“Well, Ginger, shall we head out then…” muttered Val, adjusting the makeshift lead fashioned from an old piece of rope. He zipped his ancient coat up to his chin and shivered. February that year was vicious—slush, stinging wind, cold that cut right through you. Ginger—a scruffy ginger mongrel with mottled fur and one cloudy eye—had walked into Val’s life a year ago. Val had spotted the battered and starving stray by the bins on his way back from the night shift at the steelworks. The poor animal’s left eye was milky with an old injury. A shout sliced through the evening. Val recognised the sneer—it was Steve ‘Squint’, the local twenty-something would-be tough guy. Around him loitered three teenage lads—his ‘crew.’ “Out for a walk, are we, gramps?” Steve jeered. “Just walking,” Val replied curtly, eyes down. “Oi, mate, you paying tax to walk that mutt?” one of the kids laughed. “See, he’s proper ugly—look at that dodgy eye!” A rock whistled past and struck Ginger’s side. The mongrel yelped and pressed close to Val’s shin. “Leave it,” Val said quietly, but his voice had an edge as sharp as glass. “Oooh, Percy the Tinkerer’s found his tongue!” Steve swaggered closer. “You remember whose patch this is? Dogs walk here if I say so. Got it?” Val tensed. Army training taught him to handle trouble swiftly and decisively—but that was thirty years ago. Now he was just a weary, retired fitter who didn’t want any more hassle. “C’mon, Ginger,” Val turned for home. “Yeah, you better run!” Steve called after him. “Next time I’ll finish off your freak for good!” Val lay awake all night, the confrontation twisting in his mind. The next day, sleet drummed on the windows. Val delayed the walk, but Ginger waited by the door with such faithful insistence he couldn’t refuse. “All right, all right. Just a quick one.” They steered clear of the usual haunts, but Steve’s gang were nowhere to be seen—probably hiding from the foul weather. Val was just beginning to relax when Ginger stopped dead near the old boiler house. His one good ear pricked up, sniffing. “What’s up, old boy?” Ginger whined and tugged towards the derelict. Strange noises filtered out—maybe crying, maybe groans. “Hello? Anyone there?” Val called out. No answer, just wind howling through broken brick. Ginger pulled urgently. There was fear in that one bright eye. “What is it?” Val knelt beside him. “What’s going on?” Then, he heard it—a child’s voice, desperate: “Help! Please!” Val’s heart skipped. He unclipped Ginger’s lead and followed into the ruins. Behind crumbling bricks, a boy of twelve huddled, beaten and crying—split lip, torn clothes. “Oh my God!” Val knelt. “What’s happened, son?” “Mr Williams? Is that you?” the boy peered up. Val looked closer and recognized him—Andy Moore, the quiet lad from no. 5. “Andy! Who did this?” “Steve and his lot,” Andy sniffed. “They wanted money off my mum. I told them I’d tell the police. They caught me…” “How long’ve you been here?” “Since morning. S-so cold.” Val shrugged off his coat and wrapped Andy. Ginger pressed close, sharing his warmth. “Can you stand, son?” “My leg… I think it’s broken.” Val carefully examined it. Definitely a break. Who knew what else was wrong? “You got a phone?” “They took it.” Val fished out his battered old Nokia, dialled for an ambulance. “Hold on, Andy. Help’s coming.” “What if Steve finds out I’m still alive?” Andy’s voice trembled. “He said he’d finish me.” “He won’t lay a finger on you,” Val promised. “Not ever again.” Andy stared at him in disbelief: “But you ran off from them yesterday…” “That was just me and Ginger. This time—it’s different.” He left the rest unsaid. How to explain the old soldier’s code—that real men don’t abandon children in trouble? The ambulance came quicker than expected. They took Andy away. Val waited by the boiler house, thoughts churning. That evening, Andy’s mum, Mrs Moore, came to his door in tears, thanking him over and over. “Mr Williams,” she sobbed, “they said if he’d been out there another hour… You saved his life!” “Wasn’t me,” Val said, stroking Ginger’s head. “Ginger found your boy.” “But what now?” Mrs Moore stared anxiously at the door. “Steve’s still out there. The police say there’s no proof—one kid’s word doesn’t count.” “It’ll be all right,” Val promised, though he had no idea how. He tossed in bed that night, restless. How could he protect Andy—and the rest of the area’s kids—from this gang? By morning, the answer was clear. Val put on his old British Army dress uniform—medals shining, jacket crisp. He checked the mirror—a soldier, even if greying and slowed by time. “Come on, Ginger. We’ve got work to do.” Steve’s gang lurked by the shop as usual. Seeing Val approach in full regalia, the youths sniggered. “Here he comes, like it’s Remembrance Sunday!” one crowed. Steve hopped off the bench, smirking. “You lost, grandad? Your day’s done.” “On the contrary,” Val replied, walking straight up. “My day’s only beginning.” “Why you dressed like that, then?” “To do my duty. To protect the vulnerable—from the likes of you.” Steve snorted. “What planet are you on, grandpa? Who cares about ‘the vulnerable’?” “You remember Andy Moore?” The laughter slid off Steve’s face. “Why would I remember some muppet?” “You’d better. Because he’ll be the last kid you harm around here.” “You threatening me, old man?” “I’m warning you.” Steve stepped forward, a glint of metal in his hand. “Let’s see if you’ve still got the bottle—” Val didn’t budge. The old army steel was back. “The law runs this patch, not you.” “And who made you the law?” “My conscience.” Then, something unexpected happened. Ginger, silent until now, stood up tall—hackles raised, a deep growl rumbling from his chest. “Your mangy dog’s next,” Steve started. “My dog’s a war hero,” Val cut in calmly. “Afghan bomb squad. She can sniff out bad guys with her eyes closed.” Utter nonsense—Ginger was no more than a bin dog. But Val’s voice had such conviction, everyone bought it. Even Ginger, who straightened and bared her teeth like a K9 legend. “She’s taken down more villains than I can count,” Val went on. “Think she couldn’t handle one jumped-up yob?” Steve faltered. His mates froze behind him. “Listen carefully,” Val intoned, stepping closer. “From today, these streets are safe. I’ll be walking every alley, every day—and my dog will know every troublemaker. You get me?” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. “You can’t scare me, you fossil. One call and—” “Make your calls,” Val nodded. “Just remember—I have my own contacts. Blokes in the nick. Life owes me more favours than you could dream.” Not true, but Val sounded utterly convincing. “The name’s Val the Veteran,” he finished. “Remember it. And leave the kids alone.” He turned away. Ginger trotted beside him, tail high. Behind, silence. Within three days, Steve and his crew had all but disappeared. And Val kept his promise. Every evening, he patrolled the estate, Ginger at his side—watchful, indomitable. Andy left hospital a week later, still limping but on the mend. That very day he knocked on Val’s door. “Mr Williams, can I help? With your patrols, I mean.” “You’d best ask your mum first.” Mrs Moore agreed, relieved her son had found such a role model. So, every night, the oddest trio strolled the estate—a retired soldier in medals, a sturdy lad, and an old ginger dog. Ginger won everyone’s hearts; even the mums let their kids stroke her, scruffy as she was. Something about her was noble. Val told the kids stories of army brotherhood and loyalty. They listened, rapt. One evening, Andy asked: “Mr Williams, have you ever been scared?” “Of course,” Val replied honestly. “Still am, sometimes.” “Of what?” “Of not getting there in time. Not being strong enough.” Andy stroked Ginger. “When I grow up, I want to help too. Maybe I’ll have a dog as clever as Ginger.” “You will,” Val smiled. “I’m sure of it.” Ginger wagged her tail. And soon, everyone in the area knew it: “That’s Val the Veteran’s dog. She can spot a hero from a villain.” And Ginger proudly served, no longer just a stray—now a true defender of the neighbourhood.

Come on, Ginger, shall we? muttered Arthur, adjusting the makeshift lead hed fashioned from an old bit of rope.

He did up his coat to the collar and shivered. February had been miserable this year slushy rain over grimy snow, and the wind cut straight through him.

Ginger, a scruffy old mutt with faded rusty fur and one milky, blind eye, had tumbled into his life a year back. Arthur was walking home from a night shift at the car plant when he spotted the dog rummaging near the bins. Beaten up, ribs poking out, left eye clouded no collar, no hope.

A voice cut through the air, sharp and mocking. Arthur recognised it straight off Steve Woods, local wide boy, early twenties, always surrounded by his crew, three lads hanging about just behind.

Taking your monster out for a stroll, are you? Steve jeered, all cocky.

Yeah, just walking him, Arthur mumbled, eyes down.

Oi, mate! You pay a dog-walking tax or what? laughed one of the lads. Look at the state of that mutt! Blinkin hell, hes only got one good eye!

A stone flew past, hit Gingers side. The dog whimpered and pressed himself to Arthurs leg.

Back off, Arthur said quietly, steel sharpening his tone.

Ooh, granddads got a mouth on him! Steve swaggered closer. You forgotten whose patch this is? Round here dogs only walk if I say so.

Arthurs chest tightened. The army had taught him to handle trouble fast and firm but that was thirty years back. Now he was just a tired old fitter, pension coming in, desperate not to make his life even harder.

Come on, Ginger. He turned for home.

Yeah, thought so! Next time, your ugly mutt wont walk away at all! Steve shouted after him.

Arthur lay awake half the night, replaying the shit scene over and over.

Next afternoon it was sleeting, the sky a dull grey mess. Arthur put off going out, but Ginger waited by the door with those loyal, hopeful eyes, and he gave in eventually.

Alright, alright. Quick walk, then back.

They stuck to the quiet roads, avoiding the usual corners. Steve and his gang were nowhere to be seen fair weather thugs, hiding from the miserable British rain.

Arthur started to relax, until Ginger stopped dead near the old boiler house. The dog cocked his ear, sniffed the air.

Whats up, old boy?

Ginger whimpered, tugged hard at the lead, nose pointing at the crumbling doorway. Arthur heard something then a muffled wail, half cry, half moan, swept away by the wind.

Hello? Anyone there? Arthur called.

No answer, only the wind sighing round the broken windows.

Ginger yanked the lead again something urgent in his single good eye.

Arthur bent down, voice gentle. What is it, lad? What have you found?

Then he heard it, clearer this time a boys voice, shaky. Help! Please!

Arthurs heart kicked in his chest. He unclipped the rope and followed Ginger inside.

There, wedged behind a pile of bricks, was a boy, looked twelve or so, face battered, lip split, coat torn all to bits.

Oh, God Arthur crouched down. What happened, son?

Mr. Taylor? the boy squinted up at him. Is that you?

Looking closer, Arthur recognised him. Jamie Collins neighbours lad from number 28. Quiet, shy.

Jamie! Whats gone on?

Steve and them lot, Jamie croaked. They wanted Mums purse. I said Id tell the police. They caught me

How longve you been here?

Since morning. Its freezing.

Arthur shrugged off his coat, wrapped it round the boy. Ginger curled up next to him, sharing what warmth he could.

Can you get up, Jamie?

My leg hurts. Feels broken.

Arthur gently checked. Sure enough: snapped. God knows what else those little bastards had wrecked.

Got your phone, lad?

They took it.

Arthur dug out his ancient brick mobile and called 999. Paramedics promised theyd be there within half an hour.

Hold on, Jamie. Helps on its way.

The boys eyes grew wide with fear. If Steve finds out Im still alive He threatened to finish it.

Arthurs voice was firm. He wont lay another finger on you, son. Not now.

Jamie looked at him, uncertain. But yesterday you walked away from him.

That was different. Yesterday it was just me and Ginger. Today its not the same.

He stopped. What could he say? That in a distant war hed once promised himself never to leave a kid behind? Or that every real man should stick up for the little ones?

The ambulance came sooner than expected. Jamie was bundled off to hospital. Arthur stood outside the broken boiler house with Ginger, thinking hard.

That evening, Jamies mum, Mrs Collins, turned up on Arthurs doorstep, eyes red-rimmed from crying. She sobbed, hugged him, said she owed him everything.

If hed been out there even another hour Arthur, you saved his life!

Wasnt me, Arthur said quietly, stroking Gingers ears. It was him what found your boy.

Mrs Collins looked back at the hallway, anxious.

What now? Steves still out there, and the local copper says theres no proof. No one takes just one kids word seriously.

Arthur told her itd all work out, though he hadnt a clue how.

That night he barely slept, his mind whirling. How could he protect Jamie? Protect all the kids round here? How many more would have to dodge this gang?

By morning, he knew.

Arthur pulled out his old army dress uniform, dusted off his medals, pinned them on. He checked the mirror still fit enough to stand his ground.

Come on, Ginger. Weve work to do, mate.

Steve and his lads were loafing by the off-licence, as usual. Arthur strode up, Ginger by his side.

Oh look, one of the gang jeered, Granddads off to the Remembrance parade!

Steve got up, smirking. What you doing here, soldier boy? Thought your time was up.

Ive only just started, Arthur answered.

Whyre you playing dress up?

Im here to do my duty. Protect the neighbourhood. Protect the kids.

Steve barked a harsh laugh. Lost the plot, old man? Dont make jokes.

Jamie Collins ring a bell?

Steves face tightened, smirk gone.

Dont know any Jamies. Not my problem.

You should remember him. Nobody round here is going to get messed up by you again.

You threatening me?

Call it a warning.

Steve stepped forward, flick knife flashing in his hand.

Ill show you whos boss round here!

Arthur stood his ground. Years had made him rusty, but the old backbone held.

Boss round here is the law.

Steve sneered. And who said you were the law?

My own conscience. Thats who.

Just then, Ginger, whod been quiet all this time, bristled up, growling deep in his throat.

What, your scrappy mutts going to stop me?

Arthur didnt blink. My dog? Hes seen action. Sniffed out landmines in Afghanistan, saved soldiers lives he can smell a wrongun a mile off.

A bit of bluff, that, but Arthur sounded so sure that even Ginger seemed to believe it. The dog bared his teeth, ears up, ready.

Found twenty insurgents, he did. Took them all alive. Think he cant deal with one jumped-up druggie?

Steve shuffled backwards, his mates shrinking too.

Listen good, Arthur stepped closer. From today, this areas safe. Every evening, me and my dogll be walking the estate. Keeping an eye on things. Any trouble youll see us.

He left it at that, but theyd all caught his meaning.

Steve tried to save face, You trying to scare me, old man? One phone call and

Arthur held his gaze. Go on, ring who you like. Ive got mates you wouldnt believe old squaddies, coppers. Plenty of people owe me favours.

All nonsense, but said with such conviction even Steve looked worried.

They call me Arthur the Afghan round here, Arthur said, matter-of-fact. Dont forget it. And leave the kids alone.

He strode off, Ginger at his side, tail high. The gang said nothing.

Steves lot vanished from the estate for the next few days.

Arthur really did start making his evening rounds, with Ginger keeping step, head high and alert.

Jamie got out of hospital a week later, still limping but keen to walk. He turned up on Arthurs doorstep, determined.

Mr. Taylor, can I help you with your rounds? Please?

Arthur nodded. Ask your mum first, though.

Mrs Collins agreed delighted, in truth, that her boy had found someone to look up to.

Now if you looked out in the evenings youd see a curious little trio an older chap in an army jacket, a skinny lad, and a battered old ginger dog.

Everyone liked Ginger even parents let their kids stroke him, despite his rough looks. There was something noble about that dog, something steady you couldnt put your finger on.

Arthur told the local kids tales from his army days, about loyalty and friendship, and they listened eyes wide, scarcely breathing.

One evening, on their way in, Jamie asked,

Mr. Taylor, have you ever been scared?

Course I have, lad. Still am now and then.

What of?

Not making it. Not being strong enough.

Jamie hugged Ginger round the neck. When Im grown up, Ill help you. I want a dog like yours too clever and brave.

Youll have one, Arthur smiled. I promise.

Gingers tail wagged in reply.

Pretty soon everyone on the estate knew Ginger. Theyd say, Thats Arthur the Afghans dog. He can sniff out the real heroes from the scoundrels.

And Ginger kept doing his rounds, knowing he wasnt just a stray any longer he was a protector now.