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

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.