Volume 4:
Luck in dog handling, as in all things military, and in all things generally I suppose, plays it's part.
'You make you're own luck.' snear the lucky ones.
'He's a lucky cnut.' shimf the unlucky ones.
But whether it comes from the lap of the Gods, the spin of the dice, the turn of a card or is just dumb luck, come it does and a brass neck to exploit it when it does is damn handy.
We had a handler in Belfast who had the only Submarine Detecting Dog in the world! I kid you not! A wily Greenjacket as I do recall. ( Greenjackets are a Regiment in the British Army).
Now given that all the city dogs and handlers, both there and in Derry, were puffs and handbags of the first order, they did have a cabby op they used to get involved in called, em, Grenada or Granada or some such like.
This involved the Wagtail team being attached to the Matelots (Royal Navy) for a couple of days to go boating in Belfast Lough to assist in searches of ships and other floaty things and was generally regarded as a top skive.
So this Green Jackets out on the water and they're generally having a nice days boating when the ship heaves-to. Almost immediately the dog becomes all adjitated, runs up to the bows and starts barking like a hoo-er at the sea. The Matelots and the handler hadn't the first clue as to why the mutt was going mental. When all of sudden, about 30m off the bow, up pops this sub. Honest this is true! And the dog goes berserk.
Now the Matelots knew they were going to RV with the sub but hadn't told the handler and the handler knew that the reason the dog had gone ballistic is because it heard the sub before it surfaced but he had the brass neck.
'How'd yer dog know the sub was there ?' asked the Matelots.
'What the fcuk d'ye expect ?' came the cool reply, ' it's a weapons detecting dog. Submarines a weapon innit ?'
Aye, on such chances are reputations built.
I'd been 'persuaded' into taking over one of the farthest flung corners of the boggy empire and we were going through a change over. At the time units were on four month tours and they seemed to come and go really quickly. Some were keen to use the dogs others not so. Some would seek us out for the local knowledge we had, some, usually the ones with a keen, young Intelligence Officer (there's an oxymoron for ye !) who'd fcuk off in civvies and 'Winthrope' all over place, seemed to think we didn't exist.
We were a fortnight or so into the tour with some planks and despite constantly heckling the Ops Room we were getting shreck all except some spin off work from the RE's and it was getting boring.
Now don't get me wrong, I appreciate a good skive as much as the next idle fcuker, but in a base the size of a couple of football pitches with the UDR club being the only boozer (bar) in the place, doing nothing started to wear thin.
So, this night I was in the cookhouse proffing (stealing) some of the egg banjo kit* left out for the night sentries. I had a fair cowp on as we'd managed to bribe the Choggi*, Wullie, into giving us more than the two cans per man per day ration. Twas desperate measures, getting ratarrsed (drunk) on Tartan Special (cheap beer), but as we'd been banned from the UDR bar, it was our last recourse.
(* An egg banjo is the term for a fried egg sandwich. Called so cos you're guaranteed to bite into it and have egg yolk explode all down the front of your uniform so you'll be stood there holding a sandwich in one hand and wiping yolk off with the other....and look like you're playing an air banjo. A Choggi is another slang term that can mean anything from 'Dark skinned foreign person' to 'The cookhouse'. Wullie was his name and the author means he bribed the fella who rations out supplies for more than the 2 cans of beer he was allowed.)
Anyhow, in comes this plank (Royal Artillery) section cmdr and starts asking me about what the dog can and can't find weaponswise,
'Ra Shtum ?? Wee bashtard can find shreckin anyshing. Facking awshum shearsh duggle, how ?'
(Translation: Some unintelligible Scottish bollocks said when drunk)
It transpired that one of his section had lost a mag on a patrol in the sticks earlier in the day and the BSM had promised not to hang the guilty plank by the nadjers (testicles) if they could recover it.
'Nae fackin bother for ush !' I bragged, 'me an ra boy'll find it fer ye'sh.' I boasted and a date was set for first light.
(Translation: No fword bother for us. Me and my boy will find it for you.)
So, next morning at the helipad, with the effects of the slavering juice (cheap beer mentioned earlier) wearing off, I met up with the section and listened while the section cmdr regaled his chaps about how me and the Stump were the answer to their prayers.
'Bollox !' I thought, 'me and my big gob.'
A dog detects a weapon because of the cocktail of smells that come from it, human scent, oil, traces of cordite. A magazine, even full of bullets, is really just a tin box to a dog, especially if it's not been on a weapon that's been fired or if its not been oiled etc. An extremely difficult target for a dog.
'shreckin Tartan. shreckin Wullie, shreckin shreck !' I reflected calmly.
We dropped off and traced the route the section had taken, up hill, down dale, through hedges, to where they'd finished. Fcuk all. Nothing. Zip. There was dark mutterings starting. We headed back to the PUP.
Now at one point on this shrecking odyessy we went though a hole in the hedge. Nothing particular about it and we'd been through it already. There was a puddle of muddy water at the bottom and, don't ask me why, but I stuck my hand into it as I bent to go though the hole and lo and fcuking behold !! One SLR (FN-FAL) magazine c/w twenty rounds!! I glanced around. No-one had noticed. I dropped it back into the puddle.
'Stumpy ! Wassis then ?!' I called him over and indicated the puddle.
'Issa a shrecking puddle innit ?' he looked quizzically.
'No, IN the puddle, IN the puddle ye shreckin eejit!'
'Eh ??' he just was'nt getting it.
'Oh FFS !' I reached into the puddle and lifted the mag just enough for him to see it, 'Warra fcuk is THIS then ?' I hissed.
'Fcuked if I kno.....OYAH CNUT !! ISSA BIT O A GUN, ISSA BIT O A GUN !!!' he barked in eventual shreckin recognition. 'Thank fcuk!'
His racket got the attention of the planks.
'Hey lads !! I think the dogs got someth.......OW MA FINGERS !!!' the Dwarf had decided to play this for what it was worth and snatching the mag from me hand took off at the canter like some posing tw*t, head up, mag in the gob and tail going in a real 'look how clever I am' routine.
Needless to say the planks were delighted and rained plaudits down on the head of the shameless little cnut.
'Brill dog, Jock !! he's the bizz !!! blah shreckin blah !'
'Yeah,' I muttered sourly as I nursed my fingers. 'True fcuking hero !'
The jobs picked up a bit after that, still not hugely busy, but enough to get out with the boys and start forming some bonds.
A week or so later I was robbing the night shift egg banjos again when the Ops Officer came in.
'Ah dog handler !' he observed, as I stood there with egg yolk and brown sauce dribbling down my front thinking in my stupour 'O fcuk, wonder what the penalty for robbing the night shifts egg banjos is !'
'I hear your dogs just the man to find missing magazines, eh what ?'
'Er, aye sir, we've found one.' I mumbled through banjo.
'Splendid. One of the patrols thats out has lost one. I've arranged for you to nip out and find it for them. OK ?'
'What, right now, sir ?' I banjoed.
'Gawd, thats what I like ! Keen to get right on with it !!' he wrongly concluded, ' no, no, first light will be fine. Good Chap !.'
'Aw, bollox ! ' I thought, as I smeared the egg yolk into my sweatshirt. Thoughtfully. Later that morning we flew out into a typically grey toejamty dawn which matched my mood exactly.
'We're gonna get caught out this time Stump.' I whinged to the mutt,' no way we'll be jammy twice.'
'Dum dee dum dee la la ....I love helicopters !' cared the Stump not a fig. The pilot came on the headset and explained that he was dropping us off in the same spot that he'd dumped the patrol.
'Out the door and head for the edge of the field. They'll be waiting for you.'
The Lynx bumped down and we did as instructed. We ran to the hedegrow and as I knelt down.
'OUCH ! what the fcuks that ?' I looked down, and I'm no toejamting ye here, there was the mag !! 'Stumpy wassis !?'
'It's yer knee'...clack...'OOWW...OH ISSA ANOTHER BIT OF A GUN !!! etc etc.' He didn't get my fingers this time and as the patrol came over too meet us I was able to, rather smugly I have too admit, present them with the mag. Fcuking A. Shortest search in history !! Even the Lynx was still in the area and came back to uplift us. Splendid, job done and back to base for tiffin. We didn't do particularly well findswise for the rest of the tour but our reputations were complete and, fortunately, the planks stopped dropping mags all over the shop. Thank fcuk, I doubt our luck would have held.
Aye, sometimes it IS the good that get the luck.
