Warrior Brothers (8 page)

There was now no going back. Lonely's head, which was hidden in one of our bags, was definitely returning to Perth with us. We were as thick as thieves, and operational deployments would only strengthen this bond.

Even when our squadron was deployed to East Timor, the wait for real action still wasn't over. We were sent out in smaller operations to raid militia-occupied villages, tasks which more often than not turned out to be fruitless and frustrating exercises. We later learned that one of our raids had been announced on ABC Radio the day before we went in. And then things changed.

Our squadron raided a village 138 kilometres south-west of Dili. There were several small skirmishes, and then an SAS convoy escorting over 100 militiamen to the West Timor border was ambushed. In the ensuing firefight two SAS soldiers were shot, one through the neck and the other through the wrist and leg.

In a true display of style, the operator who was shot through the neck stayed upright and checked his own wounds before firing off a full magazine from his weapon. This man was one of the more senior soldiers I had completed selection with and had been a great support to me during training. We saw a picture in the paper of him being stretchered into the rear of a medical transport aircraft while casually holding his own IV drip bag. This made us laugh. He had very nearly had his head blown off and yet was still holding his own IV like it was just another medical training scenario.

We found out later that the round had split in two: one piece exited the side of his neck and the other the front. Surgeons informed him that the round missed his carotid artery by only a millimetre or two. When a tattoo artist offered to cover up his scar by adding to the already impressive artwork on his back, his response was far from ambiguous. ‘No you fucking won't,' he snarled.

The second soldier was less fortunate. He did himself proud, as he was shot through the arm but jumped back onto the vehicle-mounted machine gun and kept firing. Unfortunately, however, it wasn't long before his leg was blown from under him and that was that. His calf muscle was blown off and the bones in his lower leg were completely shattered. Half of his abdominal muscles were later inserted into the calf area, but they didn't take so the surgeons cut out the other side and tried again.

One soldier that day had a bullet cut through a pocket in his trouser leg, and another had one of his webbing straps severed and a hole through his headrest. Four militants were killed in the action. These accounts filled us with mixed and complex feelings: sympathy, excitement, even envy at having missed out. As it was, we wouldn't have to wait long for our turn.

Squadron HQ gained intelligence that a militia leader and a contingent of his men were operating out of the main village of our target region near the border with West Timor. Our team was tasked to locate the militants and send a detailed plan to HQ for a squadron-level assault. We were soon packed, briefed and raring to go, frustrated at having to wait until nightfall for the helicopter insertion to take place. After carrying out several rehearsals, we boarded the aircraft – three men on each side – and leant up against our heavy packs. The squadron commander (who would later command the SAS Regiment)
came and shook our hands before telling us to be careful. Intelligence had just come through that the area was crawling with armed militia. All this did was make us even more impatient for the bird to take off.

The rotors began to turn and the internal whine increased until the blades were neatly cutting the air with a rapid thumping sound. The vibrations travelled into our bodies, making us feel as one. We lifted into the darkness before angling west and picking up speed. Our heavily camouflaged faces were hidden in the blackened aircraft but a casual cheeky grin would reveal an eerie set of white teeth, glowing like a fluorescent road-marker touched by a vehicle's headlight. Banking left then right, the bird roared through the night, dancing from mountain shadow to shadow. It was an exhilarating ride.

After 30 minutes we were told that the first dummy landing would take place in five minutes. The pilot hovered low over the ground before pulling hard into the air and continuing on towards the insertion point. We were given a three-minute call: we switched on our night-vision goggles and tightened our pack straps. The next call was 30 seconds. We readied our weapons.

As the bird touched the blackened landscape, we stumbled out into the darkness, flung ourselves to the ground and immediately adopted the firing positions we had rehearsed so many times. Within seconds there was a tremendous downdraught that pushed us into the earth and pelted us with dust and foliage. Then we were alone. All that could be heard was the faint sound of the helicopter gradually fading into nothingness. We quickly moved away from the landing zone and went through our all-round-defence procedures. The orchestra of cicadas returned to full song as we began to move. The village was eight kilometres away.

The air was thick and humid, and the vegetation seemed impenetrable. Charlie, as lead scout, forced his way through
the undergrowth for several metres at a time before stopping and listening. Our shoulders were aching within minutes but we were aware that we'd be walking for the best part of the night. Charlie and I took turns at the front, bearing the brunt of tangled vines and spikes, tree branches and mammoth spider webs blocking our way. We tried not to think about the tropical-sized eight-legged creatures that, having created such enormous webs, lurked in the darkness.

With each step the vines wrapped themselves around our necks, limbs and packs. We felt choked by the foliage, and fearful about the deep holes that swallowed our feet, causing us to twist and roll before being belted in the back of the head by the frames of our packs. Throughout, it was critical to maintain stealth. If it were just a matter of blazing away and cutting a path, movement through this area would have been relatively easy. But the aim was to part the vegetation calmly and without destroying it. We needed to minimise any sign of the patrol's presence. And so we continued on our slow jungle dance.

After about two kilometres we reached the primary north–south river. The banks resembled small cliffs and Steve decided that the patrol should locate an area to sleep (a ‘lying-up place') and then search for a crossing-point before first light.

Sleeping in the tropics is a bit of a contradiction in terms. Attracted by the carbon dioxide of our breathing, a relentless swarm of mosquitoes swooped in to feast upon our exposed skin. Necks, cheeks and hands were fair game, and in the hush of the night, the whine of mosquitoes ebbed and flowed incessantly. The problem ran deeper than mere irritation. One sting from these pint-sized vampires could result in a recurring legacy of fever. Many of the men, me included, didn't bother with the anti-malarial prophylaxis, a drug called doxycycline. The side-effects, including nausea and sensitivity to light, were probably a small price to pay in
comparison to a life of malaria, but the mentality of ‘it won't happen to me' often won out.

Despite the mosquitoes, we managed to get some rest before G, who was on security piquet, gently woke us just as the dark skies slowly began to turn grey. We sat silently, making the transition from deep sleep to total alertness. Steve instructed us to take turns packing away our sleeping gear. We did this slowly and silently.

There is a real art to being silent, and it comes with practice and discipline. Even opening or closing a zip on a sleeping bag is a painstaking task when absolute silence is necessary. You have to cradle the zipper in between your thumb and forefinger to muffle the sound, so it may take 30 seconds or more to complete. The same principle applies to the Fastex clips on the enormous packs we carried. Allowing your clip to click would have been showing a lack of respect for the patrol's security. Being a good bush soldier is all about having this sort of self-discipline and patience. I definitely needed all my self-discipline as I was never known for my patience.

By the steep banks of the river, as the pre-dawn light began to filter through the skies, our time had arrived. We were a small, isolated group of men moving into a hostile area. SAS soldiers thrive on such opportunities. All the tedious and unglamorous training had led to this very moment. We had proved ourselves in training – now it was time to see how we fared when the stakes were considerably higher.

I had learned a valuable lesson about stealth on my patrol course. Being assessed while you are trying to silently have a meal is nerve-racking. All you want to do is throw the meagre rations into your grumbling stomach but no, it all has to be painfully slow.

Slowly angle the spoon into the ration bag. Meanwhile, diligently scan the foliage to your front. Conceal the spoon deep inside your hand. Scan the foliage to the sides. Slowly deliver the food to your mouth. Return the spoon to the green bag containing the breakfast mush. Chew, pause, listen, scan, chew, pause, listen, scan.

God, the army makes everything such hard work. I was nearing the end of my slop when my spoon caught on the side of the green bag and fell from my fingers. Everything happened in slow-motion. With eyes wide open I saw the spoon plummeting towards my rifle with the precision of a skydiver before making the loudest
clunk
I have ever heard.

I slowly picked up the spoon before looking at my assessor, who was just shaking his head. His scowl clearly told me that if I did something like that again then I might as well pack my bags and head back to the Battalion. I didn't enjoy the last part of my meal and, with my confidence blown to pieces, there was no way I was going to attempt to make a brew. I just sat in silence and hoped that someone else would fuck up – but no-one did.

For these practical reasons, all the bits and pieces of the bush soldier's life are selected with great care. Metal spoons are a no-no. Velcro, which might be great on a set of board shorts, has no place in an SAS bush patrol. Some men persisted with velcro seals for their map covers, but a piece of duct tape provides a far better seal and can be removed and reapplied numerous times in complete silence. Camelback water bladders are a great invention for the disciplined soldier, as they allow him to take a couple of sips of water without the noisy rigmarole of removing a water bottle from his pack. There is a downside, of course: because the fluid is so easy to access, you can easily drink far more than you otherwise would. Water is a scarce resource on a patrol, so not a drop can be wasted.

Applying camouflage-cream was another prime example of the army's tortuous routine. A soldier usually signals to a mate that he is going to reapply cam-cream by dragging his open fingers down the front of his face. The acknowledgement comes in the form of a single controlled nod or a wink, meaning that you'll be covered while you do it. There is no excessive movement. You reach into your breast pocket to retrieve the little box of dark colours. With great care to prevent any clicking noise, you open the cover, keeping the lid over the top of your fingers as you insert them into the neapolitan contents below. Sadly there is no chocolate, strawberry or vanilla here – just brown, light-green and dark-green.

You then apply the ‘hide-me cream' in stripes, checking the coverage in the mirror, which you cradle in your hand to prevent any glare escaping. At regular intervals your eyes should shift to the foliage in front of you. No bare skin is left unattended – not the backs of your hands, the sides of your neck, inside your ears, even on your eyelids. The cream tastes like clay, but if they ever manage to make it a little more pleasant then you'd probably see some over-exuberant soldiers applying it to their teeth. Most men just content themselves with never smiling. When a soldier finally finishes, he lets the man who was helping to cover his arc of responsibility know that he can go back to his primary area of
concern. In other words, he can go back to staring at the bush while dreaming about food or sex.

I don't really want to go into the process for taking a shit, but whether it is the first or fiftieth time, there is always something very personal about it. I do recall one particularly embarrassing moment during the early stages of the deployment, before our patrol had separated from the rest of the squadron. At the helipad, the toilet was a tent that housed a tree branch which sat over a large ditch. Unfortunately, this branch was able to accommodate two bums at once. One morning I was adopting the position when the unit doctor – a woman – strolled in. She made herself ready and planted her arse on the log beside mine. ‘What the …' I was so taken aback that I thought I'd fall into the contents below. There was no way I was letting anything go with her sitting there.

Apparently, however, I was alone in my misgivings. She initiated some idle chitchat before farting and pushing out something that landed on the pile below with quite a thud. I was embarrassed for her and even more embarrassed for myself. But she was just so damn cool about it all. She wiped herself clean, pulled up her pants and left. I wondered if I was dreaming but the drone of the blowflies made it real enough and so did the filth below. Her spot on the log was quickly filled by another bum – one that shared my gender – and I was able to continue.