Dog Soldiers: Part 1 of 3: Love, loyalty and sacrifice on the front line

Dog Soldiers: Part 1 of 3: Love, loyalty and sacrifice on the front line Isabel George Dog Soldiers can either be read as a full-length eBook or in 3 serialised eBook-only parts.This is PART 1 of 3.Dog Soldiers tells the story of two brave young ‘dog soldiers’ (Army bomb dog handlers), killed in action in Afghanistan with their dogs by their side, through the inspirational words of their mothers.Lance Corporal Kenneth Rowe and Lance Corporal Liam Tasker were both dog lovers from boyhood and went on to do the job they had always wanted to do. Through the soldiers’ mothers – Lyn Rowe and Jane Duffy – the book will take the reader on a journey and a celebration of the young men’s lives that begins with the two young boys growing up and fulfilling their dream to serve Queen and country as Army dog handlers – Ken Rowe with his dog, Sasha, and Liam Tasker with his canine partner, Theo. Both mothers acknowledge that their sons signed up to do the job they loved best and fell with their loyal and trusted best friend beside them.Jane Duffy said of her son, Liam Tasker: ‘I know my son died doing the job he loved. And he loved that dog as I loved my son, with every ounce of his being. To lose Liam was and still is unbearable. But for Liam to have survived without Theo? Unthinkable.’ (#u9f036e9c-c6c6-56b5-843e-f33e6175813b) Copyright (#u9f036e9c-c6c6-56b5-843e-f33e6175813b) HarperElement An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published by HarperElement 2016 FIRST EDITION © Isabel George 2016 Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016 Front cover photographs (soldier) © Crown 2016, Ministry of Defence, published with kind permission of the family of Lance Corporal Liam Tasker. All other images © Shutterstock.com A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library Isabel George asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. Find out about HarperCollins and the environment at www.harpercollins.co.uk/green (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/green) Source ISBN: 9780008148065 Ebook Edition © January 2016 ISBN: 9780008154363 Version: 2015-11-26 Contents Cover (#ub352b33c-5afb-50cc-93f6-2ec289227b52) Title Page (#ulink_c0954970-544b-5bd5-88ac-5004205ac168) Copyright (#ulink_2ec84a9c-1387-524d-8842-109155fd759a) Timeline (#ulink_e4509096-7f4f-5229-8418-f178de36819c) Introduction (#ulink_e99c7b82-2ff0-50a5-b932-84c88495664e) 1 Please God, look after him … (#ulink_b4c9247c-9e9b-560e-b0ae-4b375dbafea4) 2 Man down! (#litres_trial_promo) 3 For Queen and country – The Troubles (#litres_trial_promo) 4 The dogs of war – deployment to Afghanistan (#litres_trial_promo) 5 Sasha enters the theatre (#litres_trial_promo) 6 Home – RAF Lyneham (#litres_trial_promo) Moving Memoirs eNewsletter (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Timeline (#u9f036e9c-c6c6-56b5-843e-f33e6175813b) Northern Ireland border, Clogher, County Tyrone, 23 July 1973 Corporal Bryan Criddle RAVC was injured when an IRA bomb, hidden in a milk churn, was detonated remotely. He died due to head injuries four days later. His dog, Jason, was blown 30 feet in the air but survived. Northern Ireland, Kilkeel, 28 May 1986 Corporal Brian Brown QGM from Ballynahinch was a member of 3 UDR (Ulster Defence Regiment) and had been awarded the Queen’s Gallantry Medal for his service in Northern Ireland. He lost his life on 28 May 1986 when a bomb exploded at a garage in Kilkeel. Oliver, his search dog, was also killed in the blast. The ashes of the faithful Yellow Labrador were buried with his master. Northern Ireland, Crossmaglen, 21 May 1988 Corporal Derek Hayes of the Royal Pioneer Corps died with his Army search dog, Ben, when an IRA booby trap bomb exploded. Cpl Hayes and Ben were on patrol in Crossmaglen when they were asked to investigate a partly hidden box in a ditch but as they approached the device exploded, killing them both. The ashes of the faithful Yellow Labrador were buried alongside the soldier. Northern Ireland, Belfast, 25 May 1991 Corporal Terry ‘Geordie’ O’Neill was the victim of a ‘coffee-jar’ bomb (Semtex, nails, bolts and ball bearings). He was killed instantly. Darren ‘Swifty’ Swift, his fellow handler, standing alongside him, lost both legs in the attack, which took place as the two soldiers exercised their dogs in the yard of the Army Dog Unit. Several dogs were injured in the blast, including Geordie’s dog, Blue, and Swifty’s dog, Troy. Four dog soldiers lost their lives during The Troubles in Northern Ireland, between 1973 and 1991. The conflict in Afghanistan was to claim the next man and dog. Introduction (#u9f036e9c-c6c6-56b5-843e-f33e6175813b) As you made your way to the kennels at Camp Bastion it’s said you could hear, from metres away, the dogs preparing their noisy welcome. Your walk would take you past innumerable dust-covered vehicles, and around you men and women in desert fatigues moved with constant purpose as life played out on the British Forces base in Afghanistan. In among these scenes of everyday life stood memorials to the fallen – like markers among the living. Sand-coloured walls of Remembrance and glistening brass crosses rose defiant against the Afghan sky, bearing the names of the mighty and the brave: the men, women and dogs killed in action since the conflict began in 2001. The memorial to the fallen dog soldiers wasn’t easy to miss: it wasn’t meant to be. And it wasn’t hewn from traditional cold stone or rock. The lovingly carved wooden paw linked with metal chains was created by members of the RAVC (Royal Army Veterinary Corps) in honour of their own. It bore the names of two brave young soldiers and their loyal bomb dogs: Lance Corporal Kenneth Rowe and his dog Sasha, and Lance Corporal Liam Tasker and his dog Theo. The men and their dogs died in the line of fire. The RAVC lost two men and dogs, and two mothers lost their sons. The two boys grew up with a love of animals – especially dogs – and a desire to not just do a job but enjoy their chosen career. To them, life was too precious to waste on doing something that meant nothing. They were lucky, as they both had the support of their families, and when the RAVC became their second home it was a choice their mothers understood. The love of dogs was in their blood, an echo from childhood, and it had found its way through again. And for both mothers there was one massive comfort: their sons would never be lonely with a dog at their side. Kenneth and Liam didn’t need to be told that working with dogs is never a walk in the park, but for them the job was a joy. The series of protection dogs, and then the bomb dogs, all left their mark – some more permanent than others. In whatever discipline they were working both men stood out from the pack as natural handlers. Their skills were noted by their superiors and they were the ones to watch as rising stars. Both had a way with dogs and were good with people, and, more than that, they were dedicated to the Corps and all it stood for. No one could have been more proud of their sons than Lyn Rowe and Jane Duffy. To see their boys happy and doing the job they loved was about as much as a mum could wish for. The two young men had found their true vocation. Now all their mothers could do was sit back and watch their sons’ lives play out. A soldier signs up to serve their country, every family knows that, and for these two young military dog handlers the call came to deploy to Afghanistan. For Kenneth and Liam Operation Herrick meant working on the front line, every second putting their life on the line and in the care of the dog at their side. For the family serving at home it meant reliance on letters, emails and the odd phone call. These they clung to for confirmation that their loved one was still alive. But for Lyn and Jane the flurry of blueys, care parcels, dog treats and crossing dates on the calendar suddenly came to an end. Lance Corporal Kenneth Rowe and military working dog Sasha were killed in action on 24 July 2008. Lance Corporal Liam Tasker was killed in action on 1 March 2011 and his military working dog Theo died of a seizure just hours later. Their names appear together on the memorial to Afghanistan’s fallen dog soldiers. Soldiers first, dog lovers always. Soldier and dog bound for life and beyond. Mothers, Lyn and Jane, still feel the loss and miss the life occupied by their brave boys, but they are proud of their sons and that they did their job, served their country and made the ultimate sacrifice. Knowing they didn’t die alone, their tears are broken with some small comfort that their sons fell with their best friend at their side. Maybe the warm desert air still echoes with the names of these young men and their dogs, Sasha and Theo, and their ghosts still drift along the ripples in the sand side by side as they lived and died so far from home. Isabel George, September 2015 Chapter 1 Please God, look after him … (#u9f036e9c-c6c6-56b5-843e-f33e6175813b) Newcastle-upon-Tyne: 1.50am, Friday 25 July 2008 Lyn Rowe stirred to the glare of headlights at the bedroom window. Transfixed by the light and the silence she flinched at the ‘clunk’ of the car door and the tip-tap of footsteps on the drive, but in that moment Lyn already knew this wasn’t the neighbours returning late or a stranger who had taken a wrong turning. Lyn was halfway down the stairs when she heard the doorbell. Caught in a frightening wave of certainty she had no doubt that the dark-suited figure standing at her front door was the messenger she prayed would never visit her family. ‘Mrs Rowe? Can I come in please?’ The man held his ID card against the window by the door. ‘No, you can’t come in!’ Lyn found her voice as she felt her husband’s arm around her. ‘I can’t let you in because I know what you’re going to tell me.’ K, the family’s dog, was barking like mad as the caller tried again: ‘I need to speak to you, Mrs Rowe.’ All five foot two inches of Lyn Rowe was now barring the door. ‘Now why would I let you into my house when I know what you are going to say to us? No, go away!’ Ken Rowe stepped forward, standing tall between his wife and the door. ‘Mr Rowe,’ the messenger persisted, ‘can you please ask your wife to open the door?’ LYN We must have stood in the hall a good few minutes looking through the glass porch at the man waiting. I knew that if I let him into our home my world would change and I was prepared to stand there forever if it meant never having to hear the words he had come to say. All the time we stood there I felt as if my feet had been bolted to the floor, but the moment Ken pulled me closer I knew the wait was over. He loosened his grip on my arm and leant out to open the door. ‘Mr and Mrs Rowe, I’m sorry for the early hour but I need to speak with you. Can I come in?’ I didn’t have a chance to say no again as the man took advantage of the open door, as I knew he would. I couldn’t move. I was transfixed by his boots as he wiped them on the mat and Ken showed him into the lounge. I only remember flashes of what happened next but I know he asked us to sit down, but I took the news standing up. ‘We’ve received news that concerns your son, Kenneth. He was on duty in Helmand Province with B Company 2nd Battalion Parachute Regiment (2 Para) when they came under heavy attack from a group of insurgents armed with rocket-propelled grenades. Kenneth took a direct hit and his dog, Sasha, too. They were killed instantly. They fell together, Mrs Rowe. Kenneth didn’t die alone.’ A silence overpowered the room. The dog stopped barking. There’s still a sense of the surreal about that morning. It’s not because of what was said to me, because I knew what that would be from the first flash of the car headlights, but maybe it’s more to do with the short time it took for it to be explained. In less than an hour I had lost my son. He was 24 years old. Kenneth (I always call him Kenneth as his father is Ken) was a soldier who loved dogs and died doing the job he loved. I knew that if there was any way by which he would have wanted to leave us forever it would have been doing his duty as a Military Working Dog handler. It was the job he wanted to do and the one he signed up for. And to have his search dog, Sasha, at his side at the end, well, maybe he would have been characteristically … proud. Proud to have been doing his duty to the last second of his life. Of course, none of that came into my head that July morning in 2008. I’ve since been told that what happened next was done in shock and denial, and maybe that’s right. One thing I’m sure of is that Kenneth would have been surprised if I had behaved in any other way. ‘So how long do I have to tell the family?’ I remember asking the man from the MoD. ‘We have a large family and I want them to hear this news from me, not the BBC. How long?’ He told me we had until late morning, latest, as Kenneth’s death would be announced on the BBC lunchtime news. And he needed a photograph of my son, if that was all right. It was still only 3am but by then time was irrelevant. I am one of six children and Ken had his mother and two sisters to reach, so with nephews, nieces and cousins on top of that it was pretty much a race against time. He kindly asked if there was anything he could do to help. I hope he saw that I was already making a list in my head of people I needed to speak to, and as soon as he left I started transferring my thoughts to paper. I decided it was too early to start calling people, even family – after all, it was the kind of news that could wait until everyone else’s day had begun. Nothing was going to change the news or make it any better, but at least I could make a list of who needed to know. I decided that 6am would be a good time to start making the rounds. But what about work? As Practice Manager for a large legal firm in Newcastle I always had plenty on my plate. All my friends and colleagues know I’m a workaholic, but at that particular time I was right in the middle of an audit that would achieve a European standard for all the offices in the firm. The audit was nearly over and there was no way I was going to walk out and let everyone down. I told myself that I was going to complete it and cope. I filled two pages of A4 notepaper with instructions for the team. Every detail of all they had to do to complete the audit and achieve the accreditation was there. It was still only 5.30am but I decided that it was best to deliver the notes and the files I had with me to the office so they would be there when it opened. Ken drove while I thought back over what I’d written, but when we arrived I realised that I couldn’t get into the main building without setting off the full alarm system. Thankfully I had access to the garage so we stacked the boxes of files in there and put the notes on top. I knew I could explain anything else when I phoned my boss later. That was work done. Sorted. Now, my family. It was still only 6.10am. Then it hit me, my beautiful girls. I had to tell them they had lost their brother. Dear God – was this some kind of nightmare? When we arrived at Jennifer’s house I sat in the car for a minute or so to get myself together before Ken took my hand to help me out of the car. I will never forget Jeni’s face when she opened the door; she knew something was very wrong and I’m not sure that it really registered when I finally uttered the words: ‘Kenneth’s been killed …’ She took the news reasonably well. Probably in shock, I realise that now. We hugged like we would never let each other go. Ken held us both. Our rock. Our protector. But even this was beyond him. We couldn’t bear to leave Jeni behind so she came with us to Stephanie’s home, just a short distance away. It’s still a comfort to know they live so close to each other and that morning I was especially relieved as Steph took it very badly. Kenneth was her big brother and watched over her. Yes, he could be more than over-protective, but it was all part of his love for his little sister. Now he was gone. I hated seeing my girls in tears. I would have given anything to just get them together and hide away from the world, but the burden of having to reach the rest of the family within the next four hours was weighing heavy on me now. I’m the second child in a family of six and I’m half Chinese. My father was in the Royal Signals and met my mother when he was stationed in Hong Kong. They met, fell in love, and when my father’s tour of duty ended he brought his Chinese bride back to Newcastle. I’m sure it was quite a culture shock for her – 1950s Newcastle was dark and industrial and a far cry from the vibe and colour of Hong Kong. Nevertheless, despite the influences around her she brought up her family in line with her strong Chinese ethos. The family bond was close and unbreakable and family always came first. In Chinese families you go by your number in the family: number 1 child, number 2 child, etc, and even then the boys take the lead followed by the girls. So, it was natural to me to put the number system into play when deciding who to inform first. My elder sister, Jann, took the news well, although she was clearly upset. My sister Lesley was inconsolable and crumpled on receiving the news. I said to her: ‘Please don’t do this to me!’ I was finding it hard to keep myself together and strong enough to get around everyone so all we could do was bundle her into the car and take her with us. The impact on my brothers, Martin and Gary, was excruciating to watch. They loved Kenneth like a son and now they had the pain of telling their own children that he had been killed. There was only my ‘baby sis’ Michelle left to tell then, and I was dreading it. I was so glad that Lesley was with us and could help us to comfort her because as we stood together the grief was palpable. But I could not let it take me yet. My job wasn’t finished. Ken’s mother was on holiday so his two sisters had the dreadful job of telling her when she returned. We did not want her holiday spoilt as she could not change anything – no one could. At 9am on the dot I called my boss at work. ‘Hi Stephen, it’s Lyn. I’ve got some bad news. Kenneth has died. He’s been killed in Afghanistan.’ There was silence on the end of the phone and then he said: ‘Oh my God. What are you doing ringing me?’ I remember telling him to please be quiet and I needed to talk to him about the audit. I also recall his reply: ‘Forget the audit! What about you? I’m happy to cancel the audit. Just tell me what we can do to help you?’ There was only one answer to that – carry on with the audit. I hadn’t done all that work to have them pull out now, especially as I had spent over an hour sorting the files and the notes. It was still my responsibility and I was not going to be the excuse that let the whole team down. I made Stephen promise that it would go ahead. Then everything went blank. From the moment the messenger from the MoD left our home that morning I think the bulk of my sadness found a place to hide inside me. I couldn’t give in to it until all the practical things had been ticked off the list. I’m sure I listened to all the man had to say (though, for the life of me, I can’t remember much at all). I’m sure I probably thanked him for coming and for his patience and for his offer of help and his advice. In the silent moments after Ken showed the man out I no doubt thought what a horrid job that must be to have to visit parents in the dead of night and give them the worst news they could ever imagine. I wondered how he must feel now, driving back to wherever. I’m sure he breathed a sigh of relief as soon as he sat back in the car and told himself that he never wanted to do that again – knowing that he would have to, sooner or later. I didn’t blame him – it wasn’t his fault – but he had opened a portal direct to hell, and for me there was no way out. I cried, of course I cried, but I didn’t fall apart – not then. The funny thing was, I had felt odd all that previous day. I had been on day three of the four-day audit and I was driving back from the Carlisle office when I heard a loud ‘boom’. I was on the A69 at about 5.30pm so I wondered if I had kicked something up off the road that had hit the car, or perhaps that someone behind me had experienced a tyre blow-out or a mechanical problem. I couldn’t see anything and my car was still driving OK, so I carried on. I just wanted to get home. It had been a long day and I blamed that for the ‘low’ feeling and whatever it was that was making me feel ‘not right’. The journey had not been too painful but I was glad to swing the car onto the drive and turn off the ignition. Home. Ken was already there, which meant the evening meal would be on the go and a pot of tea at the ready. That realisation would usually be enough to ease my stress level and calm me down but that odd feeling was still in the pit of my stomach and I didn’t like it at all. As I kicked off my shoes in the hall I noticed something that made me feel worse: the white orchid that Kenneth had given me for Mother’s Day had dropped a bloom. Not only that but the leaves were turning brown and some had already fallen. I accept that house plants die and orchids are particularly fragile – I should know as I love them and had kept them for years – but the thing about this particular orchid was that it had flowered so well and for so long. Kenneth had had to give it to me well in advance of Mother’s Day as he knew he would be in Afghanistan in March. Everyone who’d seen it had remarked on its beauty and staying power. I stood looking at it for a few minutes and felt quite sick. I took it as a sign of change and from that moment I felt restless. I was tired that night but I couldn’t sleep. I should have been ready for bed and some good refreshing sleep but all I could manage was lots of tossing and turning. Even when I dozed off I was awake in minutes, with my head spinning. It was then that I saw the headlights at the bedroom window. ‘This is the lunchtime news from the BBC: ‘The Army dog handler killed in Afghanistan on Thursday has been named by the Ministry of Defence. Lance Corporal Kenneth Michael Rowe, of the Royal Army Veterinary Corps, who was 24, and from Newcastle, had been due to leave the front line the day before he died. He and his explosives search dog, Sasha, died after coming under Taliban fire during a routine patrol in Helmand. Lance Corporal Rowe had asked not to leave on Wednesday as he worried about his base not having enough search cover. The death brings the total number of British service personnel who have died in Afghanistan to 112. ‘Lance Corporal Rowe’s commanding officer, Major Stuart McDonald, said, “This unselfish action epitomises his professionalism and dedication to his job. I feel lucky to have known him and gutted to have to say goodbye.” ‘Kenneth Rowe and his dog Sasha were the first Royal Army Veterinary Corps dog and handler to be killed in action since The Troubles in Northern Ireland.’ So it was real. I remember, we were standing in the kitchen with my brother, Gary, when I heard Kenneth’s name on the television. There on the screen was the photograph of my son in his dress uniform. The photograph that, until a few hours before, had been hanging, in its frame, on the stairs. My handsome son. My beautiful boy. That was the moment when I let go. If someone asked me to tell them exactly what happened next I would have only one answer – I’ve no idea. I had motored through the previous ten hours on auto-pilot, with a huge heap of denial thrown in, but when reality was eventually allowed in it took over. My sister Lesley came over and decided I needed tranquillisers to calm me down, but I didn’t want to leave the house and the medication couldn’t be prescribed over the telephone so, bizarrely, I found myself sitting in the doctor’s waiting room in floods of tears. There I was, patiently waiting for my appointment and wondering what on earth I was doing there! I’m sure the pills worked, taking the edge off whatever I was feeling, but I don’t think anything could have taken away the anger that rose inside me when the press started knocking on the door. Waves of well-meaning neighbours at the door was one thing, but having the media parked outside on the lawn was something else. We are very close and keep everything within our family unit – we solve our own problems together – but suddenly the BBC News had exposed our loss, our soft underbelly, and we felt vulnerable. Ken and my brothers dealt with the press on the doorstep. A simple ‘leave us alone’ seemed to work effectively, at least on the decent ones. Me? I just wanted it all to go away. The awful thing is, just hours before our nightmare began, Kenneth was supposed to be on his way home to us. The day I drove to Carlisle for the audit Kenneth emailed me at 6am: ‘Hi, Mam. Who will be picking me up and what time?’ I remember saying: ‘Don’t worry about that, son, you just get yourself home. It’ll be me or your dad. I’m off to work now so I’ll ask your dad to call you back later to let you know who will be there for you.’ That was it. I had visions of Kenneth finishing his duties at Bastion then packing and getting ready to catch the next Helmand Taxi (as they called the Chinook) out to start his journey to RAF Brize Norton where the military aircraft landed and … home. Friday was to be the last day of my audit, which was great because, once I had thought about the timings, I knew that I would be able to be with Ken when he drove down to Brize to pick up Kenneth. I wanted to see our son so much. This was July and I hadn’t seen him since the Deployment Party in February. Kenneth had enjoyed being with his mates and his family and it was great to meet the people he would be spending the next few months with in Afghanistan. They would be his ‘family’ until he came home again and they had seemed a great bunch of lads. I will never forget what Kenneth was wearing that night – a salmon-pink T-shirt. It wasn’t my cup of tea and he probably knew that. It was funny to me because Kenneth was always so smart; he thought about everything he wore and his thick dark brown hair was always gelled into place. He had told me that a lot of his Army friends had thought he had Mediterranean blood but he always said he was proud to tell them that his dark hair and olive complexion were thanks to his half-Hong Kong Chinese mother. I liked that. The morning after the party there he was at breakfast – in the same T-shirt. I had to ask him if he had anything else to wear, which he knew I would at some point. But of course he was travelling light and was meeting friends later so I understood when he said, ‘Sorry, Mam, this is all I’ve got, but you won’t forget it, will you?’ It’s true, that shirt made a lasting impression on me. I sometimes forgot that he was 24 years old, but then he was always ready to remind me that he was no longer my little boy. It was one of those mornings when we knew we would have to say goodbye to Kenneth later and I was keen to have some breakfast with him before he announced that he needed to be somewhere else to meet his friends. ‘What do you want for breakfast, son?’ his dad asked, as he was probably ready for something himself. The expected answer came back: McDonald’s. It wouldn’t have been everyone’s choice but it was always going to be Kenneth’s, especially as he knew he wouldn’t be tasting anything like that for a few months. At breakfast I discovered that it’s difficult to eat when your throat is so tight you can hardly breathe, and then all too soon the moment had come – breakfast was over and the goodbyes had to begin. Kenneth hugged all the family, then his dad and then me. ‘I love you, son,’ I said. He hugged me back. ‘I’ll write as often as I can and send parcels. Let us know if you need anything,’ I continued. He started to cry. ‘Now stop it or you’ll start me off,’ I scolded him. His hug tightened. ‘I just want you to know that I love you, Mam.’ I’m not sure if that last hug was tighter than normal or that’s a trick my mind has played on my memory of that morning since then, but if I think about that moment I can still feel Kenneth’s arms around me. ‘Now just don’t be stupid and volunteer for anything’ I said. ‘Promise me you won’t volunteer and you won’t put yourself up front. Promise me, Kenneth.’ I remember him walking away saying: ‘Right, Mam. OK, Mam …’ But as I watched him from behind I saw him drying tears, first with one hand then the next. My beautiful brown-eyed boy in his salmon-pink T-shirt. It’s my lasting memory of him. Of course, after that our contact was down to the usual and very welcome flurry of ‘blueys’. Those pale-blue airmail paper letters are still a lifeline in Forces’ families. I’m sure none of us knows what we would do without them. The emails and the phone calls are great – as long as they can be sent and received. As Kenneth said when he was in Afghan, ‘Emails … can’t get them in the desert. Still waiting on that terminal you plug into the sand!’ Letters were always precious and there was a massive comfort in seeing a bluey drop onto the mat. Kenneth’s spelling was atrocious and he knew it. But it didn’t matter one bit because, to me, receiving a bluey meant he was alive, able to write a letter and thinking of home. Parcels and letters to Kenneth often arrived around five days after sending and some wandered around following ‘the dog handler’ as he moved between camps, including the main base, Camp Bastion, and the various Forward Operating Bases (FOBs). But there was never any doubt that the post would be delivered to him somewhere and sometime. Every letter was a window into our son’s world in Afghanistan and every anecdote came with a handful of sand. I remember in one of his letters he told his dad about how he had to ‘dig in’ to protect himself and the bomb dog he was working with then, Diesel, against yet another biting sandstorm. He had told us before how, after the blistering heat of the day, the storms blew in fiercely during the night ‘… like a blanket of sand hitting you for about six hours non-stop. We woke up looking like something from f…ing Kentucky Fried Chicken!’ Kenneth was deployed on Operation Herrick 8 in March 2008 and whenever I read and re-read the letters, just to have him with me for a second, I realised that while I was here missing him he was there but always reaching out to home. If there was one thing Kenneth always made sure of, wherever he was, it was that we had his address. There were few letters that didn’t contain a shopping list but I soon realised that a shopping list was a way of guaranteeing that there would be a parcel to look forward to. Sweets, biscuits, baby wipes, boxers and … socks. I have no idea how many pairs of socks I sent to Afghanistan but then I had no real idea how important something as simple as a pair of socks could be out there. ‘Socks. Oh my God, socks. They are a f…ing life-saver, Mam. Pardon the language, like, but my feet might get some feeling in them now. Imagine 35–40 degree heat walking around the pissing desert for six hours at a time. ‘Tell Dad I got to throw my first live grenade the other day. Mint! Absolutely mint! I’ll tell you about it when I’m home. Ha! Ha! Ain’t had chance to let my rifle do any work yet but hey there’s 5? months to go.’ Looking back, knowing what I know now, I still understand my son’s excitement because this was what he wanted to do. This is what he had trained so hard for, and there he was, in his words, ‘living the dream’. And of course the dream job came with a dog. It must have been in his second bluey home that Kenneth told us that he had been taken off protection work and had, at last, been assigned an arms and explosives search (AES) dog called Diesel. ‘I haven’t got a complaint about him at all apart from he loves other dogs too much. I’ll have to watch that when we’re working coz the local dogs will kill him if he gets too close. What else can I tell you except, don’t worry … If anything was to happen to me you would be notified quickly enough. They would either ring your mobile or home. Not going to happen.’ Every letter after that was signed off not just by Kenneth but with love from Diesel, too – never forgetting the mini paw print. My son was happy and so was I because now, wherever he was, he would not be alone. Through March and into April Kenneth was in Afghanistan but his letters betrayed that his mind was still at home. He had to post his mobile phone back to me and of course there was a bill to pay. I could tell that bit of admin was worrying him, and so for the same reason he authorised me to deal with all his post that came to him at our home. I didn’t mind, after all, as there was little he could do about all that from where he was. Trying to deal with a call centre from the comfort of your own home is frustrating enough but it’s near impossible when you have to book telephone and internet time at Camp Bastion on equipment that’s shared with several hundred other people. Besides, I liked to feel needed. That was normal, as a mum. I was already missing Kenneth’s constant cries of, ‘Mam, could you just … Mam, while you’re in town could you pick me up some …’ There was always something he wanted me to get for him, even when he was home. I’m not just saying this because he was my son, but he was a good-looking boy and he liked to look smart even when he was in casual clothes, which included his beloved Newcastle United football shirt. Kenneth liked specific toiletries so his shopping list would be pretty detailed and he wouldn’t be seen out of the house without hair gel. His sisters were always complaining that he spent too long in the bathroom and it was a family joke that if you didn’t make it into the shower before Kenneth you would be waiting forever! It was no surprise to any of us that his blueys almost always contained some kind of shopping list. It made me smile thinking of him sitting on his camp cot in the desert, paper resting on his knees – just as he did as a boy doing his homework – pen poised ready to scribble down all the things he had been saving in his head. April 2008, his first bluey after just being posted to Camp Roberts at Kandahar Airfield said: ‘Hi Parents … How are we today? I’ve been good since the last time we spoke and fully integrated with my battle group. That sounds quite scary really, “battle group”. Ha, ha. Me going into battle is probably never going to happen and I’ll never get a chance to get some rounds off as the Platoon I’m with will do all that for me. It would be an experience, I reckon, and nice to see how I would cope with it after all the training. Be good to kick in and really enjoy it. Diesel is doing well. He’s chasing flies at the moment in the living room at the kennels I’m staying at … My new address means you won’t have to send stuff through Bastion anymore so you can get things to me a lot easier. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/isabel-george/dog-soldiers-part-1-of-3-love-loyalty-and-sacrifice-on-the-f/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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