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Chapter 2 Caesar – A Digger and a Dog

They say you should never go back. But I guess that depends on what you’ve left behind. For Vietnam War veteran Peter Haran it was the memory of touching death every day, the bond shared with men who lived the same nightmares and, above all, an irrepressible love for a dog called Caesar.

On 16 February 2008 Peter joined fellow veterans of the Australian Forces to pay their respects to the men who had fought and died in the war in Vietnam, from 1966 to 1972. It was a scorching day, reminiscent of the many days he had spent not yards from the same spot as a young digger (soldier) at the Australian Task Force base at Nui Dat, southern Vietnam. An old soldier recounts the events of 21 July 1969, the day man first walked on the moon, the day a young lieutenant walked over an M16 ‘jumping jack’ mine, blowing away his leg and sending deadly fragments of metal searing into the 30-man-strong platoon. This was the spot. This was his memory. These were the tears fought back for almost forty years. For Peter Haran the journey back and the sharing of memories was not only intensely emotional and incredibly healing, it was the time and the place to remember a war dog that was a big part of his life and who saved that life a thousand times over.

Spring 1966. A handsome, self-assured young man strode through the gates of the Infantry Training Centre in Ingleburn, New South Wales. Tall, sinewy and tanned with severely cropped fair hair and a natural military bearing, this 18-year-old looked every inch a soldier, proud in his khaki and ready for the world to take him on. Peter Haran had completed his six months of Army training and was looking to take his career into a specialist area. Through a corner of the perimeter fence it was possible to catch a glimpse of the Tracking Wing – the specialist school for training dogs and handlers for the task of detecting and seeking out the enemy in combat. A good Tracker dog hears and smells the enemy before they can be seen, detects landmines and tripwires ahead of any man, and gives chase at a speed to strike fear into the pursued.

Peter had often watched the dogs being put through their paces and had decided to enrol as a handler as soon as he could. He had been a dog lover since childhood and, thanks to his father, dogs played an important role in Haran family life, even before they moved to Australia from Zimbabwe. So it wasn’t any wonder that the opportunity to combine his military career and his love of dogs was too good for Peter to resist. On the day of his interview with the second-in-command of the Tracking Wing, Warrant Officer Carter, Peter wanted to give it his best shot. This was his big chance to gain a place on the dog handler’s training programme and what started as a short chat with Carter ended with Peter being told to report for duty the following day.

Delighted with his success, Peter turned to leave, only to feel that he was being watched. Just a few feet away in the shade of a tree sat a black Labrador cross. Fresh from his training session the dog sat gently panting, his glossy coat shining in the afternoon sun. Staring straight ahead, the dog had the young soldier firmly in his gaze. Peter stared back, all the time thinking how proud he would be to have a dog like that in his charge. Suddenly the dog stood up and moved to his handler’s heel. As they walked together towards the kennel block the dog looked back at Peter, who noticed the animal’s intense, velvety brown eyes. It was a look that Peter was to translate as ‘I’ll be seeing you later.’

It seemed that the long-legged black Labrador knew something that Peter didn’t. In the meantime there was plenty of work to do. Peter and the eight other trainees had three weeks to convince Carter and his superior, Lieutenant French, that they were up to the job. The first week was spent away from the dogs, confined to a classroom learning about the capabilities of the dogs, the responsibilities of the visual Tracker (six of the nine men on the course were visual Trackers) and the necessary skills of the dog handler. Peter just wanted to be matched with a dog to get down to the work. From what he had observed looking through the fence, the training was conducted mostly outdoors with man and dog working together, getting to know each other and working as a coherent team. It was not sitting behind a desk. It was only later, when Peter was doing the job in Vietnam, that the advice of the trainer was to echo in his head many, many times over. He was told: obedience is a life-saver.

To be a member of the Combat Tracking Team was, he discovered, not just learning how to handle a dog physically; it was also to do with interpreting the dog’s reactions, the terrain they were working in and reading the signs correctly. It was about living life on the end of a 20-foot leash, following an intelligent dog, running where he runs for as long as it takes to capture or corner the enemy. Lives depended on the Tracker dog’s actions and the handler’s interpretation. It’s the partnership that holds the key to life or death, and the level of trust. Knowing that a dog will lock on to one scent and will follow that scent means trusting the dog to do exactly that. If the dog ‘points’ to indicate the enemy’s presence then it’s not to be ignored. If a dog can follow a simple instruction to ‘sit’ and ‘stay’ when its life and everyone else’s around depends on it, then it’s a partnership.

If you want to be a Tracker then being the one who is tracked is a good way of learning the dog’s skills. ‘For the next two days you’re the enemy,’ said Carter. ‘Get the Viet Cong gear from the store hut.’ Still without a dog at his side Peter and his training buddy, Blue Murray, were issued with rifles, blank ammunition, a backpack, a day’s rations, a map and compass before being transported by Land Rover to Bulli Pass, the forested area near the Pacific Highway, south of Sydney. After replacing their usual uniforms with dirty civilian clothing to create a scent that could be tracked, the men set off with the challenge to reach their assigned destination ahead of the Tracker dog and his handler. A visual Tracker was also assigned to the dog’s team. His job was to look for the physical signs that Peter and Blue would unknowingly leave in their wake (disturbed earth, footprints, clues in the flora and fauna) as they trudged in their sweat-sodden clothes to the finish point. The heat of the day was only part of the challenge. The convoluted route that was created to take the two trainee Trackers to the limit took them into creeks and through swathes of long grass and up muddy banks. There was no time to stop to notice bruises or scars or to rest.

Having run for the best part of the morning, the men were feeling exhausted. There was no sign of the Tracker dog, in fact there was no sign of anyone at all en route, and Peter took this to mean that they had outwitted their pursuers. They were almost at the checkpoint. The map showed another ditch and an incline, which had to mean more mud, but then it would be over and the men could celebrate the end of their ordeal and their apparent victory over the dog. But before they had time to celebrate the visual Tracker appeared out of nowhere to announce they had been under surveillance for some time. The dog had tracked them and ‘pointed’ to indicate their presence from across the clearing. The men were totally oblivious. ‘Come, Caesar,’ said the handler, offering his dog a welcome drink of water. The exercise was over and Caesar could stand down, which meant his handler could remove the dog’s canvas working harness. Peter took a closer look at the dog that had made them look so foolish: it was the same black Labrador that had given him that knowing look on the day of his interview. So, his name was Caesar. He looked at the dog, exhausted and now snoring, his head settled on his handler’s leg. At that moment, when the dog was only to be admired from afar, Peter remembered looking at the dog, saying to himself, ‘Just how bloody good are you?’

More than anything Peter wanted a dog to work with. And a few days later, that’s exactly what he got. The dog was not in the same class as Caesar, not even to look at. The only resemblance was that they were both more Labrador than anything else. This dog, introduced to Peter as Damien, was not only unusual to look at; he was difficult from the start. The dog simply wouldn’t work for him and, as it turned out, he wouldn’t work for anyone. Every opportunity this dog had to get into a fight with another dog he took it. Two minutes into the first training session Damien pulled to reach another dog and sent Peter flying backwards onto the ground. On day two of the partnership he went AWOL to find other dogs to fight with. At first Peter thought Damien was just a dog who needed to feel secure. Certainly the close working relationship a Tracker dog had with his handler would convince any dog that he was needed, and the very physical nature of the work would ensure an outlet for Damien’s excess energy. Peter wanted to remain positive and give Damien a chance but it was difficult when the dog took every opportunity to start a fight.