War Dogs (15 page)

When dealing with IEDs or landmines, the priority for these projects is to eliminate the risk to human life. Imitation might well be the most sincere form of flattery, but when it comes to detecting bombs, these attempts have proven to be lacking, and their results have fallen hopelessly short of expectations.

In the mid-1990s, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency initiated its “Dog's Nose Program” to make the bionic version of a dog's nose, and backed the venture with $25 million. As
Discover Magazine
reported in its September 2001 issue, two companies were in the running to develop this technology. Each took a slightly different approach.
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The first, run by a neuroscientist at Tufts University, sought to create a “true electronic nose, capable of distinguishing a large variety of smells.” The other, partnered with Nomadic, Inc., focused on two particular materials used in explosive making (TNT and DNT) and created Fido, the first “artificial nose capable of sniffing out a land mine in the real world.” But results were mixed. As one of the Tufts researchers said in 2001, what they produced was “probably about a factor of 10 times less sensitive than the best dogs, but about par with the worst dogs.” Hardly a glowing appraisal, and hardly a ringing endorsement for the mechanical answer to the dog.

Even now new iterations of Fido persist—the latest version, Fido X3, was recently launched, advertised on its website as the “next generation of threat detection.” But its promoters are no longer trying to sell these devices as viable
replacements
for a canine, but, instead, as an additional resource for base detection work. Amy Rose, the product sales director at the sensor manufacturer Flir Systems, the company that makes Fido, told the
New York Times
: “We see our technology as complementary to the dog. Dogs are awesome. They have by far the most developed ability to detect concealed
threats.” But, Rose continued, “dogs get distracted, cannot work around the clock and require expensive training and handling.”
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Army dog handler Staff Sergeant Taylor Rogal has had experience with bomb dogs, but he's also worked with the electronic bomb-detecting gear—handheld devices. Most soldiers, if they don't have dogs with them when they conduct searches, will use sensors like Fido. But Rogal says they have a reputation for breaking easily or being too sensitive to humidity and sand, which can render them ineffective. Rogal would rather put his trust in a dog—even a dog who's tired, thirsty, or hungry and has had a bad day.

When Rogal was deployed to Qatar in 2009, he and his detection dog, a German shepherd named Teri, worked security at the gate to their base. One time while they were on duty, a civilian drove onto base and Teri gave a standard search before they let him through. But then, to Rogal's surprise, Teri paused and sat. He was on odor. Teri could be a stubborn dog, but Rogal knew that this was the dog's serious, no-bullshit response: there was something in that car. So Rogal called it in.

When EOD came to investigate, Rogal's squadron commander, Lieutenant Colonel Gregory Reese, came to watch. It was a nerve-wracking few minutes for the handler, who was worried he had shut down gate access for nothing. But he trusted his dog. And while there wasn't a bomb, Teri's response was still a good one: EOD confirmed there was explosive residue in the car, as the driver, a contractor who worked with explosive materials, hadn't cleaned up the car properly. The find was a testament to the dog's powerful nose. The lieutenant colonel was impressed.

Rogal felt lucky to have a commander who supported the dog teams—one who would weigh this support against his reputation one day when a vendor came out to the base touting a Fido sensor. The man was wearing a Polo shirt and had a briefcase slung over his shoulder, sorely sticking out. He was selling his product hard to the men in the group gathered around him, promising that these little handheld sensors would soon be all the detection help they needed. Rogal stood watching from off to the side with another handler when he noticed Lieutenant Colonel Reese had come out to see the vendor's pitch.

To demonstrate the effectiveness of his sensor, the salesman took out a sample of C-4 and pressed it against his thumb. He walked over to the bathroom trailer wall and pressed the same thumb against the side of the building. After that he pulled out Fido and ran it over the trailer wall. A ding sounded; the minuscule amount of explosives had been detected.

Reese chuckled and told the vendor their dogs could do that and just as fast. The vendor scoffed. Reese called over to the handler next to Rogal. “Go grab Hhart,” he told him. The handler came back with Hhart, his search dog, and walked him over to the trailer, following a standard search pattern. As soon as they hit the spot with the thumbprint, the dog sat.

The vendor was visibly taken aback, shocked that the dog had performed so well and so quickly. It was clearly not what'd he'd been expecting. Reese, on the other hand, just kind of gave him a satisfied smirk. His confidence in the dogs had paid off.

Being a handler, Rogal knows that he comes to this debate with a bias. But when he thinks back to standing guard on that gate, watching Teri give a fast and clear alert on just residual odor alone, there's no question in his mind which he would chose if given the chance. All Teri did that day was stick his nose in the car, and that, Rogal says, took just two seconds. And for Rogal those extra seconds could mean the difference between life and death.
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It was raining,
or at least it had been. The morning ground was wet and muddy. It was spring 2010, the rainy season in Haji Rahmuddin, Afghanistan, and Staff Sergeant Justin Kitts was up early. He washed his face and brushed his teeth using bottled water, as there was no plumbing or electricity. This base was small and remote; outside the makeshift gate and beyond the safety of the military-constructed Hesco border was open farmland and grape fields.

The day's mission was pretty standard. Kitts's unit had orders to travel to a nearby town and meet with a few of the locals. Every now and then, as part of their efforts to build better relationships with the people of Afghanistan, the Army sent in soldiers to see if the locals needed anything. The
soldiers packed their pockets with candy to hand out to the children who lived there. But they were also hoping to find people who could become reliable and friendly sources of information on the Taliban and to gather new intelligence and reports of suspicious activity in the area.

Along with 20 other members of the 101st Airborne and an Afghan interpreter, Kitts geared up and prepared his detection dog, Dyngo, to accompany them. To keep from being easy to track, the unit avoided the shorter, more direct route on a hardened surface road. Instead, they rambled through a grape field, its earthen-packed walls, each about waist high, covered in tangled vines. Hopping over them slowed down the patrol but made their movements less predictable.

The gray weather started to clear as they walked through the grape field. The sun came out and then, suddenly, so did the sound of gunfire: it was an ambush. In this field they were exposed, so Kitts, Dyngo, and the rest of the unit ran for the cover of some higher walls that flanked the main road, the sound of their boots pounding the ground. Once they reached the road, the soldiers spread out along the front wall and took aim with their guns, while a few others stayed behind them, covering the wall on the other side of the grape field and laying down suppressive fire. The unit called for air support, but they knew it would take a while to arrive. In the meantime they would have to hold their ground yet also find a way to move out of their vulnerable position.

Kitts took Dyngo and looked for an exit route. He started down the road to the left, sending Dyngo up ahead, watching the dog carefully as he put his nose to the ground. When Dyngo was about 30 meters out, Kitts noticed the change in the dog's search pattern. Dyngo began taking in deep, sweeping breaths. There was something there. Kitts shouted to Dyngo, calling him back.

The others in the unit, pulled back from the left side of the road, were still trying to return gunfire at an enemy they could not track or see. Kitts pulled Dyngo down against the walls, keeping the dog low and close to him for cover. Suddenly, the enemy shot two RPGs toward them. The first went
over the back wall and exploded in the field behind them. But the second flew into the wall, destroying a chunk of it just ten feet from where they sat.

The explosion registered a deep shock to the ground and the noise was deafening. Dyngo began to whimper; it was a high whining sound the seven-year-old Belgian Malinois rarely made. Kitts knew his dog was not reacting to the noise or the chaos—it was the pressure from RPG blast that scared him, the shock wave causing real pain to Dyngo's sensitive ears. Dyngo collapsed to his stomach, his limbs limp, his ears flattened. The dog was afraid.

Kitts instinctively reached out his hand to break off a branch from a nearby tree and pushed the branch under Dyngo's nose. The dog latched onto it and began a nervous, mindless gnawing—the canine version of hand wringing. Kitts pulled on the branch and they played a little game of tug-of-war. Dyngo was usually so calm, unshakable. Even when they took helicopter rides, as they frequently did, Dyngo never minded the noise. Unlike some of the other military working dogs who were easily frightened by the chopper's noise or balked at the strong, rough winds kicked out from its fast-beating blades, Dyngo always hopped on happily and pushed his muzzle as close to the window as he could so he could see what was happening on the ground. To see him unhinged, to see this normally calm and experienced dog under duress, filled Kitts with dread. But soon the release of energy from playing with the branch calmed Dyngo and also settled Kitts's own rising nerves.

The incoming gunfire was still distant and intermittent, so the leader of their unit asked Kitts to clear the right side of the road, hoping that this could help them work their way farther from the ambush in that direction. Despite being shaken, Dyngo followed Kitts's instruction to “seek,” trotting along, working quickly, sniffing over patches of dirt, over clusters and clumps of road and grass. When Kitts saw Dyngo slow, once again growing more intense, more deliberate, the handler called the dog back even before he had time to give the final alert. Kitts didn't need to see it—there was no doubt that Dyngo was on bomb for a second time. Now the unit couldn't
move left or right, they were trapped on the road. The only way out was back through the grape field.

It seemed like forever, but it was only a few more minutes before the air support arrived. Soon there was no more enemy fire and the grape field went quiet. The enemy had retreated. It was now safe for them to retrace their steps through the grape field.

An EOD team arrived to remove the bombs. Buried nearly two feet deep in the ground were two yellow jugs, each packed with 50 pounds of explosives, cunningly hidden only 200 meters apart. The attack had been a setup. The Taliban had deliberately flushed them out of the grape field and onto the road, where their path was boxed in on both ends by IEDs. Everyone in that patrol had been in the kill zone—not once but twice.

If it had not been for Dyngo, they might all be dead.

Today little flecks of white
color Dyngo's muzzle just below his nose, as if he's just lifted his head from sniffing powdery snow. His soft amber eyes have a tired, well-worn quality, but they still brighten with interest when someone he likes walks into a room or when—especially when—it's time to work. He has a stout and sturdy body and large head with an expressive face. Dyngo is a dog who smiles.

As a younger dog, Dyngo had a reputation for being a little hellion and something of a biter. But Dyngo is beginning to slow down. He's changed over the last year; two back-to-back deployments have taken their toll. Even though you can see that his body aches, the dog still loves to work and works to please.

Over their six-and-a-half-month deployment, Dyngo accompanied Kitts on 63 missions. And during all those missions, Kitts only fired his own weapon twice. Once was that day in the grape field. The other time during a routine patrol was to protect Dyngo. Kitts had seen a yard dog out of the corner of his eye. The dog, mangy and gaunt, his hackles bristling, had caught wind of Dyngo. The closer they got the deeper and more threatening the yard dog's barking became. He wore a metal chain around his neck, but Kitts could see that it was broken and nothing was keeping
him tied down. When the yard dog charged at Dyngo, Kitts raised his nine-millimeter and fired, killing the other dog instantly.

There is a closeness between Dyngo and Kitts that has remained intact, even after Dyngo was paired up with another handler. Despite spending six months apart, Dyngo is still tuned into Kitts's every movement; his eyes and nose follow him like the point of a compass always bobbing to north. Kitts, now a tech sergeant, is an instructor at the Marine Corps predeployment training course in Yuma, Arizona, working to teach other handlers on their way to war, sharing his experience.