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..return to Personal Recollections & War Diaries WAR DOG By Peter Murphy Dusk approaches as the small single engined airplane makes a final turn to land and taxi to the hangar, beside the Administration Building, at Sembawang Naval Air Station on the Island of Singapore. The year 1960, Britain is fighting a war against the Communist terrorists in the Malayan jungle, to the north. Singapore sits at the southern tip of the Malay Peninsula, connected by a single causeway and over 100 years of British colonial rule. Jock, the pilot, is a tight fit in the tiny cockpit. Six feet two inches tall, his flight helmet almost touches the Plexiglas roof. Farley, in the right seat, is shorter at five feet six inches, a little overweight. It has been a long day, with a flight from Kuala Lumpur, the Malayan capital, to their base in Singapore. The two hundred mile flight over dense green jungle, has taken almost three hours in their Auster Mk IV aircraft. A noisy, airplane, it had none of the refinements of modern aircraft. As a substitute for air conditioning, the doors are removed to increase airflow and add to visual coverage of the ground. Jock ambles to the flight ops room to complete his flight log while Farley supervises the refueling and pushing the plane into the cavernous hangar. A few minutes later, Jock returns, “Don’t put it away Farley!” Jock calls. “What’s up?” grunts Farley, expecting to head for the mess for a well-deserved beer. “We have a casevac up near Kota Baru,” came the reply. Farley imagines of a night landing in the jungle and a groan escaped from his lips. The cold beer will have to wait for a couple of hours. Casualty evacuation takes priority over most demands out here. The Auster can carry one stretcher with the rear seat removed. It flies low, slow and can land on small dirt runways carved out of the jungle. These jungle strips are crude and difficult to land on. Lighted by kerosene gooseneck torches at night, they are a pilot’s nightmare. If an airplane is asked to land in a jungle clearing at night, the implication is that some one’s life is in danger. Farley does a quick
calculation. It is now 7.00 pm. If all goes well they can still
be enjoying that cool beer by 10.00 pm. It is 8.15 pm before they find
the clearing, with the help of a radio guidance system transmitting
from the camp. Dozens of gooseneck flares light up the narrow strip,
making two flaming lines dancing the length of the make shift landing
ground. A tall young officer staggers to him, holding in his arms a large black and brown Doberman, war dog. The animal, muddied with bloody hindquarters, is lethargic and bandaged around its rear. For a moment, Farley has trouble comprehending that the injured party, they are risking their lives to rescue, is a large, unlovable war dog! Mostly Dobermans and Alsatians [German Shepherds], they are not pleasant creatures and even their handlers don’t get too attached to them. Trained in Britain by the Military Police, they are mean, vicious and seem to hate every living thing. “You called us out to pick up a bloody dog?” Farley shouts at the officer. “The dog needs surgery,” mutters the young man, somewhat surprised by the outburst. Farley ignores him and concentrates on the problem at hand. “How are we going to get this thing strapped into the airplane?” He asks anyone who will listen. Jock has squeezed the airplane around and is revving up the engine, obviously eager to get out of this jungle clearing. When Farley arrives at the door with a large drugged dog, he cannot believe what he is seeing. The Captain was saying “There will be a truck waiting back at Sembawang, to take the dog to a facility in the city.” Jock takes the time to tell him, with enough venom and some reference to his parentage, what he thinks of anyone who would call for medical aid for a dog. The captain isn’t going to make an issue of this. The general consensus is that he is looking for a chance to spend a couple of days in the Raffles Hotel and get away from his jungle home. Farley is now faced with securing the injured dog in the plane. There is a stretcher positioned behind the twin seats, but Jock is against having this sedated beast rattling about in the rear of the plane. With cables running down each side of the fuselage, it’s possible the dog could get tangled up in these vital controls causing a catastrophe. It is finally agreed to drape the dog over Farley’s lap and buckle him and Farley into the seat belts. A less than happy pair eventually speed down the bumpy airstrip, just managing to clear the rubber trees to claw they’re way into the still humid, dark sky. Conversation is not easy in the small monoplane, without doors. The engine and wind noises are such that it is necessary to use the intercom system. Both men wear throat mikes, which produce almost as much static noise as the engine. The conversation is confined to disbelief that they had been called to pick up a dog, at night, from a remote jungle airstrip. Farley is most vocal about having this drugged dog, weighing over 100 pounds, sharing his seat. The night is far from over, as they think of the 40-minute flight ahead of them. With the lights of Singapore city glowing on the horizon, the war dog stirs on Farley’s lap and empties its bladder. Due to the position of the dog with the rear end facing the pilot, Jock receives most of the warm urine. Jock has now been flying, off and
on for many hours. He has eaten only a couple of stale sandwiches at
noon and dearly wants a beer and a warm bed. Being pissed on by a
dog he is risking his life for, is the last straw. Jock is as angry as Farley had ever seen him. “Throw it out of the bloody door!” he screams. The pair are good friends and have been together for a couple of years. Both men hold the rank of sergeant. Farley is senior in rank as he was promoted a year earlier than Jock. But, airplanes are like ships and the captain has the ultimate authority. As the pilot, Jock calls the tune. In all their time together, at work or play, they have never had a serious disagreement. “I can’t do that Jock,” shouted Farley over the noise of the engine. He is rattled and has not switched on his mike. While, Jock cannot hear him, he had no trouble understanding the response. With a swift movement of his right arm, he hits the quick release button on the safety harness securing Farley and the dog in their seat. In the same movement he put his hand on the animal’s rump and pushes. The sedated dog slides easily off Farley’s lap, through the doorway, disappearing into the blackness of the jungle below. During this event, which takes only a couple of seconds, the only change is the attitude of the airplane, which banks to the right allowing gravity to assist in the dog’s departure. Farley glances down into the blackness, sees nothing. Farley refastens his seat belt and takes a deep breath. The airplane reverts to its normal flight position, soon beginning its descent to Sembawang. The stench of dog urine almost overcomes him. No further words are spoken between them. When they land, Jock returns to the office, where he reports that during heavy turbulence, the dog panicked and slipped out of the plane. Farley clears up the mess in the cockpit while the ground crew hangar the airplane. As he walks to the waiting jeep, a soldier comes up to him. “I’m supposed to pick up a wounded dog Sarg?” Thirty minutes later, showered and
changed, both men meet in the bar. The conversation turns to the
upcoming rugby match, arranged for to-morrow against the Navy. Post Script:
When the British military left Malaya at the conclusion of the
campaign, in 1962, 30 war dogs were left in the country. Not wanting to
return them to the United Kingdom, it was decided to present them to
the local aboriginal tribe, who had helped track for the British. Authors Note: This is fiction,
loosely based on a story, I heard forty years ago. Anyone in the
Squadron recall a story like this? I wrote it for an American
creative writing group a couple of years ago. ..return to Personal Recollections & War Diaries updated 5th September 2010
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