Post by Paul on Dec 17, 2004 13:33:09 GMT 9.5
A TRACKER DOG CALLED CEASAR
© PETER HARAN.
Within a fortnight of landing in Vietnam, we headed out on our first "live" track with our hearts in our mouths.
Four Viet Cong had ambushed an Australian patrol and fled into the jungle.
Ceasar picked up the scent within seconds and charged forward on his six metre lead. I had trouble hanging on. Soldiers followed us. But within 15 minutes, BANG! We had walked straight into a minefield. The first explosion came from behind and four Diggers fell wounded. I lay prostrate on the ground, ever mindful that my next breath could be my last.
Ceasar scratched at an object beneath the sandy soil only a few metres to my front. I gingerly pulled him in on his lead but he went back and scratched at the spot.I knew that something was there and pointed to it as an engineer team with mine-sweepers crept forward.
They carefully extracted a small landmine which was connected by wire to a concealed 500-pound (227 kilo) unexploded B52 bomb. It was soon defused.
Ceasar had proved his value on his first track. Yet I had had my reservations when I was first introduced to him in 1966 at the army's war dog kennels near Sydney. From a standing start he took off like a shell and hit me in the chest, all legs, ears and lolling tongue. After licking me to ".death", I found this Labrador - Kelpie cross would be my mate for the next 18 months.
It was with a sinking feeling I was told this mongrel - cross eyed, with one ear bigger than the other and hyperactive to the point of distraction - would be the dog I'd take to Vietnam. A derelict from a dog home, he was one of seven soon to be posted to infantry units as a tracker. His job would be to lead men into battle by tracking the enemy like a bloodhound on the end of a tether.
It took no more than three weeks to discover that Ceasar was no ordinary canine. With a heart like Phar Lap and the keenest sense of smell instructors had ever encountered, Ceasar outstripped his four-legged comrades in training, tenaciously following tracks which were days old through endless kilometres of jungle country.
Ceasar drove the other army dogs mad with practical jokes. He liked to get up to fun and games when we were in transport trucks by sneaking under the seats to the far end , starting a dog fight and then sneaking back.
One time when such a fight broke out the driver turned his head. The truck left the road and came to stop with its two front wheels over a 50m drop near Bulli Pass. We got out very gently for fear of going over. No-one was hurt.
Ceasar would even miss dinner for the sake of a scrap with the other Labradors, who shunned him because he was a mongrel.
Our training was completed by mid-1967. Ceasar and I were paired with Marcus, a pedigree Labrador, and his handler and we headed for the war zone.
Ceasar's exploits in the jungle soon spread far and wide. He was called, with me in tow, to work with American troops far out of the Australian province.
He was winched down through trees from helicopters and rode atop tanks, that huge heart pumping and tongue rolling out. He tracked until men following him dropped with exhaustion. He "pointed" to the enemy with his nose in the air and a look of triumph on his face long before the VietCong knew he was on their trail.
One operation that sticks in my mind was on Guy Fawkes day, 1968. We were called in by the Americans whose jungle clearance unit was being picked off.
These guys cleared the jungle with a chain linked between two bulldozers. The aim was to deny the Vietcong coverage.
Ceasar found the trail of the snipers and followed it through the jungle for 5km. Then he stopped and pointed. I signalled for the soldiers to move in. The Vietcong snipers were 50m on. We got them.
Ceasar felt about helicopters the way today's dog feels about the flying Frisbee. He would drag me through the jungle to get aboard a chopper, try to bite the flying rotor blades and cover the pilot with saliva once aboard.
The pilots would shake their heads in disbelief as he bounded out the doorway before the chopper touched down, leaving me knee-deep in a rice paddy with a flailing dog on a lead.
At night he crossed his legs an placed his head on my hat as we peered into the blackness..
On parade, while we soldiers stood at attention, Ceasar would go to sleep next to me. He was there to do a job and lived to be strapped into tracking harness and get that phenomenal nose down to the ground.
But Ceasar's days were numbered. The war was getting too hot - changing from guerilla tactics to conventional warfare. He was now involved in contact with the enemy that was just too heavy.
Under fire, he sat and watched the bullets zap around him. He seemed to have no concept of the horror of war. He was doing a job with his mates, that's all.
He spent more time in his kennel at the Australian headquarters at Nui Dat. Each day he had a run with Marcus and spent the long hours looking for choppers from his cage. The day came when I walked to his kennel with his replacement handler. I was going home.
Caesar, injected with live rabies vaccine as a precaution against the disease rampant in Asia, and which prevented him from going home, would stay.
"Goodbye old pal." I rubbed that floppy ear and tried not to look into those crossed eyes.
Always the clown, he picked up his food bowl in his mouth as I walked away. The last thing I heard was the bowl being dropped and a yelp of bewilderment.
I tried to keep track of Ceasar while I was back in Australia, but eventually lost contact.
Two years later I returned to Vietnam and ran through the rubber trees to the kennels. Both cages were empty, Ceasar had gone.
I frantically asked after my old friend. He and the other tracking dogs I was told, had been, "pensioned off".
One high ranking officer tried to help. "Ceasar? Yes, he's in Siagon now. We gave him to an American banker as a pet. I think he's fine. One of the other dogs died of heat exhaustion. But your old mongrel is out to pasture."
For 12 months I tried to wrangle a trip to Siagon. I made phone calls to the Americans when I was on leave. It never worked out. That was 20 years ago. Today I remember him. Most days I still see his face in my mind. And I shed a tear for him each Anzac Day.
Story courtesy Peter Haran from, ‘It’s a Dog’s Life’<br>© Media Production Services. Paul Springthorpe 1990.
Reprinted here with the kind permision of Peter Haran, from his fine book "Trackers" The Untold Story of the Australian Dogs of War. Published by New Holland Publishers P/L ISBN 1 86436 605 2
© PETER HARAN.
Within a fortnight of landing in Vietnam, we headed out on our first "live" track with our hearts in our mouths.
Four Viet Cong had ambushed an Australian patrol and fled into the jungle.
Ceasar picked up the scent within seconds and charged forward on his six metre lead. I had trouble hanging on. Soldiers followed us. But within 15 minutes, BANG! We had walked straight into a minefield. The first explosion came from behind and four Diggers fell wounded. I lay prostrate on the ground, ever mindful that my next breath could be my last.
Ceasar scratched at an object beneath the sandy soil only a few metres to my front. I gingerly pulled him in on his lead but he went back and scratched at the spot.I knew that something was there and pointed to it as an engineer team with mine-sweepers crept forward.
They carefully extracted a small landmine which was connected by wire to a concealed 500-pound (227 kilo) unexploded B52 bomb. It was soon defused.
Ceasar had proved his value on his first track. Yet I had had my reservations when I was first introduced to him in 1966 at the army's war dog kennels near Sydney. From a standing start he took off like a shell and hit me in the chest, all legs, ears and lolling tongue. After licking me to ".death", I found this Labrador - Kelpie cross would be my mate for the next 18 months.
It was with a sinking feeling I was told this mongrel - cross eyed, with one ear bigger than the other and hyperactive to the point of distraction - would be the dog I'd take to Vietnam. A derelict from a dog home, he was one of seven soon to be posted to infantry units as a tracker. His job would be to lead men into battle by tracking the enemy like a bloodhound on the end of a tether.
It took no more than three weeks to discover that Ceasar was no ordinary canine. With a heart like Phar Lap and the keenest sense of smell instructors had ever encountered, Ceasar outstripped his four-legged comrades in training, tenaciously following tracks which were days old through endless kilometres of jungle country.
Ceasar drove the other army dogs mad with practical jokes. He liked to get up to fun and games when we were in transport trucks by sneaking under the seats to the far end , starting a dog fight and then sneaking back.
One time when such a fight broke out the driver turned his head. The truck left the road and came to stop with its two front wheels over a 50m drop near Bulli Pass. We got out very gently for fear of going over. No-one was hurt.
Ceasar would even miss dinner for the sake of a scrap with the other Labradors, who shunned him because he was a mongrel.
Our training was completed by mid-1967. Ceasar and I were paired with Marcus, a pedigree Labrador, and his handler and we headed for the war zone.
Ceasar's exploits in the jungle soon spread far and wide. He was called, with me in tow, to work with American troops far out of the Australian province.
He was winched down through trees from helicopters and rode atop tanks, that huge heart pumping and tongue rolling out. He tracked until men following him dropped with exhaustion. He "pointed" to the enemy with his nose in the air and a look of triumph on his face long before the VietCong knew he was on their trail.
One operation that sticks in my mind was on Guy Fawkes day, 1968. We were called in by the Americans whose jungle clearance unit was being picked off.
These guys cleared the jungle with a chain linked between two bulldozers. The aim was to deny the Vietcong coverage.
Ceasar found the trail of the snipers and followed it through the jungle for 5km. Then he stopped and pointed. I signalled for the soldiers to move in. The Vietcong snipers were 50m on. We got them.
Ceasar felt about helicopters the way today's dog feels about the flying Frisbee. He would drag me through the jungle to get aboard a chopper, try to bite the flying rotor blades and cover the pilot with saliva once aboard.
The pilots would shake their heads in disbelief as he bounded out the doorway before the chopper touched down, leaving me knee-deep in a rice paddy with a flailing dog on a lead.
At night he crossed his legs an placed his head on my hat as we peered into the blackness..
On parade, while we soldiers stood at attention, Ceasar would go to sleep next to me. He was there to do a job and lived to be strapped into tracking harness and get that phenomenal nose down to the ground.
But Ceasar's days were numbered. The war was getting too hot - changing from guerilla tactics to conventional warfare. He was now involved in contact with the enemy that was just too heavy.
Under fire, he sat and watched the bullets zap around him. He seemed to have no concept of the horror of war. He was doing a job with his mates, that's all.
He spent more time in his kennel at the Australian headquarters at Nui Dat. Each day he had a run with Marcus and spent the long hours looking for choppers from his cage. The day came when I walked to his kennel with his replacement handler. I was going home.
Caesar, injected with live rabies vaccine as a precaution against the disease rampant in Asia, and which prevented him from going home, would stay.
"Goodbye old pal." I rubbed that floppy ear and tried not to look into those crossed eyes.
Always the clown, he picked up his food bowl in his mouth as I walked away. The last thing I heard was the bowl being dropped and a yelp of bewilderment.
I tried to keep track of Ceasar while I was back in Australia, but eventually lost contact.
Two years later I returned to Vietnam and ran through the rubber trees to the kennels. Both cages were empty, Ceasar had gone.
I frantically asked after my old friend. He and the other tracking dogs I was told, had been, "pensioned off".
One high ranking officer tried to help. "Ceasar? Yes, he's in Siagon now. We gave him to an American banker as a pet. I think he's fine. One of the other dogs died of heat exhaustion. But your old mongrel is out to pasture."
For 12 months I tried to wrangle a trip to Siagon. I made phone calls to the Americans when I was on leave. It never worked out. That was 20 years ago. Today I remember him. Most days I still see his face in my mind. And I shed a tear for him each Anzac Day.
Story courtesy Peter Haran from, ‘It’s a Dog’s Life’<br>© Media Production Services. Paul Springthorpe 1990.
Reprinted here with the kind permision of Peter Haran, from his fine book "Trackers" The Untold Story of the Australian Dogs of War. Published by New Holland Publishers P/L ISBN 1 86436 605 2
