Mercenary Mum: My Journey from Young Mother to Baghdad Bodyguard (8 page)

IN JANUARY 2003
, my transfer was finally accepted, and I started work as the platoon commander of the Brisbane-based MP platoon. I would be responsible for thirty soldiers. In medical corps, I had mostly dealt with administration, logistical and training issues. Now it’d be up to me to command my soldiers, plan security missions, complete policing tasks, and oversee soldier welfare and training. It was scary, but I was definitely up for the challenge.

Major Murray Heron, who had been my platoon commander back in my early days in the corps, was now my company commander. He was a good leader, and someone who I had the utmost respect for. Major Heron was the kind of boss who’d give you a task, tell you what the parameters were, let you formulate your plan, and, if needed, ask you to justify a particular course of action. He’d draw you into line if it was required, and provide guidance and support to bring out your best. There was no one else I would have rather worked under.

The training warrant officer at the unit was none other than Leo Legend, my instructor from my MP basic course. Leo had always inspired me to work to a standard I’d thought to be unreachable. His style of leadership was motivating, confident and fair.

I was also lucky that my platoon sergeant major (or second-in-command) was Craig, another instructor from my course. Craig was the strong, silent type who provided me with oodles of solid advice from his many years with the MP. He was my counsellor and my sounding board. Being a leader can be a lonely job because you are required to make decisions that may not be popular. If you find yourself being too familiar with staff, it can sometimes affect the outcome of important decisions. A certain amount of aloofness is required, so that your decisions are unbiased and are made responsibly. This is an important aspect of leadership as it prevents strong personalities or ‘boys clubs’ from influencing people in power. It creates equity in the workplace and allows the leader to make the right decision without being swayed by their ‘friends’. I never realised just how important this was, until I saw it flagrantly ignored years later. So Craig was a very important person to me. It was vital to have a second-in-command who I could trust implicitly, to discuss work, staffing and personal issues with.

One of the sergeants under my command, Clappy, was a guy who I had served alongside when I was a soldier. In fact, he had been in charge of me back then. I was now his boss. Things were not as awkward as they might have been. I’d assign him tasks, and it would be up to him how to do them. If he did them well, I told him so. If he stuffed up (which he never did, just for the record), he’d get extra training. It was how things worked with everyone in my platoon.

I don’t know if I was a good leader or not, but I will say this: I ran my platoon as best I could. When I assigned my soldiers a task, I expected them to complete the job competently. If I had to plan a mission, I’d take my own knowledge on the matter and combine it with advice from my sergeants. If soldiers or platoon sergeants were crap at their jobs, I counselled them and took steps to remedy the problem. With my platoon, I knew I had complete loyalty, and that was what counted the most. In return, they had my unwavering loyalty too.

While in the unit, I was given the opportunity to try out for the elite MP close personal protection (CPP) course. Only one or two officers were permitted to attend the course at a time, as most of the positions were given to the corporals. Selection to attend the course was only the first hurdle I had to jump over. I then had to pass the ‘barrier test’ before I could even start the course. The barrier test was designed to weed out candidates who aren’t physically ready for the demands of the course. The barrier test included push-ups, sit-ups, a timed 2.4-kilometre run followed by a ‘beep test’ (a shuttle run), a swim test and a weapons shoot. The pass standard was bloody high, and well above normal military fitness requirements. Now, if you can recall my previous stories about not being a fast runner and a natural athlete, then you can probably appreciate the considerable amount of effort I put into passing that test.

The training paid off. I kicked arse on the barrier test and went on to complete the course, which was even more gruelling. It involved five weeks of intensive training, and every minute of it was thrilling. I loved conducting reconnaissance missions late into the night. I loved practising our ‘walking drills’ on the busy streets of Sydney. My lower back and knee were pretty well stuffed for most of the course thanks to over-training, but when enemy fire started raining down on us during battle simulations, the adrenaline kicked in and any thoughts of pain went out the window. I ducked, weaved and returned fire with the rest of the team. It was the best course I’d ever done: it was physically demanding, mentally draining, but a hell of a lot of fun! I was ecstatic when I learnt I had passed the course. I had worked hard and was extremely proud to be the first female officer qualified to command CPP teams on military operations.

As a female leader in the army, I found that I had to be above average in all areas of the job in order to be thought of as equal to my male counterparts. The army was filled with fit, strong, testosterone-fuelled men, and I needed to be ‘special’ in order to be accepted into their realm. All women did. It wasn’t a rule or obligation; it was just something that you did to gain credibility as a leader, in a male-dominated workplace. Completing the CPP course bolstered my reputation as a female leader, and I hoped it would propel my career within the MP.

My career might have been red-hot, but I still had no personal life to speak of. When Bruce first told me there was someone new in his life, I was hurt. He wanted to introduce me to his new wife, Pamela, but even the thought of it was too much. It didn’t help that she was a stunning blonde with a top executive job – she was basically everything I wasn’t. I didn’t want to meet her. I didn’t want to sit down and have a cup of coffee with her, and I certainly didn’t want to imagine her anywhere near my son. Bruce didn’t respond well either, and things turned bitter on both sides. I wasn’t sure why I was still so upset about breaking up with Bruce after almost two years of being apart. I didn’t love him anymore and I wasn’t pining after him. I just wasn’t healing.

As my relationship with Bruce continued to deteriorate, work went off the rails. My soldiers and sergeants were being deployed on operations, and I found myself left with an understaffed platoon for most of the year. At one stage there was only me and fifteen soldiers – half the size the platoon should have been – which meant a big increase in my work, as I had no sergeants to share the load.

At first I relished all these challenges, but after twelve high-tempo months it just got plain hard. Even the Christmas period did nothing to help my exhaustion. By the time I returned to work, I was well and truly burnt out.

I started 2004 feeling despondent and unmotivated. I loved my job, but I was tired. Being a single mum was tough. All too often I found myself driving Kane to my mum’s house at the weekend (a twenty-hour round trip), so I could attend mandatory army field exercises. I’d then have to repeat that trip the following weekend to pick him up. I loved the training exercises, but the travel was tough on Kane; it was also tough on me.

I had got so much from being a soldier and an officer. Joining up all those years ago was the best decision I ever made, but things had changed. At work, I wanted to invest all my time and effort in my job. I wanted to plan missions, attend exercises and be the best leader I could. When I was at home, I wanted to immerse myself in Kane’s life. I wanted to bake cupcakes, attend playgroups and socialise with other mothers. As things stood, I wasn’t doing either to my satisfaction: my mind was always in two places.

I also had a deep sense that I wanted something more out of life. I wanted an adventure. I had spent the past three years just reacting to whatever situation came my way, and it was starting to wear on me. What sort of example was I setting for my son? I needed to show him the benefits of being bold, of making your own opportunities rather than just waiting for them to be handed to you.

So I began to think about other options. I’d heard about the emerging security contractor scene in Iraq. What was the good of having all these skills if I couldn’t put them to use? My whole adult life I’d trained to work in a war zone, and yet I couldn’t do so as a female officer. But, in the security sector, the possibilities were limitless. It was far from an easy decision. I wrestled with how it would affect my son, and ruminated torturously on the ‘what if’ scenarios. How would Kane cope without me for six months – the length of the typical contract? What if something happened to me while I was over there? These were difficult, soul-searching questions. I thought of the fathers I knew who took up these sorts of contracts all the time without a second thought. After lengthy discussions with Bruce, in which he suggested that Kane could stay with him while I was away working, it looked as though it might be feasible. I still agonised over leaving my son but, in the end, I decided it was better to show Kane that it paid to take life by the balls. Apprehensively, I resigned from the army.

I made some enquiries and, before I knew it, I had a job lined up as part of a private security detail (PSD). Kane would live with his dad for the six months I’d be away, and when I returned on leave (I would have a month’s holidays halfway through the contract), I would be a stay-at-home mum. This was a life-changing decision, and making it felt electric.

On a beautiful summer’s day in early November 2004, Kane and I travelled to Canberra, where Bruce and Pamela were living. My connecting flight out of the country was due to leave that evening.

Kane and I hung out together all day, doing whatever he wanted. We went to the movies, mucked around at KidCity – a huge indoor play centre – and ate ice-cream until our stomachs hurt. I’d see Kane with this huge smile on his face, and I had to fight to keep myself together. Kane was everything to me. God knows it broke my heart to leave him, but I knew how much Bruce was looking forward to spending this time with his son. I was certain Kane would get a lot out of this time with his dad too.

At the end of the day, I dropped off Kane at his father’s place. I hugged him long and hard, promising that I would write to him and ring as often as I could. I passed Kane over to Bruce, knowing he would be well taken care of. Fighting back the tears, I told my son how much I loved him and that I’d be home again before he knew it. It was more than I could bear. After a last hug I turned and left.

I numbly drove back to the airport hotel, where I had a long, hot shower. It was there that I let it all out. I broke down and wept for my son. Eventually, I stepped out of the shower feeling drained but somewhat at peace. I had made my decision, and I was not going to change my mind. Despite the sadness of leaving my little boy, I felt a tingle as I dried myself with the fluffy white towel. I was excited to find out what was waiting for me outside Baghdad airport.

I changed into my cargo pants and thick, black army boots. There’d be no more pretty-girl clothes for me. I grabbed my belongings and had one more look around my room. There was no turning back now. I shut the door behind me and left for the airport.

AFTER THREE DAYS
in transit, and more connections and palm greasing than I care to mention, I was in a plane above Baghdad. It was clear things were done differently here. There was no gentle descent towards the runway followed by a smooth landing. Thanks to the ever-present threat of surface-to-air missiles, the pilot had to fly in tight circles, staying in the ‘safe’ airspace, gradually getting lower and lower to the ground. Then the aircraft seemed to just drop onto the tarmac with a thud. It was a unique experience, but one that left me a little nauseated.

After we’d clunked onto the ground, there was a mad rush to get off the plane. The etiquette didn’t seem to include waiting for the person in front to get off first. So I followed suit, pushing my way into the aisle and off the plane. My fellow passengers and I travelled in a decrepit-looking bus across the tarmac to the passport office.

The passport office had only the most basic of facilities. There were four cubicles for passport and visa checking, but only two of them were manned. Foreign security guards, dressed in protective equipment and armed to the teeth, were everywhere. I began to wonder exactly how dangerous the airport was. But, at that moment, actually getting to see any other part of the airport was my first big obstacle.

I didn’t have a visa to enter Iraq. I had been advised that all I needed to do was flash the officials the front page of my security contract, and then they would let me in without question. No dice. In the end, it came down to money. The man with the stamp wanted some, and I had it. After paying him US$50, I was let in.

I picked up my luggage from a broken-down conveyor belt, and headed over to customs – and by ‘customs’, I mean a man sitting behind a small table. I took out my knives, weapon holsters, chest webbing and other war-time toys, but my kit barely roused the man’s interest; he simply waved me through. I walked out the door, scanning for anyone who might be waiting for me. I noticed a tall, skinny man striding my way.

“G’day, Joycee. How are ya?” the beanpole said, leaning over to give me a quick kiss on the cheek. I hesitated slightly until I realised that it was Merlin, an MP mate from way back. I hardly recognised him. It had been about ten years since I’d seen him, and he’d grown a beard in the meantime.

“Mate, what are you doing here?” I asked, as he grabbed one of my bags. Merlin told me he was working as security advance team (SAT) leader for our company. I gave a sigh of relief: I’d know someone on the team – someone well qualified, to boot. Merlin had been a corporal in the army before he got out to work in PNG as a security contractor. He had also done the MP CPP course.

As we walked over to the car park, I asked him about the security situation at the airport. Merlin explained that the area was relatively safe because of its proximity to a huge American base called Camp Victory, which was where we’d be going next. Some of the guys on the team, who were waiting for us by the vehicles, were keen to pick up some supplies. The Green Zone, also known as the International Zone, was a highly fortified area within Baghdad city where our team lived. Everywhere outside the Green Zone and the Camp Victory–airport area was referred to as the Red Zone, and as the name suggests, it was extremely dangerous out there. It had a post exchange (PX) store but it was nothing compared to the one the Americans had. The Camp Victory PX sold a good range of food, clothing and DVDs. It even had a Burger King.

Merlin warned that while this area might be safe, the road we’d need to take to get to the Green Zone was not. Route Irish was known as the BIAP Road, or the Jihad Road to the locals. It was one of the most dangerous roads in the world: many, many people had been killed on it. The 12-kilometre highway was the only route to the airport. As such, both military personnel and civilians often used it, making it a popular target for insurgent attacks.

The insurgents’ tactics varied. Suicide bombers would sometimes drive alongside their target’s car before detonating their explosives. Other times they would stand at the side of the road with their car bonnet raised to give the impression that they’d broken down, waiting for a convoy of security vehicles to pass before they pressed the button. Or the crafty pricks would plant explosives inside dead animals and place them next to the road. They’d drop grenades from overpasses, shoot rocket-propelled grenades and guns from nearby building windows, and set up banks of claymore mines, once again hoping to take out whoever they could. They were indiscriminate in who they targeted: military and security personnel, civilians and locals; they didn’t care as long as the body count kept rising. How do you reason with a bunch of arseholes who don’t even respect their own people, let alone a foreign military force?

Merlin took me to the undercover car park, where I met the rest of the team. The introductions were kept very brief. I noticed that they wore all their tactical kit with large shirts over the top to obscure it. Some had grown beards and were wearing Arabic scarves, known as ‘shemaghs’, around their heads.

A guy named Ghost introduced himself while handing me a Glock pistol. I attached it to my belt. Next, he gave me an AK-47.
What a bloody archaic weapon
, I thought. I wondered where my M-4 was: my contract from the security company had indicated that it was the team’s weapon of choice. An M-4 has a higher rate of fire, and is more accurate and a lot easier to use than the dinosaur I was currently holding. Ghost must have noticed my raised eyebrows. He told me that the company had not been able to get any M-4s into the country as yet, and that they were using AK-47s in the meantime.

I’d never used one before, but I’d heard its operation was fairly easy to pick up. The AK’s bullet calibre was larger than an M-4’s, so if I had to use it, at least it would leave the target with some damage. If I had to shoot an insurgent to protect myself and the team, then I wanted to do it effectively. The AK-47 was certainly up to the job.

After I was kitted up with weapons, body armour and ammunition, we drove the short distance to Camp Victory. Ghost told me to bat my eyelids at all the checkpoint guards, as I was the only team member without the ID card needed to get into the base. As it turned out, I was able to slip in along with the team, and soon I was stuffing my face with Burger King.

While the other guys went off to buy their supplies, Ghost stayed to keep me company. We had a getting-to-know-you chat: he told me he had a thirteen-year-old son whose mother he’d split from many years ago. He’d recently knocked up another woman, but wasn’t sure if he wanted to be with her either. I asked him about his previous experience, and he explained that he had been a medic in the British army. He’d been attached to the parachute battalion, which I took to mean that he’d worked with a combat unit, but he was a trade-qualified medic.

Ghost went on to say that he was the team medic as well as the counter assault team (CAT) leader. Now I was confused. The role of the CAT is to go in and shoot the shit out of the enemy when the team is under attack. It provides massive fire support so the rest of the team and the client can withdraw somewhere safer. I didn’t understand how someone could be a life preserver at the same time as leading an attack team. Tactically, it was just plain wrong. Moreover, a CAT leader should have considerable tactical knowledge and skills. Ideally, it’s a job for an ex–special forces soldier or, at a pinch, an infantry corporal with a shitload of experience. But a medic? I was sceptical to say the least.

I took a deep breath in. It was way too early to make any judgments. Anyhow, I knew firsthand what it was like to be underestimated. As a woman in this industry, I would have to fight hard to be taken seriously. I was now in a man’s world, and that meant proving I was as capable as, if not better than, my male teammates.

I was no longer an officer in the army. There was no more planning war games, delivering orders or leading my soldiers. I was just a security contractor, paid to follow orders and do my job. And that was what I was going to do.

It’s a shame I couldn’t stick to that plan and keep my mouth shut. It would have saved me a lot of heartache. But shit happens and you find yourself unable to keep quiet any longer. And when you break the silence, all hell breaks loose with it.