Warrior Brothers (4 page)

Mick inched his way up, one rung at a time, locking his arms through the ladder at every step. He was too fatigued to crab his safety strap on to take a rest, and he was acutely aware that if he fell the almost 30 feet back into the water, without his fins on and with a heavy load of equipment, he would sink fast. He would also then have to start the agonising climb again. With all this in mind, he held on to that ladder for dear life.

Mick reached up to us – we were now dangling over the railing. We managed to grab a piece of his climbing harness, which provided just enough help for Mick to continue climbing. We pulled him over the railing and assisted him with his personal preparation for the assault. There was no need for him to be embarrassed. Everyone knew what an effort it had been with the pole and with climbing last, and besides, we knew that our team was the only group that had successfully established a ladder in such heavy seas.

Mick's effort made me stop and think. If this freak struggled, then it was fair to say that most of the other troop members would have failed. This was the first time I understood something that I would be reminded of again and again in the Regiment: the fitter operators take on an increased workload, which lightens the burden for members who may not be of the same physical standard.

Despite this knowledge, the troop still enjoyed paying out on Mick at the end of the day. We had to make the most of it, as seeing him struggle on a climb was a rare occurrence!

At times like this, or when we were battling the swell of the sea on the way to Heard Island, it wasn't hard to entertain the thought that maybe the freefall and vehicle-mounted operators were smart for choosing a less-demanding skill to maintain. But for me, a lung-burning dive in the heavy swells of Bass Strait, followed by a bicep-busting ladder-climb as a wild wind lashed your face with sea spray, was as good as it got. Although some of the freefall and vehicle-mounted
operators were relieved that they weren't required to pull on a damp wetsuit in winter, their faces sometimes showed us that they knew they were missing out.

I felt pumped to be heading in the direction of Heard Island and the toothfish poachers, but I quickly encountered difficulties to match those in training. My greatest obstacle early on in the operation was a severe bout of seasickness. The World Meteorological Organisation defines sea states in the following way:

0 = Calm (glassy)	0 m
1 = Calm (rippled)	0–0.1 m
2 = Smooth (wavelets)	0.1–0.5 m
3 = Slight	0.5–1.25 m
4 = Moderate	1.25–2.5 m
5 = Rough	2.5–4 m
6 = Very rough	4–6 m
7 = High	6–9 m
8 = Very high	9–14 m
9 = Phenomenal Over	14 m

Heading towards Heard Island, we sat firmly within the upper limits of a sea state seven.

Just the thought of my bravado and confidence being punctured by seasickness cheered the other guys no end. Nobody else had succumbed yet – or they'd kept it well-hidden – and my friends appeared to be taking immense enjoyment in my Kermit-green face. With studied
concentration and deliberate movements, I eased myself off the floor.

‘Where are you going?' someone asked.

As I un-dogged the six clips that secured the door, I choked out my unconvincing reply: ‘For a walk'.

I had been seasick before, but not like this. I had swallowed so many of those little pink tablets that I could taste them every time I burped. I re-dogged the latch before taking off quickly for the toilet, two locked chambers away.

I swear that the rumblings in my stomach could be heard over the mechanical drone of the ship. People who passed me in the corridor smiled good morning, but I couldn't reply. One foot after the other, hands out to steady myself, mouth clamped firmly shut. Walking up the hall was like running through a tunnel at rugby training, smashed from one side to the next. At times it felt like walking uphill, at others it was like being flung down a set of stairs.

As I reached the toilet door, I found myself violently regretting having eaten such a large fatty navy breakfast. I grabbed the handle, unable to wait any longer, my cheeks already filling with anticipation. The handle wouldn't open. Occupied. There were now several sailors looking at my panicked face and swollen cheeks. In desperation, I opened the nearby broom cupboard and jumped inside. The mop bucket was a welcome companion, and not a moment too soon.

I've rarely felt so wretched in my life. No sooner had I lowered my head than the violent contractions began. It was like I was drowning in reverse. The detritus of breakfast poured from my mouth and nose with the force of a fire hydrant, leaving me gasping for air before almost choking on the inevitable next wave.

After what felt like an age, I sat heavily on an upside-down bucket and tried to clear my head. My brain felt battered, like a pair of old shoes thumping around inside a washing
machine. But I no longer cared. My stomach was empty and my only concern was that the mop bucket remained upright. I heard the toilet door open and close a couple of times, but it was some time before I had the strength to make a move to claim the bathroom for myself.

Having cleaned myself and the bucket, I began to feel remarkably human once more, even wondering what was on the menu for lunch. You just can't keep a good belly down. I bounced my way back to the aft stowage area and was met by at least a dozen mocking looks.

‘Did you chuck, fucker?' asked one caring individual.

Another just laughed: ‘If you spewed then I am never going to talk to you again, you weak fuck!'

I opted for a dignified but transparent lie: ‘I just went for a walk to grab a brew.'

The laughter surrounding me as I lay back on the floor was short-lived. It wasn't long before the door was opened and another man scooted away ‘for a quick coffee'. This continued for the next several hours but, as everyone was hit, sympathy levels remained non-existent.

While we were below decks enduring our own particular taste of the action, up top things had gone awry. Apparently a forward hatch had been left open, and the XO (the executive officer, second-in-command on the HMAS
Newcastle
) had ordered two men to hook on to a safety line and secure it. Waves were smashing over the bow of the vessel and, as they approached the hatch, they were hit by a wall of water so violent that it snapped one man's safety strap. Suddenly adrift, his body was thrown sharply against the superstructure several metres above the deck before his body fell limply back. It was miraculous that he wasn't washed overboard, and his mates soon came to his aid. Both men were rushed to the medical centre, where the doctor found that one had a
suspected broken femur and would have to be evacuated. This meant that the ship would have to turn around and return to within 150–200 nautical miles of Rockingham before he could be flown to hospital. We were to head back the way we had come.

There were 11 illegal fishing vessels in the vicinity of Heard Island and we were only several days off arrival. Turning around would delay the prospect of any action for at least another two weeks. The raiding party groaned silently. We calculated how many games of cards that turnaround time would equate to. We tried not to think of how many more pink tablets we would swallow in order to save our stomachs and our dignity. But a broken femur was a serious injury and the commander had little choice. He did a 180 and we returned to Australian waters.

The second time around, we were met with calm seas and caressed by warm weather and gentle conditions. It didn't last, but while it did our days were filled with task-oriented training, physical training, eating and cards. Several range practices were carried out on the rear quarter-deck of the ship. Two target lines were erected and 16-centimetre circle targets were our victims. The training was excellent, as it was a rare opportunity to shoot from a moving platform. The vessel was gently rolling, so locking on to a target must have been similar to shooting while slightly intoxicated. Our queasy stomachs added to the realism.

We also enjoyed one or two sessions per day of physical training. Deck circuits or sessions on the punching bag were the most popular. The bench press and chin-up bar, however, were more of a laugh than anything else. When the ship rolled in a certain direction, the weight on the bar seemed to double instantly. As the roll continued, the bar would return to its true weight before suddenly becoming light as a feather.
Chin-ups were the same. The downward roll would see you hanging on to the bar with arms at full extension and fingers straining, before you would be flung up towards the ceiling with little or no effort.

The other highlight of the day was eating. Most men refused to let seasickness ruin their appetites. We would stretch the mealtime out for as long as possible. Basically, we tried to be the first to sit down and the last to leave, just to fill in our monotonous days. The hours of nothing were squandered with the aid of several decks of cards, but there are only so many times a man can lust over the Queen of Hearts before going completely stir-crazy. But it was the standard navy wake-up call that pissed me off the most:

Call of hands, call of hands, call of hands, wakey, wakey, wakey …

It was such an annoying way to start the day.

The bunks were small and dark and our team was spread throughout the sailors' sleeping quarters. I had a particularly irritating roommate in the bunk above me. He was a very large man and he passed wind throughout the night. Whether he was breathing in or out, coughing or rolling over, the outcome was the same – a crescendo of flatulence. At the first crackle of the morning wake-up call he would clamber out of his bed, more often than not stepping on my arm or leg, before half-apologising and grabbing a can of the vilest deodorant ever invented. He would then lace his body from head to toe with it – it smelt more like insect spray than anything else. The fumes would waft into my face and I would pull my head into my sleeping bag while whispering to myself, ‘Fuck, I hate the navy.'

I was beside myself with rage every time I had to cross paths with this overweight, flatulent, insect-spray-wearing motherfucker. I would seriously have loved to throw him overboard, but the opportunity never arose.

The final nail in the coffin of our relationship came when
the sailor began masturbating in the middle of the night. I tried to cover my ears but the rhythmic sound would not abate. I was infuriated that I had to be so close to the man during his time of self-indulgence – our bodies were no more than 40 centimetres apart. I would roll over and make an obvious noise to indicate that I was awake, but the rhythmic noise continued. I eventually gave up and forced my head into my pillow and tried to ignore what was happening above me.

One morning, when I couldn't take it any more, I summoned up the various forceful things I'd wanted to say and channelled them into something less homicidal:

‘Hey, dude – we're neighbours, and you probably need to make a few subtle adjustments to ensure we remain friends. Your midnight dick-pulling has just gotta stop. Seeing as our genitals are less than half a metre apart, this is not conducive to a good night's sleep. It would be appreciated if you could flog yourself in the bathroom from now on. Any questions?'

The sailor looked at the floor and mumbled, ‘Nah, man,' in a passive tone before slinking away. His wife must have loved him being away at sea.