Warrior Brothers (5 page)

My only reservation when I'd joined the army was an old prejudice: surely it would be full of people who didn't have the goods to get a real job. I was quickly proved wrong. Half the guys in my platoon had joined on a 12-month contract before continuing on to tertiary study. Notwithstanding the odd goose who drove the rest of us insane, the vast majority of the boys were humorous, intelligent and physically fit – a good bunch to be around. I was wondering where on earth the Rambo types from school were.

And then I found them, disguised as recruit instructors. Despite myself, I was impressed by their artistic use of profanity. They were gifted men who took great pride in their belittling talents, and I copped more than my fair share of abuse.

The problem was my flippant attitude towards dickheads. I couldn't help responding to any trouble with a wide, irreverent grin. I felt like telling them that it wasn't anything personal; what they saw as full-blown insubordination, my dad had endured as cheekiness for the past 20 years. I had no idea what a corporal was. Not a clue about the difference between a sergeant and an officer. Two stripes, three stripes, pips, I really didn't give a damn. I just called them all ‘Sir' and happily completed the mandatory push-ups for referring to them in an inappropriate manner. ‘Sir? My rank is corporal, fuckwit. I work for a living – get down and adopt the position.'

Looking back, perhaps I was cocky – a confident young smart-arse with heaps of drive – but in my gut I know I haven't
changed that much. I just hide it a little better now. To me, respect is earned, and it flows both ways, irrespective of anything at all. It's that simple. In the years that followed I would come to recognise the extraordinary talent and strength of the men I served with in the Regiment. For them, I never had any trouble following orders, sharing risks or paying respect. They'd earned it. Showing respect purely because of someone's rank, on the other hand, didn't come so easy. At 20, full of the rush of excitement that comes from finding a sense of direction in life and driven to distraction by my need to excel, it was all I could do not to laugh at what I saw as the absurdity of protocol.

One night during basic training, I returned from the mess hall and noticed that I had neglected to lock my cupboard, an offence known as ‘insecurity' and punishable by hours of mind-numbing drill on the parade ground. The theory, unbelievably, was that failing to lock your cupboard promoted – even encouraged – theft! My three roommates and I took some pleasure in mocking both the rule and the platoon staff whose job it was to police it.

‘Look at this,' I laughed. ‘I forgot to lock my padlock and those stupid fucks were too lazy to notice.'

The four of us were in hysterics as I opened the door to my locker, but our hilarity died in our throats. Our section commander, a rather large and aggressive man, sprang from the cupboard bellowing abuse in a fit of mock rage. Running through the Timorese jungle dodging militia bullets had nothing on the terror I felt at that moment.

I nearly fell over, but in an attempt to slow my heart rate and get my breath back, I couldn't help but laugh. I was resigned to a stint on the parade ground later that afternoon, for mouthing off as well as insecurity, but to my surprise and pleasure, my section commander joined us in laughing.

‘Make sure you keep your cupboard locked next time, fuck-knuckle,' he taunted, before strolling out of the room, a broad smile on his face.

Another time, our entire platoon was lined up in the hallway being hauled over the coals for some perceived failing. Always one to take advantage of an opportunity for mischief-making, I managed to lock eyes with the man standing directly opposite me during the tirade. When I was sure I had his undivided attention, I discreetly crossed my eyes. Our silent battle of wills raged, with my facial contortions met by his increasingly obvious amusement.

Just as the rant reached a heightened point, my victim exploded into uncontrollable howls of laughter. After giving him a blast, the section commander launched himself across the hallway looking for the cause of the poor man's hysteria. As he reached my part of the line, several of us now shared the battle to remain straight-faced. The chief suspect was the completely innocent soldier to my immediate left, and he received a savage verbal attack.

Within moments, however, I lost my fight against laughter in response to the words ‘disgusting fat fucking slug'. Closed eyes were not enough to stop my shaking shoulders or bursts of laughter. The section commander's next round of abuse was all I needed to descend into hysterics, which earned me even more brutal abuse. As he barked and spat at me, I was marched down the hall to a mirror, to ‘take a good hard look at myself'. The sight of my own grinning mug, tears streaming down my cheeks, only made things worse.

Through fits of laughter, with the sound of my mates' own amusement ringing in my ears, I attempted an apology: ‘I'm really sorry, I'm trying to stop laughing but I just can't.'

That night, completing some thankless, mundane punishment, I felt a million miles away from changing oil in a van for my dad. I had a lot to learn, but the one thing I already knew was that I'd found a place where I belonged. Behind all the bullshit, I felt a rush at the potential of my situation. This was the life I'd hoped for: one with the promise of excitement and the opportunity to see some real action.

Far from being surrounded by Rambo nuts and dropouts, my
army mates soon meant just as much to me as Al, Cully, Pricey and Luke (my closest bros from school). I couldn't wait to see where my new life took me. I couldn't wait to get started.

As the HMAS
Newcastle
negotiated the heavy seas towards Heard Island for the second time, we received intelligence that there was now just one possible illegal fishing vessel within Australian territorial waters – a boat that had breached the Heard Island exclusion zone of 200 nautical miles. The assault team was instructed to launch a raid on the vessel.

As we prepared for the task, the weight of the situation hit me properly for the first time. After nearly three weeks at sea, the day had arrived. Finally, we were being given the opportunity to put our years of training into practice. Looking around at the faces of the boys, I could see that they felt it too. For many of us, this was the first time that we had loaded our magazines with live rounds for a live operation. We didn't expect that we would be forced to use them, but we were armed with pistols and submachine guns as a deterrent to acts of aggression.

Our team, Zulu One (Z1), was the lead water troop assault team. In a counter-terrorism assault, we would secure those areas most likely to be housing the command element of a terrorist group. Team members of Zulu Three (Z3), on the other hand, would more often than not find themselves allocated to an area of lower priority, which could include the toilets. While this was just the luck of the draw and in no way
reflected our relative abilities, it was always a source of considerable ribbing.

We donned our equipment. There would be two initial sorties to deliver the raiding party. Our first concern was that the rough seas would prevent the helicopters from taking off, since a roll of more than 30 degrees was considered too dangerous for rotary-wing-assisted operations. We were fortunate that it wasn't raining – in the freezing air, raindrops would turn into tiny shards of glassy ice, which would also have grounded the helicopters.

Z1 was split into two assault teams and augmented with a contingent of navy clearance divers. For us, this was not ideal, but the navy was also keen to gain experience. The first assault team boarded a helicopter that was still strapped to the rear of the HMAS
Newcastle
. With the team aboard, the straps were removed and the bird gingerly lifted off the rolling deck. Watching these pilots in action was truly impressive. Their skilful manoeuvring when taking off from the tight, rolling confines of the frigate's deck was awesome. The bird thumped towards the fishing vessel, the thin, harsh air stinging the men's semi-protected faces.

When the helicopter reached the vessel, Buzz was the first man down the rope. His feet had barely touched the ground when he began running towards the bridge, his submachine gun held directly out to his front. His aim was to prevent the crew from throwing any documentary evidence overboard. The remaining team members were not far behind.

With the first team safely aboard it was time for the bird to pick up the second sortie of eagerly waiting men, myself included. The bird had barely touched the deck when we were loaded and ready to go. It was my turn at last.

In the distance, a speck of dark colour bobbed in and out of view, sometimes hidden by the enormous swell. It was a desolate image, a tiny shape surrounded by the grey and angry sea. As we edged closer it became clearer. The Japanese-
constructed fishing boat appeared to be handling the conditions remarkably well. We approached it from the rear, the helicopter ducking and weaving to get within boarding distance, and the heavy winds muffling the roar of the rotors.

Although we were excited, we knew that an operator must keep his exuberance in check. We were like children who were given a shot of red cordial but were expected to refrain from running amok. To think clearly, one must remain calm, no matter how much adrenaline is running through your veins.

If the fast rope was not properly on the deck of the target vessel before we took the plunge, the consequences could be dire. Sliding into the icy waters could well prove fatal. The rope was kicked out of the aircraft and landed in a large exhaust stack. I looked at the naval safety officer and decided to go anyway. As far as I was concerned, the party had already started. Now was not the time to procrastinate over a melting rope. I slid down it and straddled the stack, avoiding its hot black fumes. Kicking off the side, I dragged the rope with me before landing on the deck. The remaining team members were quickly on deck and, after touching base with Buzz, the clearance began.

We worked in pairs during the assault. Each team wove its way through the accommodation areas, locating crew-members – there were 43. A comprehensive search of the vessel also took place. The boat's crew came from a mixture of African and South American countries, and they were distinctly unhappy to see us. They had all been at sea for nearly three months and were soon to depart for home with a full catch. They were paid only a percentage of the catch so, with the booty of Patagonian toothfish now being confiscated, they were very aware that the past several months of hard work would result in no monetary reward. These were hardly the terrorists my training had prepared me for.

One of the navy steaming party helped me secure this motley crew in the galley. It is hard to look intimidating when
you're dressed in a bright-orange immersion suit. I maintained a faceless image by wearing my Oakley facemask, which provided a dehumanising barrier between me and our captives.

My naval companion was increasingly uncomfortable with the situation, recoiling as the angry mob blew cigarette smoke towards us and barked insults in Spanish. ‘They're staring at me,' he quavered. I swallowed my impatience with his pathetic tone and sent him out to assist another member of our team in securing six more crew-members in the engine room.

This was not the place to show weakness. I would not let myself be intimidated by this seedy bunch. Their gritted teeth and angry snarls exposed less than full complements of yellow decaying teeth. In contrast, I had a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun in my hands, with thirty 9-mm deterrents. I focused on my training: remain neutral – firm and fair; remain alert – don't engage in conversation beyond simple instructions. No swearing, no insults. Despite the rush of adrenaline I was getting, this felt a long way from the joking and mucking around of training.
Sorry, boys, this is just business
.

Several members of the crew tried to intimidate us. One guy had a large scar running from his left eye to his chin – like a James Bond villain. Each time I turned my attention from him to one of his crewmates, he would loudly bark what sounded like instructions to the others. When I focused on him again he would stand stock-still, glaring at me without a word. I was reluctant to break eye contact. Why should he win? The best solution was to shine the torch on the front of my weapon directly into his eyes. The blinding light helped me regain authority and, with a fresh set of batteries in my torch, I was confident these games could go on for hours.

Another crew-member stepped forward, holding a picture of his family in front of him and yelling,
‘Bambino, bambino,
bambino.'
The weight of the fear these men were feeling suddenly hit me. I slowly nodded my head before giving him a non-threatening thumbs-up. This reassured the group, as they seemed to understand that the operation was a formality rather than a life-threatening situation for them. The tone of the room quickly changed and one of their chefs offered me a couple of pancakes. I thanked him but waved him away.

The remaining members of the assault team were scouring the ship for weapons and other personnel. Buzz was working with two fisheries officers who had joined the assault team. Their role was to find enough evidence to support the confiscation of the ship and enable charges to be laid against its skipper. After a little while, a triumphant shout rang out from the hold. There was $2 million worth of oversized, big-toothed fish buried in the freezers – these would do the trick nicely.