Warrior Training (14 page)

Later that evening I was moved into a hot room and made to do a physical training session with the other captives – my mates. Although I was blindfolded, I could hear the
others being abused, bastardisation at its best. At first we were made to do a combination of sit-ups and push-ups. After I had completed several sit-ups someone grabbed my knees and ripped my legs apart. We were already naked but this person obviously wanted to see more. This continued every three or four sit-ups. And while I was doing push-ups, what I expect were the same hands grabbed my hips and rammed my genitals into the ground in a fucking motion.

A street march and demonstration shortly after achieving my first black belt.

This degrading experience continued over and over again. It began to feel somewhat personal. I was certain that some sick prick was getting off on this, so when those dirty hands grabbed my knees for the umpteenth time I quickly raised my goggles, eyeballed the degenerate and whispered: ‘I know who you fucking are,' before replacing my goggles and continuing with the exercises.

The weasel didn't say a word but his eyes were frozen with fear. I knew I had his measure. The degenerate left me alone, but others weren't so lucky.

The interrogators honed in on one individual and began a tirade of abuse. I knew the guy they were targeting. Their rants were raw, humiliating and personal. The man snapped, removed his goggles and threatened his captors. Our session concluded soon after that.

After another sleepless night and 32 to 36 hours in captivity, I was led outside and forced to kneel down. As the gravel pierced my knees, the sun kissed my back – a paradoxical moment of torment and pleasure. My hands were cuffed behind my back, and my head was lowered close to the ground. A guard removed my earmuffs and goggles, revealing a single piece of white bread on the ground before me.

‘Eat,' he said.

I hadn't eaten anything since well before my capture, so I forced my face onto the stale piece of bread. Fearing it might be taken from me, I sucked the entire slice into my mouth and tried to chew. The little saliva I had was soon absorbed into the bread, which became a large dry ball. Swallowing was now impossible and I began to choke on the dry bread, dry-retching, with my hands still cuffed behind me.

‘He's choking,' said one of the guards.

‘Greedy fuck,' said another, removing my cuffs to allow me to dig the bread from my mouth. Hunched over half a dozen soggy bread balls, I devoured the slice like a dog, albeit in more manageable portions.

Later that morning I was questioned by two male interrogators. For 40 hours I had given them the big four and nothing more. Halfway through the session, one of the interrogators – the guy with the porno moustache – threw a tennis ball to me, which I instinctively caught with my right hand.

The two went into instant celebration, congratulating each other for making me crack. They appeared so excited that for a moment I thought they might try to fuck each other. When the euphoria settled down the man with the porno moustache said: ‘You're right-handed. You've tried so hard to give nothing away, and now, just like that, we know you're right-handed.'

Not thinking straight, I responded: ‘Yeah, well you could have worked that out by looking at my weapon.'

Damn it
, I thought immediately after, realising that I'd taken their bait. But rather than allowing myself to become
frustrated for making a mistake, I decided to move on and forget about it. I made certain that I answered the next question I was asked correctly. And the one after that, and the one after that. The guards were relentless.

‘You fucked up and said yes. We've got it on camera!'

‘We've got ya', you fucking screw-up!'

‘You told us you were right-handed and you said yes! Now, what's your rank?'

‘Private,' I replied.

‘Come on, you've already fucked up. Just be honest. What's your rank?'

‘Private.'

One of the interrogators pushed me down onto a chair. The other – the man with the porno moustache – continued: ‘You're scared, aren't you? I can see your heart beating in your chest. Look down and take a look for yourself.'

I kept staring at the man's forehead, slightly cross-eyed so as to blur his face.

‘Fucking look down, you fucking chicken shit!' exploded the man. He became enraged, yelling into my face from less than a foot away. He grabbed my arm and wrote
BROKEN
on it with a thick black marker pen. ‘If this was real then I would have broken your arm, you lying fuck. What's your rank?'

‘Private.'

‘You fucking liar!' The man closed in again. ‘What's your fucking rank, you –'

While he was in mid-sentence, I locked eyes with the man, angled my forehead towards his nose and slightly cocked my shoulder, as if I was about to smash him in the face.

His voice broke. ‘You … you chicken shit.' His eyes flickered and broke contact with mine, and his Adam's apple rose and fell as he swallowed a mouthful of nervous tension. He knew I'd heard his voice waver. He knew he'd been unable to maintain eye contact, and he knew I'd seen him swallow.

I rocked back on my chair, knowing that I had, without really trying, just scared the shit out of the man with the porno moustache.

‘Guards!' he yelled. ‘Get him out of here.'

In my experience, it's the eyes – the type of stare and the size of the eyes – that reveal the most about a person. Large, vacant eyes might indicate that a person is overwhelmed or terrified. Their decision-making may be slow, poor or even non-existent. I have seen this numerous times in many different situations, from soldiers parachuting or coming under enemy fire for the first time, to soldiers conducting close-quarter battle training, where they are expected to make decisions rapidly in stressful situations. I have also seen it with children in the surf, or with elite sportspeople who are taken out of their comfort zones.

For me, however, the eyes that remain the most vivid – the eyes that I can visualise with perfect clarity, although it has been almost a decade since we locked stares – belong to the first man I killed in combat. He is now gone, but that intense stare of complete and utter panic will remain burned into my memory until my own eyes become dust.

Yes, the eyes can reveal many things about a person. Eyes of hatred cut like blades. Eyes of determination are
sharp and focused. Eyes of sadness are narrow and moist, while eyes of love are soft and bright. The interrogator's eyes during that final RTI session were sheepish, jittery and distant.

Upon reflection, our interrogators were highly intelligent men. A couple of these guys should be nominated for an Oscar, such was their ability to hold character. But I'm certain there was at least one individual who got off on what they were doing. The person who continuously ripped my legs apart, grabbed my hips and rammed my genitals into the ground seemed a little too enthusiastic. He was either a brilliant actor who should be in Hollywood, or a filthy prick who was taking mental pictures for self-gratification.

If I was to rate all my experiences, then the most uncomfortable to endure was, without doubt, extreme thirst. After that sits cold, then hunger. Next comes a lack of sleep or, in this case, sleep deprivation. Following the interrogation session with the man with the porno moustache, I was forced to sit with my legs crossed, my hands on my knees and my head straight for the next six to eight hours.

Including our time on patrol prior to being captured, we had not slept in 60 hours. Twenty-four hours without sleep is no more difficult than a big night out. After two days and two nights without sleep, things begin to get a little blurred. On the third day, after several adrenaline-inspired highs and lows, rigorous physical sessions and three or four interrogation sessions, you become somewhat
delirious. We couldn't pop a pill or down a strong coffee. Sitting there unstimulated, fighting to remain awake for hours on end, is probably as punishing as counting from 1 to 1,000,000 and back again.

Dreaming about sex wasn't an option either. Sitting there naked and rocking to and fro with an erection would probably bring a bit more time in the freezer – no thanks.

I began to dream of sleep in the same way I occasionally used to dream of urination as a child. I remember fighting that lower ache and arguing with my subconscious mind.
Is the toilet before me bona fide, or is it just a façade? I'm not dreaming. I'm at school, standing in front of a toilet, dickie in hand, ready to let go. I've checked, double-checked
. I squeeze my penis.
This is real
.

The instant relief of letting go is soon replaced by panic as I wake up, mortified, pissing all over myself. Lying in soppy sheets and pyjamas as the sickly waft of piss penetrates the night air was like a shot of caffeine. I was no longer confused – I was without question very much awake!

I fought to remain conscious, my neck snapping back and forth, as sleep, like a drug, began to take control. As I began to hallucinate from lack of sleep, my mind drifted back to other times in my life. I remembered my other grandfather, Gerard, and how he used to challenge me when we went running, although he was almost 70 years old.

I recalled the look on my father's face when he told my ma that he found John, one of his closest mates, slumped over a machine and dead, electrocuted. I remembered
walking along the railway tracks with my next-door neighbour and his dog. The high-pitched scream of a train's horn still evokes an image of my friend, hunched-over, pale-faced, his mouth open and screaming. The metallic chattering sounds of the train overpowered his voice. His dog panicked and was cut in half.

When you're in the bag, you have a lot of time to think. The memories that kept me company were not always pleasant or logical. They were generally the more emotional or dramatic experiences of my life. Now, at the age of 35, I have a far greater reservoir of experiences, but then, as a 22-year-old, I used my past to garner strength.

Our guards must have found this phase of the training rather amusing. First the head would tilt, and then the neck would relax, allowing the head to fall. I would wake up, disoriented, unsure of where I was. The pressure around my eyes and over my ears from the goggles and muffs became accentuated over the hours. My head felt like it was clamped into a vice, and my knees like they were squashed beneath a bus.