Prince of Afghanistan Page 3

  He threw the ball again and again but Prince didn’t tire of the game; because that’s what he liked – the very unpredictability of the bounce. After driving all over Sydney, Casey eventually found what he was after in a joke shop: a square vulcanised ball. The random bounce fascinated Prince and his work ethic returned.

  At the end of a training exercise he’d rush up to Casey and sit, panting and drooling with excitement. Casey would tease him by tossing the ball from hand to hand and Prince’s eyes would flick back and forth, as if watching a tennis game, until he was almost beside himself with excitement. Then Casey would throw it as far and high as possible and off Prince would go, careening across the paddock, chasing after the ball.

  I had seen Prince jump after the bouncing square ball, and suddenly rotate in mid-air as the ball shot off on a tangent he hadn’t predicted. It was as if time stopped and Prince and the ball were stuck in an eternal moment, like a photograph. His body, twisting and turning in the air, his eager mouth wide open, was an expression of … well, the only word is joy.

  By the time I arrived in Afghanistan the bond between man and dog was as strong as any human relationship I had ever seen. Casey and Prince were hardly out of each other’s sight. It was as if they were an extension of each other and both knew that what they were doing in Afghanistan was a matter of life and death. You must always trust the dog. Always, Casey would tell me. A dog is going to be right more times than you are.

  He noticed everything about Prince; any signs of fleas, skin problems, even his teeth. Everyone who met Prince commented on his eyes, the colour of black opal; they revealed nothing of what he was thinking and only reflected the curious human face staring at them. But Casey was convinced, despite my teasing, that sometimes when the sun shone at a certain angle, he could look beneath the black film and see that the eyes were really a bright blue. When I saw the blue I realised I was looking into his soul, he said. Another time I would have made a crack about how silly the idea was of a dog having a soul, but I knew that I couldn’t because it would be like me making fun of someone’s religion.

  And yet, despite being trained as an assault dog Prince was a gentle creature. Even when he attacked someone, he did it with what I can only call a sense of professionalism. He may have sounded savage but his emotions were under control and Casey could easily command him to stop. The only time Prince had, as Casey said, lost it, was when an Afghan spat in the dog’s face. For some reason – maybe because it reminded him of something that had happened when he was a pup before he was sent to the pound – the spittle on his face drove him crazy and he leapt at the Afghan’s throat, wanting to kill him, only for Casey to pull him back on the leash. He’s a Prince, and royalty don’t like to be spat on, he said proudly.

  I look at Prince’s eyes. They are as inscrutable and mysterious as ever. Well, boyo, I say as I pat him, those black eyes are worthy of the name ‘The Black Prince’. I make soothing noises as I stroke him. He stares directly at me with a slight tilt of the head as if he is puzzled greatly about something. Just what does he make of his deafness? Is he even aware he can’t hear?

  3

  When I wake up I flinch, startled to see those two black eyes, a handspan from my face, peering down at me. Prince is sniffing me loudly as if he is trying to figure out whether I’m dead or not. Despite the sharp rocks I fell asleep.

  It’s nearing dusk. Soon it will be time to set out. Prince limps over to the creek and gulps down more water. His sprain bothers me. Just how bad is it? We’ll be walking for several days, maybe up to a week if we have to make detours. Is he capable of making it back with me? How much of a burden will he be on our way back to base?

  Apart from the spitting episode, I’ve only seen him lose his cool once. We were on patrol near a marsh when we were ordered to investigate a track near a herd of cows. There were suspicions it could be mined. Prince was working, free of the leash, some twenty metres from Casey. He stopped when a cow strolled across in front of him. He was staring at it when there was a thud that shook the ground and a landmine blew the cow apart, scattering it in all directions, so that pieces of it flew past, just missing me. Casey ran forward, calling to Prince, who was half swimming, half running through the marsh, but the dog didn’t hear. Casey ran into the water and struggled through the mud and rushes to him, until Prince finally stopped on hearing his name being called. I laughed when they came out of the marsh, muddy and wet, and both with what can only be described as embarrassed expressions, as if they had let each other down.

  What will happen if Prince becomes spooked again? Even if he trusts me, he won’t hear if I call him because he is deaf.

  He finishes drinking water and comes up to me. I scratch his throat, which is still dyed black, and he closes his eyes in pleasure. Now, boy, I say, it’s all right. We’re going to be all right. I know he can’t hear me but hope he understands me just by my touch.

  The forest has darkened and through the spiky treetops I can see the first evening stars. It’s time to go. I examine what is left of the rations in my field pack: a tiny block of barbecued beef, three pieces of dried chicken, a few slices of cheddar cheese, tea bags, matches and chewing gum. It will have to do until we find food over the next couple of days. I bury my body armour. It’s useless as protection now and it’d be too heavy to wear on our trek back through enemy territory. I pick up my rifle. My heart starts to pound as it does whenever I run out onto the football ground for the start of a game. Come on, Prince, I say, tapping him on the back of the neck, time to get cracking.

  I walk off towards the edge of the forest, only to sense that I am alone. I look back and see Prince attempting to follow me, but he is limping badly. I don’t know what to do. He’s going to slow me down something awful. It’ll be hard enough for me to get back, let alone with such a liability. If I leave him here, the locals will either kill him or mistreat him – they don’t like dogs. I sigh with exasperation. If he can’t come with me, then I will have to shoot him. But I can’t do that; Casey would stop at nothing to bring his dog back home with him, and I have to do the same.

  His right leg is raised so it doesn’t touch the ground. It must be very sore. There’s only one thing I can do – and he must trust me even if it hurts. I get down on one knee. Now, boy, this is going to hurt. I gently run my hands up and down either side of his sprained leg. He shudders. But the good thing is that he doesn’t move away. I rub the leg again, becoming more vigorous. Prince blinks in pain. I’m trying to warm the stiff muscles, as trainers do with me when I play football. I continue the massage and Prince blinks less often.

  I work on it for half an hour and then get him to walk in circles until he gradually becomes confident about putting weight on the leg. I pat him on the head. Let’s do it, Black Prince, I say, and set off. He doesn’t follow but sits in the same spot. I turn back. He seems confused. Come on, I say, patting my thigh as I saw Casey do when he wanted Prince to come to him. Finally he stands up and comes to me, nuzzling my hand with his moist nose. Good boy, time to hit the road.

  4

  We walk out of the forest and head down a grassy slope. We will follow the green zone – the farming land that follows the rivers and streams. The massage has worked, Prince seems to be able to put his weight on his leg and the prancing style of his stride has returned.

  I can see the twinkling lights of a village. We are a long way from it, but I have to be extra careful and I stop occasionally to listen for unusual sounds. There are owls and the howling of distant wolves but no sounds of humans. The waxing moon is bright and I try to move through the shadows as much as I can.

  The slope becomes a plain and my nose is filled with flowery scents so heady that I feel as though I’m entering a florist’s. It’s a poppy field. As I pass through the thigh-high crop there is the light tapping sound of poppy bulbs hitting one another, like someone lightly clicking their fingers. The field continues down to the stream, where I pause to peer across to the other side. There are t
he silhouettes of hundreds of trees. I listen closely. The leaves ruffled by the slight cold breeze sound like a gentle rain.

  I have no idea how deep the stream is but the water’s freezing and I don’t fancy getting wet. We walk along the bank until the stream narrows. There are three rocks perfectly placed in the water which are probably used as stepping stones for farmers to cross back and forth.

  Prince follows me across to the other side and we enter an orchard. It’s so dark that I have no idea what is growing. I reach up and pluck a fruit; it’s a peach, slightly soft to touch. I hold it to my nose; it smells heavenly. I bite into it and the sweet, soft fruit and juice runs down my chin. It’s as if I have never tasted a peach before; it’s so delicious. I gobble down two more and give one to Prince, who takes one sniff at it and strides away. I collect some more peaches and stuff them in my pack.

  We march through to the far side of the orchard and then up a slope and along a ridge, and then we stop. In front of us is a steep hill. I’m hoping we can find a place to hide on the other side.

  The climb is slow work. It takes intense concentration to stop from slipping on the loose rocks and stones. The landscape is as bleak as the moon. By the time we reach the top I’m breathing heavily in the thin air and so is Prince; he’s panting loudly, his tongue hanging out. Even though I’m weary and my shoulder is throbbing with pain, I’m pleased. We’ve achieved our goal on time and can rest for an hour or so before we go any further.

  The remaining beef and chicken rations I give to Prince. They are barely enough for two mouthfuls. It’s obvious that I’ll have to find some proper food for him on the long march back to base. I eat another peach and relax. Above me the sky is filled with a blizzard of stars. Since arriving in Afghanistan I have been in awe of the night skies. The stars and moon seem to be within touching distance; so sharp, so bright. As I’m gazing at the brilliance I see the silhouette of a drone passing high overhead. There is no sense in becoming excited. All the evidence from allied planes and drones will point to the conclusion that we’ve died in the chopper explosion. There’s no getting around it, Prince and I are on our own.

  He dozes at my side, while I gaze in wonder at the heavens. The more I stare at the sky the more movements I see: falling stars, and the darting red and white dots of satellites. It makes me feel less alone. I look down into the valley and the only sign of human beings is a few dim points of light in a distant village. The bare, silent hills are empty of any life, but there’s also a solitary beauty to the landscape that makes me feel as if we are above the violence and killing below.

  Prince sits up. His nose twitches. I grab my rifle and listen. There is the faint clatter of footsteps on the shale. My heart quickens. I point my M4 in the direction of the sound, my finger against the trigger. Prince jumps up and peers into the shadows between the pools of moonlight. There is nothing for a moment and then the definite sound of feet on loose rock. I see a figure emerging from the shadows. I steady my rifle and aim. I am about to shoot when I notice that it isn’t a human but some sort of animal. It comes closer, trotting surely across the ground. I begin to think I am hallucinating. It looks like the devil. Then as it steps into the moonlight I take my finger off the trigger. It’s a wild goat with two curved horns. It stops in mid-step, astonished to see a human and a dog in its way. In one movement it jumps up, spins around in mid-air and hurtles off down the far slope, its panicked flight accompanied by the rattle of stones.

  I laugh with relief. Good Prince, I purr, stroking him. I snap my fingers behind his ears but he doesn’t react. He hadn’t heard the goat, but smelt him. That’s the great advantage dogs have over humans. If their hearing goes, their sense of smell more than overcomes what for us would be an awful disability.

  It’s time to be on the move again. I inspect Prince’s wound. It’s still raw but closing up. I rub and warm his sprained leg while he waits patiently, as if he knows what I’m trying to do. Once I’m certain he’s able to walk on it we set off through the cold night, hugging the contours of the hills above the narrow valley.

  When the sun comes up, we still haven’t found a hiding place. We have to hurry; in an hour or two the poppy fields will be swarming with workers and they will easily spot us against the barren landscape. There has to be a refuge somewhere. We struggle up the next hill. By the time we reach the top we’re exhausted. The sun has yet to pierce the darkness of the other side. As I scan the horizon for a hiding place, I see, amidst the deep black shadows, what looks like a cave set in a bluff.

  Prince must feel my sense of urgency, because he hurries along beside me, occasionally glancing up as if confirming with me that the situation is serious. When we near our goal the sunlight hits it and I realise it isn’t a cave but the remains of a building overlooking the valley, maybe a fort. Coming closer I see that its stone walls are now hillocks of rubble and the large main building is in ruins. Only a part of the roof remains at the back. The litter of artillery shell casings and bullets on the ground are signs that there must have been a fierce battle for it. Everything is rusting or crumbling as if the battle happened years or even decades ago. I gaze down the hill at the distant specks working in the poppy fields. From up where I am I can see the whole valley. The ‘fort’ must have been an observation post.

  I make my way through the ruins to the section with a roof, where we can shelter from the sun. I share some water with Prince, who slumps at my side and sighs with weariness. The trek has taken a lot out of him. I spot a rusting helmet poking out of some rubble and tug it free. It’s a Russian helmet. Not far from it is an insect-ravaged payroll book, with entries written in Russian. The battle that destroyed the outpost must have happened more than thirty years ago, after the Soviet Union invaded the country. That’s how long the locals have had to put up with foreign soldiers on their soil.

  Leafing through the payroll book, looking at the numbers, I wonder who it had belonged to. Was he back in Moscow, now middle-aged and still bewildered that the huge Russian forces had been humbled by poorly armed locals? Or had he been killed here in this foreign land? In my short time in Afghanistan I’ve come to see death in war as a matter of chance. Why did one man like Casey die and not me? It didn’t take me long to discover that there are two sorts of soldiers, those who have absolute confidence they will live and the others who are resigned to the idea that they will die. Both are wrong. Chance dictates everything. On one patrol I was sitting in the rear of a Bushmaster, shooting the breeze with a lieutenant who was on his second tour. He was saying something about how his girlfriend hated his taste in music when he slapped the side of his head, as if squashing a mosquito, and slumped over me. Somehow, and from somewhere, a stray bullet had sought him out; found him but not me. Chance. Death was like a lottery. It made no sense at all. Chance determined everything in war – even Casey said that.

  I look at my map. We have covered the ground I wanted to achieve today. If we keep up this pace then we will make it back to base in four more days. I try to concentrate on staying awake but find I can’t stop from yawning. Prince is snoring softly. I want to guard us both but I’m unable to stop my eyelids from closing and I can feel I am falling into a deep sleep.

  5

  When I wake up it’s late in the afternoon. Even in the shade of the shattered roof the heat is almost unbearable. Prince is lying on his side, tongue lolling out. There’s little water left in my canteen. I sip enough to quench my thirst and find it’s warm. I clean the inside of the helmet and pour a few mouthfuls of water into it for Prince, who laps up every last drop. Once we’re on the move again we’ll have to find more.

  While I’m waiting for evening I walk to the ruined walls and peer down into the valley. I can see figures in the poppy fields, either side of the river. There also seems to be a small orchard on the far bank. It’s probably best to stay on the western side where the hills are less steep.

  Back in the shade I chew some gum to try and produce saliva into my dry mouth. Prince snif
fs around the shadows, looking for food. I whistle to him but he doesn’t react. I just hope that he’ll get back his hearing as I did.

  I hear a noise above me and look up through a ragged hole in the roof at the clear sky. A Black Hawk helicopter swoops low and passes quickly overhead before I can attract the pilot’s attention. It flies on in the direction of our rescue raid. The pilot will spot the remains of the second chopper and see that no one has survived. I only hope that they can at least recover Casey’s body and give him a proper burial. By now his girlfriend, Penny, will have been told that he is dead or missing. She will be inconsolable. They were going to be married once Casey had finished his tour. He’d spend hours at night on Skype talking to her back in Australia, Prince snoozing at his feet. The others and I would tease him about it, but he’d reply, At least I’ve got a girlfriend, which is more than most of you wankers have.

  I’m thinking about Casey and Penny when it strikes me for the first time that people back home in Australia will also believe I’m dead. My father will have been told by now – I have no idea how he will deal with it. He begged me not to sign up, not to go to Afghanistan. But look at the positive side of things – I’ve got you, I say to Prince, running my fingers through his fur looking for ticks as I saw Casey do. He twists his head at an angle as if trying to understand me. He knows he’s being talked to, but hears nothing. Poor Prince, poor boy, I say, stroking him.