Mercenary Mum: My Journey from Young Mother to Baghdad Bodyguard (6 page)

IT BEGAN WITH
a knock on my door. I’d just finished getting dressed in my PT kit and was about to head off to work on my trusty pushbike. I opened the door to see Butts, a colleague who also lived in the dormitory. He told me he’d just received a phone call from the platoon commander. I didn’t own a mobile phone at the time, so the platoon commander had rung Butts to pass on a message to me ASAP: I was to report to 4 Field Regiment (4 Fd Regt) in fifteen minutes’ time.

Whoa! What was going on?
Butts had a car and told me he’d give me a lift there. I quickly changed into my uniform and jumped in his car. He drove through the 4 Fd Regt gates and dropped me off in front of the main building. I got quite a few curious stares from unit members; my bright-red beret made it difficult for me to blend into the surrounds. Luckily, I wasn’t there for long before more MPs turned up. The second-in-command of my section, Corporal Murphy, and another section member, Corporal Monroe, entered, making us a party of three. They had also been told to report to 4 Fd Regt, and did not know what was going on either.

Murphy went into the headquarters and motioned for us to follow him. We sat down at a table inside a briefing room. Within a few minutes, the room was filled with various artillery commanders. We were then told to prepare ourselves for immediate deployment to Cambodia: we were going to assist with evacuating Australians and some foreign nationals from the country.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I was excited to say the least. I had only been in the unit a little more than a month, and now I’d be deploying on a real operation. I didn’t have a clue what was going on in Cambodia. I’m not sure I could have even pointed to it on a map. Geography had never been my strong suit.

After the briefing, the three of us returned to our unit and immediately began sorting through our field equipment and personal issues. Our operation was deemed secret so we were only allowed to inform our families that something was going on and that we were required to deploy somewhere at short notice. I rang Mum to let her know I was going away, but that I couldn’t tell her anything about it. I told her to watch TV and put two and two together. I then rang Bruce to let him know the same.

At 9 a.m. that same morning we had to return to 4 Fd Regt with all our kit. We were then issued additional equipment: Kevlar helmets, body armour, ration packs and so on. By then, I had listened to a few radio reports. The Cambodian Second Prime Minister, Hun Sen, had launched a coup against the First Prime Minister, Prince Norodom Ranariddh. The country had subsequently fallen into chaos. We were to be part of the team sent in to help evacuate approved civilians.

This was the reason I’d joined the army. I wanted to help people. I wanted to do something for my country. I was going to be part of something that counted for more than just meeting a Woolworths ‘key performance indicator’, like grocery-scanning speed or whatever. This was history. I was going to play a role in it.

The day wore on. There were more briefings, intelligence reports, equipment issues and a lot of waiting around. At lunchtime, I met more of the artillery detachment we would be deploying with: there were about forty soldiers all up. I knew that my job would mainly comprise looking after security issues such as searching people before they got onto the military aircraft and access control of our command base. I hadn’t received any formal training on evacuation procedures, and there was no doctrine available about these kinds of operations (or at least none that was made available to me), so I began to pump Murphy for information. What kind of procedures did we follow before allowing civilians onto our aircraft? What was our screening process? How thorough were our searches? What did we do with dangerous or unstable evacuees? What were our rules of engagement?

Murphy did his best to answer my questions but seemed to think I was asking too many. It might sound corny and maybe even ridiculous, but I just wanted to do as professional a job as possible for my corps and my country. I’d gone from having a dead-end job and a lazy boyfriend to a life that involved rescuing people from possible harm. I wanted to be as well prepared as I could.

By mid afternoon, we had deployed to the Amberley RAAF base to await our flight to the base in Butterworth, Malaysia, where we’d run the operation. It was there that the stories of previous failed deployments began to surface. Corporal Monroe recounted how he’d sat at the very same airport, waiting to deploy to PNG for an operation. They’d been sitting on the tarmac, waiting to get on the aircraft, when the deployment was stopped.

I hoped and prayed that this would not happen to us. While we waited, we were given briefings as new information came to hand. At this stage, all forty-odd of us would be deploying to Cambodia to conduct a full-scale service-protected evacuation.

At eight o’clock that night we were still sitting on the tarmac. The C-130 plane scheduled to fly us to Darwin kept being delayed. It was driving me nuts. I just wanted to get on the plane and go. I curled up next to my webbing and tried to get some sleep. I’d only closed my eyes for a few minutes when we were suddenly hustled awake. The Hercules aircraft was about to land.

It was 2 a.m. by the time we arrived in Darwin. We were hurried out of the aircraft and taken to the transit lines for the rest of the night. Murphy and Monroe were still sceptical about our actually getting out of the country, but I remained positive. I gathered up my equipment and headed to our accommodation. They were small rooms, but they were air-conditioned. I slept like a baby.

At 6 a.m. everyone was up for breakfast. We were scheduled to depart for Malaysia at 10 a.m. I feasted on pancakes, Coco Pops and strong coffee – I didn’t know when my next decent meal would be. Feeling full and slightly sickened by what I’d eaten, I headed back to my room to pack up my kit. It was there I heard that only twenty personnel from the army contingent would now be going to Cambodia to assist with the evacuation. The rest would remain in Malaysia to help with the processing of the evacuees. Murphy told me that he and I would be the only MPs going to Cambodia.

Ten o’clock came and went. Our kit was put on and taken off the aircraft until the RAAF loadmasters (‘loadies’) were happy with the weight displacement on the aircraft. At about 1 p.m. the media turned up and their cameras started rolling. Operation VISTA had finally been announced to the Australian public.

The commanders dealt with the media while the rest of us boarded the aircraft. Things were getting exciting again. We were finally on our way. God, it felt good. I savoured the feeling and walked onto the plane with my head held high.

Now, a Hercules aircraft is not like your conventional Qantas jet. There are no comfortable seats, the lighting is limited, and the toilet is hidden only by a flimsy curtain. Everyone sits squashed up together on cargo-netting seats, wearing hearing protection because of the engine noise. That didn’t stop me from sleeping the full nine hours it took to get to Malaysia. As soon as we were permitted to remove our seatbelts, I found a vacant bit of real estate and crashed out.

By the time we arrived at Butterworth it was 10 p.m., but the night was not over. There were still intelligence briefings to be given, official passports to be issued and deployment administration to complete. We were also told the news that the detachment would be downsized again. Now only three army personnel would actually deploy to Cambodia the following morning. I didn’t know why they kept decreasing the number, but I didn’t care too much at the time: I was one of the three selected to go ‘into country’.

Although I didn’t understand what was happening, I was in no position to air my concerns. I was only a lance corporal. This was a RAAF-led operation and the boss was a wing commander. I just accepted that he was my superior and knew what he was doing. That’s how it goes in the defence force. Still, I couldn’t comprehend how three army personnel were going to screen, search and contain all the evacuees.

*

The next morning I was up before dawn. I met with the rest of the contingent going into Cambodia: there were medics, loadies, air defence guards, communications personnel and miscellaneous RAAF people. From the army, there was an artillery sergeant and a corporal who’d be accompanying me on the deployment. None of us could wait to get onto the aircraft.

We were standing around, checking our equipment and stores, when we were informed that our numbers had been slashed again. Now only one of us would be deploying. At this stage I had to ask why. It was explained to me that the Cambodian government thought a large-scale army operation would create panic. They wanted a small ‘footprint’: for all relevant civilians to be evacuated quietly.

So our trio was cut to a solo act. Only one person, from a detachment of forty, would be deploying to Cambodia – and that person would be me. They wanted me because of my security and policing skills, and because I was female. Civilian women and children were our primary concern. Who better to help them through the ordeal than another woman, especially one who could deal with security issues? That day, I thanked my lucky stars for being a woman.

When it was time, I stepped onto the aircraft. I was wide-awake. My senses were alert. The trip would take a couple of hours. I had to relax – calm myself down and enjoy the experience. This was an adventure.

THIRTY MINUTES TILL LANDING.
I sat watching the clock, wondering how dangerous it would be on the ground. Although there seemed to be little chance of members of the local military acting aggressively towards our detachment, the Cambodian government could not guarantee our safety. We were not permitted to take our rifles into the country, as that was deemed far too antagonistic for an evacuation. I had my army-issued ASP baton concealed under my uniform, but it’d be useless in a firefight. I had complete faith in my commanders – well, perhaps not
complete
faith. I was beginning to understand how big a role publicity plays in operations such as this. In the end, I just accepted that the threat of weapon fire was low.

Two minutes till landing.
This was it. Things were about to happen. I had no idea what I was supposed to do once the aircraft landed, but hoped someone in charge would tell me. We touched down. I couldn’t see anything as I was stuck in my seatbelt and nowhere near a window. My heart was pounding in my ears. Adrenaline was racing through my body. The rear of the aircraft opened slowly. Whatever I had expected to see, this certainly wasn’t it.

Immediately, there was the flashing of cameras. There were reporters and photographers everywhere. There must have been fifty of them, from CNN, ABC – all sorts of agencies. They came scurrying up to the aircraft like mice, pointing microphones, asking questions and shoving cameras in my face.

Fortunately, I was no one of any importance. I knew nothing; I said nothing. I scanned the area after getting off the aircraft. Phnom Penh airport was a train wreck. It had come under heavy fire during the coup, and there were rubble and rubbish littering the severely damaged buildings. There was limited security on the tarmac, as evidenced by the media scrum that now surrounded the aircraft, and no one on the ground who was visibly in command or control. Locals stood around gawking at the hoopla. There was no one around to send them on their way.

I looked around to see what everyone else was doing: loadies were tending to their duties; the air defence guards were trying to clear the tarmac to create a safe environment for the aircraft; other personnel were gathering their equipment. I stood there like a stunned mullet. I had not been given any chain of command to follow. It wasn’t clear who, if anyone, I should report to, as I was the only army soldier on the deployment. I knew I had to follow the rank structure within the detachment, but there was no one around to give me specific orders.

It was extremely unsettling: it meant having to find my own place in this operation. I was used to having my orders given to me. In the MPs, I was a lance corporal – at the bottom of the food chain. In this situation, I was the only link in the food chain. It was scary, but also very exciting.

After helping to unload the essential stores from the aircraft, I left for our base – if you could call it that. In fact, it was just a room in the airport. The windows had been blown out and there were glass and detritus everywhere. I looked around the room and checked all the adjoining doors to see if they could open. None did.
Good, only one point of entry to be concerned with.
I saw a group of air defence guards huddled in a circle. I walked over to investigate and heard their commander issuing them a set of orders. I listened in as they were assigned duties around the area. When the orders had been given, I introduced myself to the platoon commander. Together we were able to sort out a list of duties that I could perform in conjunction with his team.

I would be assisting the evacuees to board the aircraft at departure time. I would deal with any distressed civilians and other security issues as they arose. I was happy with that, but there would only be six flights leaving that day. That meant there would also be long periods of non-action in between. We’d have to ensure that the evacuees kept calm while they waited to be flown out.

First things first, though. As a chick in the army, one of my priorities when deploying is always to locate a toilet. Men tend to forget about issues like that, as it’s so easy for them to find a wall and just go for it.

I walked out of our base area and into another part of the airport. Pilfering and wanton destruction had left the airport in pretty bad shape. But the toilets were close by.
Yes!
My happiness soon turned sour. There was no power at the airport, so the toilet area was completely dark. I turned on my torch to make sure the ablutions block was empty. There was no bloody way I was going to walk on my own into a dark toilet in an unstable country.

The toilets were empty of people, but full of faeces. It was everywhere. The floor was covered in crap, piss and toilet paper. I gagged as I walked straight out of there and back to the base area. What the hell was I going to do? I was busting! No one else in the detachment really cared about my situation; it was the least of their problems. It was times like this I felt jealous of men.

I grabbed some toilet paper from my ration pack and walked back to the toilets. I’d just have to squat. I held my breath for as long as I could, and then breathed through my mouth so that I couldn’t smell the foul stench. I found a relatively unspoilt patch of ground and did my thing. I walked out of the toilet, relieved. I smiled wickedly to myself when I saw two female nurses walk into our base. They didn’t know what they were in for.

We were given approximate times for the RAAF aircraft to land and then transport the evacuees out of the country. I went to get a heads-up from the loadies on what their procedures were for getting civilians onto the aircraft and into their seats. They didn’t know how things were going to run, but said they’d let me know if they heard anything. No one had any concept of what would happen. This was going to be interesting. I couldn’t visualise how we could meet all the security requirements while loading these passengers on board.

Eventually, I was able to get some information from a RAAF officer. He told me that all the passengers would be brought out onto the tarmac, and it would be my job to guide them onto the plane. After getting them into their seats and showing them how to put their seatbelts on, I was then to check passengers’ tickets. It was better than not having a plan at all, I supposed, but I wondered whether someone should check the evacuees’ tickets before allowing them onto the military aircraft. I aired my concerns but was told that time was of the essence. The pilots did not want to be sitting on the tarmac for very long. They wanted to land, load up and then take off very quickly: a ‘turn and burn’ operation.

Our first load of passengers was almost due. Would they be scared? Would they act irrationally? I had just had to expect a little bit of everything. There was no known immediate danger to them; we were here to help. This was what the defence force was all about – helping our people. I was where I was supposed to be: here on the front line, giving my all.