Authors: Chris Ryan
War Dog (2 page)
Have you ever heard the sound of a Chinook helicopter? They’re the ones with two sets of rotors.
When you’re out on the ground, it’s the best sound you can hear. I couldn’t see well, but I knew a Chinook was coming in to land. I heard voices. Army medics had surrounded me. Two of them carried a stretcher. Sam laid me on it. “You’re going to be okay, mate,” he said. “The medics will take care of you. Me and Charlie need to get back and help the others.” His hands and clothes were covered in my blood. The sun was shining behind his head. The dog was sitting patiently by his side.
If the sound of a Chinook is the best you’ll ever hear, the sound of an enemy sniper is the worst. A shot rang out. I saw a flash of red as it hit Sam just above his ear.
He fell to the ground.
Actually, I was wrong. That wasn’t the worst sound I’ve ever heard. The worst sound was when Charlie began to howl as his master fell dead to the ground.
I’ll never forget that howl. Sometimes it wakes me up when I’m sleeping.
GOODBYE
I remember nothing more of that day, or of the day that followed. I woke up in the camp hospital. The doctors told me they’d had to remove my leg just above the knee. I’ll tell you a strange thing. Even though I’d lost the leg, I could still feel it. It still hurt. Sometimes it still does. Like a memory of pain.
I didn’t feel sorry for myself. How could I, when two men had died? The nurses wanted me to stay in bed, but I made them lift me into a wheelchair. Doug’s and Sam’s coffins were being sent home that day. I needed to say goodbye to my mates.
They wheeled me out onto the airfield. Two hundred men were standing silently in a line. They all stood still, wearing full uniform in the fierce heat. Beyond them stood a Hercules aircraft. Its loading ramp was open. The two coffins stood on wooden supports between the men and the plane. Each was covered with a Union Jack. The chaplain read from a prayer book. Sweat poured down his face.
And in front of one coffin was Charlie. He was lying down. His head was pressed against the sandy desert floor. His eyes looked up at his master’s coffin. In the two days since the blast, he had grown thinner. His fur was matted. He didn’t move.
I hardly heard what the chaplain said. I was too busy looking at the coffins. At Charlie. When fourteen men stepped forward to carry the coffins onto the Hercules, the dog stood up. He followed the coffins up the loading ramp. Men, coffins and dog disappeared into the hot belly of the aircraft.
Three minutes later the men reappeared. They were no longer carrying the coffins, but one of them held Charlie by his collar. He had to drag the dog. Charlie whimpered in protest. He kept his feet rigid. In the end, it took two men to remove him from the aircraft.
You’ve never seen anything worse than the way that poor dog howled as the ramp closed. Nobody could stop him chasing the Hercules down the runway. In the air, the plane dipped a wing as a gesture of respect. Charlie howled and howled. Then the plane disappeared into the Afghan sky, and he was silent again.
I wanted to take Charlie back into the camp hospital. To look after him. But they wouldn’t let me. I still saw him, though. Each day, someone would push me round the camp in a wheelchair. And each day, Charlie would be sitting in the same place. Outside his master’s sleeping quarters. As if he was waiting for Sam to come home.
The dog didn’t eat. I watched him get thinner by the day. He met my eyes every time I passed. There was something human in his stare. It felt like there was a bond between us. And I suppose there was. We’d both watched Sam die, after all.
On the fifth day after Sam’s coffin was sent back, Charlie wasn’t in his usual place. I had a bad feeling about it. I asked the nurse who was pushing my wheelchair if we could look for him. It didn’t take long to find him.
In the middle of the camp there is a small war memorial. The names of all the British soldiers who have died in Afghanistan are engraved there. Charlie was curled on the ground in front of it. His big eyes didn’t look up as I passed. His chest didn’t rise and fall. He looked like he was asleep. But it was the kind of sleep you never wake up from.
We buried Charlie where he lay. It seemed like the right thing to do. I couldn’t help, of course. But I watched as my friends dug the hole and lowered him into the earth. It felt as if Sam was with us in spirit. Saying goodbye to his friend. Or, maybe, saying hello again. Welcoming him to wherever it is we go when we die. At least, that’s what I like to think.
Anyway, I’ve kept you too long. Your folks will be wondering where you are. You’d better go, but thanks for listening, you know. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. You get used to a false leg after a while. And whatever you do, don’t feel sorry for me. Because remember: thanks to a brave dog and his handler, I escaped with my life.
That makes me one of the lucky ones.
If you enjoyed reading
War Dog
, you might also like
Breathe And You Die
by Andrew Fusek Peters.
Matt wakes up in a room he doesn’t recognise.
The room is full of smoke.
The smoke is toxic. If he breathes it in, he’ll die.
Matt and his friend Leah are caught up
in a madman’s plan for revenge on their school.
But before Matt can save his friends,
he must save himself…
Buy online at
978 1 4451 2313 4 paperback
978 1 4451 2316 5 eBook
Turn over to read an extract from
Breathe And You Die
.
7 p.m.
Matt woke up coughing. The smell in his nose was rank, a mix of rotten eggs and dead meat.
Where was he? And why did his head hurt?
He slowly opened his eyes.
Weird.
He was lying on bare floorboards in a room he’d never seen in his life. He still wore his school clothes, now scuffed and torn. If this was a dream, it was convincing. Thick smoke hovered a few inches above his head. More of it poured in from a vent high in the ceiling. Here, down by the floor, the air was almost clear.
It didn’t take a science degree to know the smoke was poison. If he sat up, and breathed it in, he’d be dead. Matt tried to think. Last thing he remembered, he was leaving school late after his karate lesson. His Kata had been good and the Sensei, his teacher, was pleased with Matt’s progress.
What else?
There’d been a van with tinted windows, slowing down alongside him. Then … nothing. He coughed again, he could feel the gas exploring his lungs, trying to shut him down for good.
It didn’t make sense. He was an ordinary year 9 boy, who went to a boring school. A brown belt in Shotokan Karate, even with a second stripe, was hardly a threat. Every second he lay there thinking, the smoke above his head grew thicker. He had to get out. Apart from the bump on his head, he appeared to be in one piece. Matt crawled as close to the floor as possible towards the door. The room narrowed into a corridor. When he finally got to the end and reached up with his arm, the door was firmly locked and the letter box was nailed down.
Who would do this to him? It was mad!
He slid backwards. Maybe he’d have better luck with the window.
He grabbed a deep lungful of clean air and stood up, using both arms to try and slide the window open. The smoke made his eyes smart. Why wouldn’t it budge? He looked again. Window lock.
Damn! Think Matty. Think!
Of course – the dirty plastic chair by the window. It had metal legs. He knelt down to take another breath and grabbed the chair, swinging with all his might against the glass.
This ebook edition published in 2013
Franklin Watts
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The author has asserted his right in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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(ebook) ISBN: 978 1 4451 2346 2
(pb) ISBN: 978 1 4451 2345 5
(Library ebook) ISBN: 978 1 4451 2579 4
Franklin Watts is a division of Hachette Children’s Books, an Hachette UK company.
