Following the end of the performance, while Ahmad packed away their trampoline and juggling equipment, Ibrahim led Caesar around the audience, cap in mouth. The soldiers were generous, and Caesar’s cap was close to overflowing with cash when, finally, he came with wagging tail to Sergeant McHenry, who lounged on a pile of ammunition boxes. Urgently, Caesar sniffed the sergeant’s camouflage pants, to see if he could find any trace of Ben on him.
McHenry reached into his pocket for money. ‘A downright clever animal you got yourself there, my friend,’ he said to Ibrahim, speaking in a slow Texan drawl. ‘Where’d you find him?’
‘We did not find this fine animal, sir,’ Ibrahim answered, thinking quickly to concoct a lie that would hide Caesar’s true identity and origin. ‘My brother and I – we raised Intelligent Dog from birth.’
‘Is that right?’ said McHenry. Putting a ten-dollar note in the cap in Caesar’s mouth, McHenry looked down into the labrador’s gleaming brown eyes. And as dog and man gazed at each other, a memory was triggered in the back of the sergeant’s mind. A memory of a report of an Australian Special Forces dog that had gone missing in Uruzgan the previous year. McHenry had heard that, ever since, the Australians had been looking for that dog – a brown labrador, just like this clever dog in front of him. And McHenry wondered if this could be that very dog.
Ibrahim, concerned that the American sergeant might discover the dog’s true identity, tugged on Caesar’s leash. ‘Come, Intelligent Dog.’ But Caesar would not budge.
‘Hold on there, pardner,’ said McHenry. Easing down from the ammunition boxes, the sergeant came to his feet. ‘Hey there, dog …’ He pointed a firm finger at Caesar, who watched his every move. ‘Sit!’
Caesar immediately sat, then looked expectantly up at the American, as if awaiting more instructions.
McHenry smiled. ‘What do you know about that?’ he said to Ibrahim. ‘The dog understands English.’
‘The dog is very obedient, it is true, sir. My brother and myself – we have made it so. It is our dog.’
‘You know what, buddy, I don’t believe you,’ McHenry came back. ‘I’ve never seen a fine labrador retriever like this in the hands of Afghan men. Never in a month of Sundays. The dogs you people usually have are scrawny underfed mongrels. Personally, I think this dog is a missing military dog – an Australian Special Forces dog. I’ve worked with Australian Special Forces. I like those guys. I respect them. There is no finer soldier. And they’ve saved a pile of American lives in this country. Best of all, they are honourable men. It would give me the greatest pleasure to give them back their missing dog.’
Ibrahim looked suddenly anxious. ‘No, no, sir. This is an Afghan dog. A performing Afghan dog.’
Ibrahim hauled on Caesar’s rope, but still Caesar would not budge. He sat with his eyes glued on McHenry. Now Ahmad arrived to join Ibrahim, and he bent to grab the rope at Caesar’s neck and help Ibrahim drag him away. ‘We must go,’ said Ahmad. ‘Come, Intelligent Dog.’
‘Not so fast, the pair of you,’ said McHenry. Casually, he slipped a massive Colt Python six-gun from the finely engraved leather holster on his hip. Using the tip of the revolver’s barrel, he pushed his hat to the back of his head, cowboy style. ‘You’re not taking that dog any place.’
Other Rangers crowded around, preventing the brothers from leaving as, making Ibrahim and Ahmad wait, Sergeant McHenry had a message radioed to headquarters at Tarin Kowt. In that message, the sergeant enquired about the missing Australian military dog. Within half an hour, a reply came back: yes, the Australian Army was still looking for EDD 556 Caesar, after the dog had been separated from its handler, Sergeant Ben Fulton, during combat.
‘Are you Caesar, boy?’ said McHenry, bending closer to the labrador. ‘Are you Ben Fulton’s dog?’
Here, to Caesar, were the magic words – his own name and Ben’s name. He barked once, then wagged his tail so hard that his entire rear end quivered from side to side. Unable to contain himself, he jumped up at McHenry and tried to lick him.
‘Okay, okay, boy,’ said McHenry, grinning as he gave the brown dog an energetic pat. ‘Gentlemen, I think we have the answer to my questions – from the dog itself. This is Caesar, the Australian war dog.’
‘We will sell this dog to you,’ Ibrahim hastily suggeste
d, deciding to try to cut his losses. ‘A thousand dollars, perhaps? This fine and intelligent animal is worth very much more.’
McHenry shook his head. ‘I got a better idea. Why don’t you two brothers just mosey on out of here and I’ll take the dog off your hands.’
Ibrahim and Ahmad looked at each other, as both saw the canine star of their show melting from their grasp and their income vastly reducing overnight. Ibrahim made one last desperate attempt to profit from the impending loss of the clever brown labrador. ‘You pay us five hundred dollars?’ he said to McHenry. When the sergeant’s flat expression didn’t change, Ibrahim smiled weakly, then suggested, ‘Three hundred dollars?’ Still no response. ‘One hundred dollars?’
‘I guess,’ McHenry slowly countered, ‘I could pay you a couple of hundred bucks for the dog. Or, I could have you guys arrested for stealing – this dog just happens to be valuable military property.’
‘No, no, we did not steal this dog!’ Ahmad protested, glancing fearfully at his brother. ‘It attached itself to us. This I swear, sir!’
‘We are innocent of any crime, sir,’ said Ibrahim, suddenly picturing himself behind bars. ‘Please believe us.’
‘Okay. Option three: you both hit the road, without the dog, and I forget I ever saw your sweet, innocent faces. What do you say? Deal?’
Ibrahim and Ahmad needed no more prompting. ‘It is, as you say, sir, a deal,’ said Ibrahim with a resigned sigh.
Letting go of Caesar’s leash, the brothers pocketed the money from the cap, then hurried off. As they reached their van, both turned to cast a sad parting glance Caesar’s way. But Caesar, busy lapping up the attention of Sergeant McHenry and his friendly Rangers, failed to notice the brothers’ departure.
‘We should have sold Intelligent Dog to the German officer in the north, while we had the chance,’ said Ibrahim sourly.
‘It is true,’ Ahmad agreed. ‘The German would have paid us thousands.’
And then the brothers climbed into their van and sped away, glad not to be bound for a prison cell for ‘stealing’ Caesar.
Caesar, meanwhile, was left sitting at the feet of Sergeant McHenry, looking up at him expectantly.
‘Now, Caesar, boy,’ said McHenry, ‘how do we get you back to Sergeant Fulton?’
It was a late night call from Tarin Kowt that brought Ben the news.
‘Sergeant Fulton,’ came Major General Jones’ voice from far away. ‘The US Army has your dog. Caesar has been recovered in Uruzgan.’
The next morning, Ben woke Josh and Maddie with the news. He said that General Jones had also told him that the brown labrador that had been retrieved by the Rangers was on his way to US military vets who would check for a microchip inserted beneath the skin, to confirm his identity. Until that had been done, no official statement would be made to announce that the dog was Caesar. But everyone in the Fulton household knew in their hearts that their Caesar had been found. Nan couldn’t stop smiling. Maddie ran around the house squealing with joy. Josh went straight onto the internet and soon showed his father several blogs from American soldiers talking about a US Rangers’ sergeant who had rescued a missing Australian war dog.
Josh and Maddie were almost too excited to go to school, but nothing would keep them away. Even though Ben asked them not to say anything until it was officially confirmed that the dog in American hands was their Caesar, neither could keep the news to themselves. By lunchtime, between the two of them, they had told their entire school. And, until her teacher heard about it and stopped her, Maddie even sold her classmates tickets for twenty cents each to see Caesar when he came home.
‘Maddie Fulton!’ said her teacher, Miss Brankovic, ‘I’m all in favour of enterprise, young lady, but I’m sure your father did not give his permission for you to sell tickets to your dog’s homecoming. Did he?’
Maddie, standing before the teacher, hung her head. ‘No, Miss Brankovic.’
‘You will give that money back to the other children at once – every last cent!’
Maddie gave the money back.
Later that same day, Ben received a call from Amanda Ritchie, who was waiting on confirmation from the Australian Government that Caesar had been located, before she published a news story about it. Amanda had become so involved in the quest for Caesar’s return she was almost as excited by the turn of events as Ben’s children. Ben also received a call from his delighted member of parliament, Warren Hodges, who had likewise heard the unofficial news and wanted to congratulate Ben.
The commanding officer of the Incident Response Regiment, the following day, officially informed Ben that the check of the brown labrador’s microchip had proven positive. There was now no doubt – the dog retrieved by the US Rangers was definitely Caesar. Ben asked what plans the army had for Caesar now, and was relieved to be told that, even though Ben was now working with Soapy, Caesar would be returned to Ben’s care and would remain with Ben until it was decided whether Caesar was physically and mentally able to return to work.
That evening, Amanda rang again. ‘Ben, I was wondering,’ she began, ‘what are your feelings about your dog’s future? Do you think you’ll eventually be able to take Caesar back on operations?’
‘Well, between you and me, Amanda, off the record,’ Ben responded, ‘my superiors are concerned that after being away from the army for so long, and being in Taliban hands, Caesar might no longer be able to serve as a war dog. If that proves to be the case, Caesar would be sent into honourable retirement.’
‘Who will make that decision about Caesar’s future?’
‘The decision would be jointly mine, after Caesar and I have spent some time together, and the instructors at the EDD school, after they’ve assessed him. But, to be honest, I’m worried that Caesar has been so badly stressed by his ordeal that he won’t even recognise me.’
‘Oh, I’m sure Caesar will recognise you, Ben,’ Amanda assured him, her voice softening.
‘I really hope so, Amanda.’ Ben sounded genuinely concerned. ‘It’s been over a year since he last saw me. Who knows what he’s been through in that time?’
The possibility that Caesar would fail to recognise him was a genuine concern of Ben’s as he prepared for their reunion in Afghanistan. As it happened, the Prime Minister of Australia was in Afghanistan that week, meeting with the Afghan President and visiting Australian troops. The Department of Defence decided it would be a good idea for Caesar to be returned to Ben in front of the Prime Minister at Tarin Kowt, because it would make a great news story.
So, Ben was put on an Air Force Globemaster and flown to the Middle East, then on to Tarin Kowt.
The handover ceremony was to take place in a large aircraft hangar beside the airstrip at Tarin Kowt. Hundreds of Australian and American troops had assembled for the event. Huge Australian and American flags decorated the hangar wall behind a dais where the Prime Minister, the commanding US general in Afghanistan, and Major General Jones stood. A bevy of reporters and press and TV cameramen was arrayed in front of them.
In dress uniform, Ben marched up to the dais, came to rigid attention and snapped the PM and generals a perfect salute. On his chest, Ben wore the orange ribbon of the Medal for Gallantry, which had been presented to him in Canberra months before. The generals returned the salute. The prime minister then stepped forward and shook Ben’s hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Sergeant. I’ve read a lot about you and Caesar. You must be looking forward to getting your lost pooch back?’
‘You can say that again, Prime Minister,’ Ben replied.
A commotion could be heard from the other side of the hangar. Photographers were rushing to snap a brown dog being led in by a sergeant in green US Rangers’ dress uniform and beret. That sergeant was Tim McHenry. Ever since he had recovered the dog from Ibrahim and Ahmad, McHenry had been given the job of looking after Caesar until he was officially handed back to the Australian Army.
The cameramen had been told by the army that they could not show the face
s of either Ben or McHenry. As Special Forces soldiers who sometimes went on undercover missions, their identities had to be protected – for the enemy often read foreign newspapers and watched Western TV, and they might keep a record of their faces if they were shown, to later identify them when they were on a covert mission. Not even their names were released. Officially, Ben was referred to as Sergeant F, and McHenry as Sergeant M.
In contrast, the media was free to show Caesar’s face and broadcast his name. He was the hero of the hour – the Australian military dog who had escaped from Taliban custody and survived in enemy territory for thirteen months. So, cameras flashed and whirred, and within hours his image and the name Caesar would appear on newspaper pages, television and computer screens around the world. This happy ending to the story of the missing war dog had made Caesar an international celebrity.
Ben Fulton’s heart raced as he stood waiting, hoping that Caesar would recognise him. A hundred metres away, circled by a crowd, Sergeant McHenry came to attention. Beside him stood the brown labrador, on a metal leash. ‘Caesar, sit!’ McHenry commanded.
The labrador promptly sat at McHenry’s side. The dog’s eyes were scanning the cameramen as they pointed their cameras at him, and taking in the look and scent of the Australian and American soldiers who had crowded around to take a look at him. McHenry now bent and unfastened the leash from the new collar that US Army veterinarians had provided the dog with days earlier. McHenry then came to attention once more. An expectant hush fell over the hangar.
‘Go ahead, Sergeant F,’ said the American general to Ben. ‘Call your dog.’
Nervously, Ben cleared his throat, then called loudly, ‘Caesar, come! Come to Ben!’
The labrador’s ears shot up. Urgently, he scanned the people in front of him. But soldiers and media men and women blocked his view of the owner of that voice.
‘Clear a space there!’ the American general ordered, and the spectators moved back.
‘Caesar, come!’ Ben called again.
Now the dog saw Ben. And Ben saw the dog. Ben had been concerned that Caesar would have lost a lot of weight in Taliban hands. But the brown labrador across the hangar was, if anything, overweight. And he was not responding to Ben’s call. The dog just sat there, gazing blankly at him, as if dazzled by all the attention. Momentarily, Ben was gripped by a dread that there had been a mistake, and that this was not Caesar after all. Yet it did look like him. It had to be him! Now Ben was revisited by his old fear – that Caesar no longer recognised him.
Caesar the War Dog Page 18