Dog Soldiers: Love, loyalty and sacrifice on the front line

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Timeline (#ubdef78f9-0bfc-5bed-8f40-1d46f2e631d4)

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 (#ubdef78f9-0bfc-5bed-8f40-1d46f2e631d4)

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 … (#ubdef78f9-0bfc-5bed-8f40-1d46f2e631d4)

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.