Warrior Training (12 page)

The men who passed the selection, roping, patrol and basic parachute courses returned to their units for four weeks, where each was to organise his removal and collect his belongings. I went back to Brisbane but was sent straight out to the bush, to play enemy for the new platoons that were completing their infantry employment training (IET).

My first task was to move to the junction of a road and a creek, wait for it to get dark and then ambush an infantry section. A couple of hours after last light, my colleague and I saw a distant glow through the vegetation. When the glow began to flicker and move, it became obvious it was a torch.

‘You reckon those guys are looking for this junction?' asked my colleague.

‘Yeah, probably,' I replied.

‘Why would they be walking through the bush with a torch?'

‘Don't know … maybe they're lost,' I said.

We didn't have to wait long to find out. Out of the dark screamed a voice: ‘Enemy … enemy … where are you?'

I recognised the voice immediately. It belonged to the tool who had questioned my navigational experience a couple of months earlier. We remained quiet.

‘Is this guy for real? He's walking around with a torch?' said my colleague.

I moved onto the road and watched the torchlight disappear into the bush some 150 metres away, amid his fading screams of desperation: ‘Enemy … enemy …'

We decided to remain in our ambush location. Ten minutes later we heard footsteps running up the track. They stopped 50 metres shy of our position and the familiar yells continued: ‘Enemy … enemy … is anyone there?'

We remained quiet and the footsteps scurried away. Fifteen minutes later he was back. The lone man stopped across from our position, bent over and sucked in some large breaths. I thought about initiating the ambush and brassing him up. ‘Enemy!' he screamed again.

‘We're over here,' I replied.

‘Thank fuck for that! Man, that's tiger country. We hit the wrong junction,' said the man, shining his torch in our direction.

How much nav ya' done?
I thought, as the man's torch beam found my smiling face. I could tell he remembered our previous conversation, so what more was there to say? We ambushed his section and that was that.

Resistance-to-interrogation training – more commonly known to soldiers as ‘RTI' or ‘getting bagged' – is a profound test of one's mental strength and self-belief.

Our troop had spent several days on a field training exercise. Our mission: to rescue the crew of a downed helicopter. With this completed, we boarded a couple of army trucks to be extracted. Although we were aware that RTI training was looming, the exact dates remained a secret so as to maximise the ‘shock of capture'. When all the new guys were guided onto the same truck, we knew something was going down.

As our transport pulled into a brightly-lit hangar, it was surrounded by dozens of men dressed in black and white military fatigues. I gave them a smoke grenade to suck on and 30 blank rounds, which I fired on full automatic before a man with a pornstar moustache approached the back of our truck and yelled: ‘Time out, time out! Put down your weapons and play the game. You have been captured. This is RTI.'

Putting up a fight was pointless. We knew the RTI experience was a requirement that all SAS soldiers must endure.
Bring it on
, I thought.

The acronym ‘RTI' sounds pleasant enough, rolling off the tongue a bit like NFI – no fucking idea – but for me those three letters, in that sequence, conjure up a range of memories, from aching knees and hypothermia to ‘bend over and spread your buttocks'.

I knew RTI would last for 72 hours, the length of a long weekend. Most soldiers complete RTI during their reinforcement cycle – the first 12 months in the Regiment before being posted to an SAS sabre squadron – but in our case the training took place the following year, four months after we had joined a squadron.

The aim of RTI is to educate soldiers about what to expect and how to react should they ever be captured by an enemy. It also provides interrogators – selected personnel from the Royal Australian Intelligence Corps – with guinea pigs to practise on. I reckon it's reasonable to draw a parallel between interrogators and male gynaecologists; there are those who are professional and brilliant at what they do, and there are those who might more aptly be described as ‘suspect individuals'.

For the training to be effective, a captive is firstly fatigued – worn down by sleep deprivation, a lack of sustenance and extreme physical activity. He'll also be stripped of his visual and aural senses – made to wear blacked-out goggles and earmuffs – to disorient him. The captives are then pitted individually against a well-drilled team of intelligence officers, whose sole aim, generally speaking, is to extract information.

During times of war, what a soldier says during his or her first 72 hours in captivity might well decide not only their own fate but also the fate of others who have eluded capture. Additionally, if he or she releases key information about a mission then they could easily jeopardise ongoing operations. Therefore, in accordance with the Geneva Convention, soldiers are instructed to provide only ‘the big four' – name, rank, regimental number and date of birth – and ‘nothing more'. Considering that it's obviously illegal to yank out teeth, sodomise a captive, remove digits or break bones during training, you could argue that RTI training is unrealistic; in the current climate, at least, our adversaries' preference has been for other, more violent interrogation techniques.

In reality, when soldiers are threatened with decapitation unless they read dodgy confessions, they'll instinctively say whatever is required to remain alive. Furthermore, with the release of the graphic images of Iraqi prisoners being mistreated in the Abu Ghraib prison, it's evident that even countries who are signatories to the convention have at times failed to adhere to its requirements. But irrespective of whether or not the ‘big four' was realistic, I knew that, if name, rank, regimental number and date of birth was all the information we were permitted to give, then that's all the information these intelligence clowns were going to get from me.

Before going ‘into the bag' I was, somewhat naively, looking forward to the experience.
Seventy-two hours
, I thought.
It's not like they're allowed to break my arms or have their way with me. How difficult can it be?

‘Hey, Fenno,' asked one of the boys. ‘You reckon we'll get bagged on our next patrol?'

‘Hope so,' I replied. ‘I'm keen to see if it's as punishing as everyone makes out.'

‘What – you
want
to do it?'

‘Absolutely!'

‘What the fuck for?'

‘I'm curious – and I'm sick of listening to everyone who has done it gob off about how fucked it is. It's only 72 hours.'

Seventy-two naked, humiliating, wintry hours gave me a far greater appreciation of time. Three days is a bloody long time when someone else is in control of your life. Besides motivating me to never allow myself to be captured, RTI taught me a lot about myself. During those days of isolation, being subjected to sleep deprivation and water-board treatment – being seated in a mud pool and blasted by a fire hydrant – interspersed with several interrogation sessions, I knew I had to back myself, regardless of what was going on around me.

Todd and I were the first two guys dragged from the truck. Standing at six foot three, Todd was a large and pretty aggressive young man. He was also one of the better soldiers in the troop. He probably wasn't a people person. In fact, Todd didn't like people very much, but he did like me and a few others. On Todd's buck's night, we dressed him up in a black lycra suit and a gimp mask. He was furious but we all thought it was hilarious. Towards the end of the night, Todd was walking down the main street of Subiaco with Stevie when they were bailed up by a couple of louts.

‘Hey, check out the fucking faggot,' said one.

The big guy in the lycra suit responded by knocking him out.

I wondered how Todd, one of my best mates in the troop, would get along with our interrogators.

Within seconds our hands were cuffed behind our backs, blacked-out goggles were put over our faces and muffs were placed on our ears. I was then led away, pushed into a stress position and searched. I heard the muffled sounds of a dog – a German shepherd – close by, and I smelt its rancid breath. The dog began to bark and growl, its saliva slapping my right cheek. Then, perhaps getting a little too excited, it made a choking sound and its master whispered commands of restraint. This made me laugh.

Someone grabbed me by the hair, lifted up my left earmuff and said in a sinister tone: ‘You will play the fucking game, arsehole.'

Considering my face reeked of dog saliva, I was less concerned about the profane language than I was about whether or not that foul-breathed dog was infested with worms. After some time – possibly an hour – I was led away, pushed into the back of a padded vehicle and driven around. The driver, who had a tendency to brake into corners, drove like my 82-year-old grandmother: fast and erratically. The vehicle stopped and I was grabbed by the hair, led across a gravel surface and into a building. Two guards escorted me down what seemed like a long hallway. We passed through several rooms and several doors. My head was pushed down, as if to create an impression that we were entering small rooms. Then we stopped, my earmuffs were removed and the guards walked away. For
several minutes there was nothing. No shuffling of feet, no whispers, no sounds of breathing, nothing. I tried not to swallow and my ears were straining for sound.

Then a voice came out of nowhere: ‘You are a prisoner of war and are not permitted to escape. Do you understand?'

‘I cannot answer that question,' I replied.

‘We will now remove your handcuffs,' said the voice.

I was somewhat relieved about this. My fingers were numb and the plastic cuffs had cut deep into my wrists.

The voice, serious and stern, continued: ‘Remove your shirt and place it on the floor behind you.'

I followed the instructions.

‘Remove your boots, socks and trousers and place them on the floor behind you.'

Once again, I followed the commands.

‘Remove your underwear and place your hands on your head.'

I bent over, slid my underwear down my legs and took half a step forward with my left leg as I eased my underwear behind me with my right foot. I remained slightly hunched, my hands atop my head. For what felt like hours, but in reality might have been only a couple of minutes, I stood there in total silence, tense, exposed and vulnerable. Then the silence was broken.

‘You will now be searched. Do not resist.'

My body was searched in a methodical manner by someone wearing rubber gloves: my hair, ears, the inside of my mouth, my armpits, groin and the soles of my feet. I thought – I hoped – it was over.

Then came the finale: ‘Bend over and spread your buttocks.'

The person wearing the rubber gloves took his – or maybe her – time. Bent over and with my hands pulling my arse cheeks apart, I wondered if the army was legally allowed to stick a finger into my anus? I then heard slapping sounds as the gloves were stretched and released several times. That snapping sound of rubber on skin made my sphincter contract. A hand briefly touched my right buttock. My sphincter contracted more. I waited, still wondering if this was permissible in training. I swallowed a mouthful of saliva, which somehow made me feel better.

I then thought:
Fuck it
, and I zoned out. I let my mind go blank and became a zombie who didn't care. The gloves stretched and snapped several more times but the sounds were not sharp like they had been. They were distant and beyond offence. I was asked to relax my sphincter, which I did. Only a small piece of my mind remained open. I was able to follow simple commands but my emotions were not affected.

‘Stand up,' said the voice.

Time to return to reality
, I thought, and I switched back on, relieved that no attempt was made to fondle my prostate. I also realised that our interrogators had limitations – they were indeed not permitted to finger my arse.

‘We will now remove your goggles,' the voice said. ‘You are to look straight ahead. Do you understand?

‘I cannot answer that question,' I replied.

‘Don't try to be a tough guy. Do you understand?'

‘I cannot answer that question.'

‘A simple “yes” is all that is required. Do you understand?'

Once again, my reply was: ‘I cannot answer that question.' This little game reminded me of the yes/no game my
father played with my sisters and me when we were growing up. I had learnt then that the key is to pause after each question. Each question must be analysed separately from the ones before it. You cannot control the number or speed of the questions that are being asked, but you can control the pace of your answers. Regardless of how many questions the exasperated interrogator threw my way, I would take my time and answer the first one only. The interrogator's friend – momentum – is the captive's foe.

When my goggles were removed, the pain at the back of my eyes was like an extreme ice-cream headache. My eyes had no time to adjust, thrust from darkness into the most intense white lights I had ever seen.

‘Look at me,' boomed the voice.

This guy thinks he's the Wizard of Oz
, I thought. The numerous sharp glows that stabbed my eyes made it impossible to put a face to the voice. Through the light I could vaguely make out a desk, perhaps with someone seated behind it.

‘What's your name?' said the voice.

‘Keith Fennell.'

‘Your full name?'

Prick
, I thought. ‘Keith Gerard Fennell,' I said.

‘Spell it.'

I did.

‘What's your rank?'

‘Private,' I replied.

‘From the equipment you were carrying it is evident that you are an SAS soldier. Therefore your rank would be trooper. What's your rank?'

‘Private.'

‘I'm going to ask you this question again. If you fail to tell the truth then you will not be protected by the Geneva Convention. Do you understand?'

‘I cannot answer that question.'

This continued for several minutes, and the interrogator became increasingly agitated.

‘What's your regimental number, Trooper Fennell?'

‘I cannot answer that question.' The interrogator was addressing me as Trooper Fennell rather than Private Fennell, so I decided that I would not answer his question. I had to keep every question simple.

‘You are obliged – you must answer that question!' yelled the voice. ‘What's your regimental number, Fennell?'

I began to rethink my decision to declare my rank as private rather than trooper. Technically they are the same, but I decided there and then to continue with private, regardless of the repercussions.

The bright lights were turned off and the burning sensation at the back of my eyes dissolved. Before me, illuminated now by the regular room lighting, sat a bespectacled, pot-bellied man aged in his mid-fifties, with grey hair and a greyer beard. The voice now had a face.