Warrior Training (15 page)

And then came sleep. The relief, the euphoria of falling asleep, allowed my body to relax. With my chin nestled against my chest, I pumped deep, slow breaths into the air. I was asleep. I was free. Life had never been so good.

Slap!

Huh, what was that? Where the fuck am I?
I thought. My breathing intensified. My heart revved hard as I tried to remember where I was. I attempted to touch my stinging forehead, but my hands did not respond.
Where are my hands?
I could not feel them – they were numb. I pushed my head onto my shoulder in an attempt to remove the
pressure from my cheekbones, and a needle of light pierced my blacked-out world.

This is RTI training. I must have fallen asleep. My head aches because I'm wearing goggles and earmuffs. My knees aren't smashed or broken. They're sore because they're twisted and crossed, like they were back at school.
I heard fading footsteps.
One of the guards must have slapped me. Fuckers
.

My body relaxed and my heart slowed as the shot of adrenaline dissolved into my system. Once again I duelled with sleep. And once again my mind succumbed as I drifted from reality.

The guards probably waited a couple of minutes before stalking their prey again. With silent steps they approach the dozing man, taking extreme care so as not to wake him. Once alongside their victim, they might signal to the other guards that they're ready to attack. They might even rehearse the strike, teasing themselves – a bit of foreplay. Then, when they can't restrain themselves any longer, they slap the sleeping man in the forehead and watch as their victim snaps from the surreal to the real.

Over the course of the afternoon, the guards, who were probably just bored, kept themselves amused by increasing the intensity of the forehead slaps. I decided to look for some amusement too.

After sitting still for a while, I slowly lowered my head to my chest and took deep breaths, imitating sleep. Over my own muffled breaths, my ears hunted for sound. In my mind I pictured a guard creeping towards me. I was rather surprised when I heard a faint noise in front of me – a muffled laugh. My heart was beating hard as I thrust out both of my legs, my right heel connecting with some
thing hard – possibly a shin. The guard made a startled noise and stumbled. I recrossed my legs and the footsteps drifted away.

My head continued to sway, tilt and fall as I plunged in and out of microsleeps. Hallucinations became as vivid as real life. A dull pain scrambled my mind.

A hand touched my shoulder, and another raised my earmuffs.

‘Sleep,' said a voice, ‘sleep.'

I'm dreaming
, I thought.
I'll probably piss myself next
.

I was gently lowered to the floor. I had no idea if what I was experiencing was genuine. But the pain in my knees and lower back began to fade.
Perhaps this is real … they're letting us sleep
, I thought. I relaxed my mind and left the conscious world. I imagine the transition from one state to the next would have been no more than 10 seconds, probably less. Although my bed was a wooden floor, to this day I have never slept so deeply.

Fifteen minutes later my body was shaken violently and yanked to a seated position.
What the fuck is going on?
I thought, as I relaxed and fell back to the floor. Once again a pair of strong hands ripped me off the floor and slapped my hands against my knees. I was convinced that I'd been allowed to sleep because I had a broken arm, so I signalled towards my right arm before attempting to lie back down.

My earmuffs were lifted. ‘Fucking sit up, arsehole, or you'll get a cold bath.'

Those words – ‘arsehole' and ‘cold bath' – helped with the orientation. I was now fully awake, as if snatched from the clouds and dropped onto a bed of broken glass. I felt nauseated from a combination of hunger, lack of sleep
and a violent awakening. I would experience this abrupt wakening many more times over the years to come, from rockets zinging overhead in the middle of an Afghani night, to deafening explosions as bombs and rockets pounded Baghdad's International Zone. My instinctive reaction was always to grab my weapon; in Afghanistan it was a Para Minimi, and in Baghdad a Glock 17 pistol that I kept on a drawer next to my bed. But during RTI training we just had to sit there and play the game.

A guard pulled me up off the floor and I responded by falling back over. I had little sensation in my legs; the hours sitting cross-legged had restricted the circulation to my lower limbs. The guard, convinced I was messing with him, pulled me to my feet and tried to drag me across the room. Again my legs collapsed beneath me.

‘Stand up!' yelled the guard as he pulled my arms high behind my back. I groaned as my shoulder joints found new levels of flexibility.

‘Stand up!'

I leant back and made the guard support my weight. He struggled to keep me off the ground, his awkward hands fumbling over my body. The guard seemed uncomfortable, not knowing how to support a naked man. I remember finding this amusing. Another guard came to assist, grabbing a handful of hair and my elbow.

This was a welcome distraction from the deep burn that radiated throughout my lower limbs as a rush of blood gave them life. I hobbled – was dragged – across the wooden floor and down several steps to the familiar gravelled surface. The pebbles were sharp and the night was cold.

We walked for 164 paces. I remember because, for what
ever reason, I decided to count them.
100 plus the age of my grandfather when he died
, I thought. I was pushed to the ground. Lying there, my genitals squashed against the gravel, I heard the distinctive
whop whop whop
of a Huey helicopter. My handcuffs were removed as the
whops
became louder. I held my breath as the Huey landed close by, the rotor wash peppering my body with small stones and grit. I wondered where the guards were and hoped that they were copping it too. I guess they were nearby, as I was soon yanked to my feet and buckled into the Huey. The rotors increased in velocity and the Huey lifted into the air.

How fucking cold is it?
I thought. The wind seemed to cut my skin like shards of ice. I sat hunched over, my head down and my arms pulled tight against my chest. I raised my goggles and noticed that I was on the starboard side of the helicopter. I looked to my right and saw a large man in a helmet seated beside me. He glanced in my direction, noticed I had raised my goggles and turned his head away.
He's not one of them
, I thought.
He's just the loadmaster
.

I turned my head to the left and saw three familiar shadowy figures squashed side by side. I reached over and tugged the hair of one. The startled man, still wearing goggles, raised his head and flicked it nervously from side to side. I laughed and did it again. I grabbed another one of the boys on the shoulder and gave a friendly squeeze. This man raised his goggles and spun around. It was dark but he was grinning, his white teeth reflecting the minimal light. He raised an earmuff and whispered something to the man whose hair I had pulled.

The loadmaster then decided enough was enough
and signalled for us to replace our goggles. I obliged and returned to darkness. With my vision gone, there was little to focus on other than the cold.

The next 24 hours of RTI training were to be less physically exacting than the first two days, but I found it an even greater test of my self-belief. During our first 48 hours in captivity, we were subjected to three or four alternate interrogation techniques. Some guys who divulged information were interrogated up to a dozen times. During my more vulnerable moments, I thought about my heritage, what type of person I was, things I had achieved and who I wanted to be. At times I did begin to doubt some decisions, especially my declaration of my rank as private rather than trooper, but I did not let this affect my self-esteem; despite the physical and emotional abuse, I still backed my decision.

In life, there are always going to be detractors – armchair critics, usually – who say something can't be done or who criticise those who push the boundaries. But as I see it, if you don't believe in yourself, how can you expect anyone else to?

Following our joyride, I was escorted across a gravel surface and told to stand still. The night air seemed to lack commitment in contrast to the wind chill we'd experienced in the back of the Huey. I was still naked and cold, but the shuffling sounds around me suggested that something was different.

Then a man spoke. ‘Remove your goggles.'

I followed his instructions and saw that I'd been lined up
with eight other soldiers from my troop. It also appeared that we were now in a mock prisoner-of-war (POW) camp. I briefly locked eyes with a couple of guys and observed that they looked just as dishevelled as I felt. I was shocked at their condition. We had only been in captivity for 48 hours, yet the men appeared to have aged considerably. Besides their haggard hair, the lack of sleep had left their faces lined and their eyes sunken and red. Our group ranged from 22 to 30 years of age. Fortunately I wasn't the youngest, so I was not required to take part in the first ridiculous exercise. Our troop commander was given a thick, black jacket – which looked very warm – and Evo, the youngest member of our troop, was told to pick off the fluff.

Evo running Colleen through the Heckler & Koch MP5 on an SAS family day in Perth.

Evo is an intelligent man with great common sense. He is currently employed in Kabul but he lives in Brazil with
his partner and young daughter. Growing up with three brothers and being educated in a boys' boarding school provided Evo with the edge he needed for military life. But as he readily admits, any outward display of affection does not come naturally.

Evo is a perfectionist. He's driven, works hard and is able to think clearly under pressure. Like Todd, he was well suited to close-quarter battle training, as his ability to think on his feet enabled him to make a decision quickly. The three of us would later be selected in the lead water-assault team on counter-terrorism duties. Evo was also calm underwater, a pleasure to work with when we had to dive in heavy seas, poor visibility or shark-infested waters.

During the first phase of RTI, Evo had assessed the time very accurately. Whenever he was outside, he would gauge the intensity of the sun; after 48 hours in captivity he was within a couple of hours of the correct time. Most guys had no idea.

Watching Evo pick the fluff off the Boss' coat was mildly entertaining. It was a peculiar task designed to establish an order of seniority. A few guys sniggered, but I remember feeling very much on-guard, so I adopted a vague persona and remained alert. During the next 24 hours our interrogators would attempt to divide our group, to fracture our team and create alienation. They would achieve their aim.

Feeling like an outsider, like you don't belong, is something most people experience in life. Children who are always last to be picked on a sporting team, immigrants from very different cultures, and those in same-sex relationships are some of the more extreme cases of those who experience alienation. A child who is bullied or ostracised over a lengthy time can become withdrawn, lose his or her confidence and suffer from low self-esteem. If someone is told something enough times, then they'll probably begin to believe it.

For 48 hours our interrogators verbally abused and degraded us. Most SAS soldiers are confident men with strong personalities, so the individual abuse we suffered had only a limited effect. But now, in the mock prisoner-of-war (POW) camp, where we were in a team environment, the interrogators attempted to divide our loyalty to the group by ostracising certain men.

My memory of the precise details of the camp commandant's opening address remains vague. The commandant was a ‘grey man', more mediocre than impressive, and so his
appearance largely eludes me. He had a full head of dark hair, perhaps greying a little on the sides, and a lean build. But I do remember his eyes – not their colour but the intensity of his stare. It was difficult to ascertain what the man was thinking. I had only noticed this a few times before.

The commandant introduced himself, informed us that we were prisoners of war and warned us that we must abide by the camp rules if we wished to be treated in accordance with the Geneva Convention. He also stressed that our interrogation sessions had concluded. He was very clear about this: ‘Your interrogation is complete. You must now work together as a team. If you do not work together or if someone breaks the rules, then the group will be punished.'

Soldiers are selected for the SAS largely on their ability to work together during adverse conditions. When we heard that the commandant wanted us to work as a team, we naively believed that these next 24 hours would be relatively straight-forward.

But sneakily – or masterfully – the camp commandant had no intention of allowing us to work together. From the outset the interrogators' aim was to continue to gather information; and if any man resisted, he would be ostracised and made to feel like he wasn't contributing to the team – that he was letting his mates down. What better way was there to disrupt a committed team of men than to attack the very ideals on which they most prided themselves?

We were soon ordered to line up and sign for a pair of pyjamas. I had no intention of signing anything, and I
discussed this with Evo and Pete. The senior member of our group – an officer – was then chastised by the commandant for failing to control his men.

This was clever. If the guards could seed self-doubt in the mind of the boss about his own ability to lead, then he might lose sight of what the interrogators were trying to achieve. It was a successful ploy. The Boss ordered the rest of us to sign for our pyjamas. In the military you have to sign when issued equipment. This was, apparently, just routine.

I stood at the back of the line and when it was my turn, I picked up the pen in my non-dominant hand – my left – and scratched an X on the page. I then looked into the eyes of the man who was playing the enemy quartermaster and waited for his reaction. I saw him glance at my ‘signature' before handing over a pair of oversized pyjamas.
Why didn't he say anything?

Upon reflection, it should have been obvious to me why he ignored my protest. Our captors had already received a number of signatures, so to press for one more might alarm our group; they didn't want us to realise that they were still gathering information. Our captors wanted each man to relax, to drop his guard. After that, the information – polluted and toxic – should flow like the Ganges.

The intelligence officers were highly skilled, experts at manipulation. They had a plan, were well-drilled and were working together to achieve their aim. In contrast, we were prisoners who had not slept in three days and had to react to the commands of others. We were also not permitted to speak to one another. Whenever the guards saw someone speak, the entire group – except that individual – was
punished. With no ability to communicate, we were unable to formulate a plan. And with no plan, we were isolated.

During the next 24 hours numerous scenarios were played out. At one point we met with a mock representative of the Red Cross. We were seated in a large room behind individual desks arranged in neat lines – it was like a schoolroom. The Red Cross rep flashed us some identification before beginning his performance. He was charismatic, funny and sincere. This man was so sympathetic to what we'd gone through that anyone would have thought he'd been there with us.

He said he would try to improve our living conditions and would see if he could get us something to eat. When he asked what we'd like, he was bombarded with wishful requests. I sat there and said nothing. It was pointless contributing to the conversation – there was no way this man was going to be able to source KFC or pizza, as the men were requesting.

The Red Cross rep asked general questions to the group, to see who would respond. He then targeted individuals, first those who were willing to talk and then those who were not. I scanned the room behind him, searching for cameras or anything unusual. He asked me how I was; I just raised my shoulders, as if to suggest I didn't know. He was clever. Sensing my resistance, he immediately targeted someone else. His aim was to establish rapport and trust. Pressing the wrong person for too long could have meant that the others might cotton on and also withdraw from the conversation.

When he left the room I tried to communicate my concern to my mates: I believed they were still gathering information. A man then burst into the room and
demanded to know who had spoken. I said nothing, and so we were punished as a group.

We all looked ridiculous in our pyjamas. The waistband of my pants was more than double the size required. The elastic had been removed, so I was forced to tie the pants in a knot to stop them from falling down. The result: a baggy crotch and permanent wedgie.

While foreign music blared from some loudspeakers, we were ordered to construct a vegetable garden. I didn't have a problem with this. Scratching at the surface of the dry earth with inadequate gardening tools kept me warm. Some guys began to laugh, both at the hideous music and at the way their mates looked with their pyjamas tied around their stomachs like a group of belly-dancers. We were only permitted to speak to the prisoner whom our captors had placed in charge. He was to be addressed by his surname prefixed by the word ‘brother'. Brother Fennell was never placed in charge.

Our captors allowed some joviality. When smartarse questions like: ‘This music is good for our morale – is it possible to increase the volume?' were asked, our captors responded with witty comebacks that were sometimes hilarious. The more relaxed we were, the easier it would be for them to extract information.

We were then seated together on the floor in a small room, where we were addressed and engaged in conversation by another man. Although he looked different, I recognised him from one of my previous interrogation sessions. He was the man whose voice had broken when I eyeballed him. He asked us questions about the Sally Man – an iconic and much-loved figure in the Australian
military who would turn up out bush and provide soldiers with biscuits and brews. Everyone loves the Sally Man. It was then that I was targeted a little more aggressively.

‘So, Fennell, tell me about the Sally Man.'

I just grinned a dumbarse grin and looked at the floor.

‘Fennell, what's wrong – don't you like the Sally Man?'

The man's accent was even more ridiculous than the ones I'd heard on selection. I just nodded my head.

‘You do or you don't?'

Once again I just raised my shoulders.

‘What we have here is someone who won't contribute to the team. Why won't you contribute, Fennell?'

I stared at the floor.

‘Oh, we have a sulker?' said the man. ‘Someone's not happy. Perhaps you find it stressful here? The others don't appear stressed.'

This was brilliant work by our captor. There were sniggers throughout the room. I was now being ostracised, beginning to be made to feel inferior to the rest of the group.

The man left the room and I finally spoke: ‘Don't you guys see that these fuckers are still gathering information?'

‘You feeling a little bit stressed, Keithy?' was one jeering reply. A couple of other guys laughed.

I could see what was happening and I found it deeply frustrating. For failing to contribute – that is, to provide information – I was being vilified as a non-team player, someone who was too uptight. With every mocking comment from our captors – many of which were genuinely droll – a couple of my peers had chimed in and taken the piss.

A man then entered the room and yelled at me for speaking. My mates were ordered outside and made to do push-ups on the dirt while I watched.

‘You men are being punished because one of your own does not respect the camp rules. He spoke, knowing that if caught, you would all be punished. It is clear that this man is an individual who does not respect others.'

The leader of our group was then abused and stood down. I was placed in isolation.

Our captors unwittingly did me a favour, since the time alone allowed me to gather my thoughts without distraction. I reflected deeply. No one enjoys feeling like an outsider, and for an SAS soldier, being accused of being a non-team player is up there with being considered suspect under fire. As much as I wanted to join my mates and blend in with the group, I decided to follow my instincts and provide our captors with as little information as possible.

When I was released I rejoined the group back in the vegetable garden. The officer who had been deposed had a quiet word in my ear; he ordered me to ‘play the game'.

‘Can't you see what's going on, Boss?' I said, irritated that now I was being ordered to divulge information.

‘The interrogation is over. We're in a POW camp and I'm ordering you to play the game.'

I turned to the other officer in the group and reiterated my thoughts. He seemed a little more receptive. I could see him thinking about it, nodding his head but continuing to stare at the ground.

Our captors, however, were diligent and were always on the lookout for anyone talking. They didn't want us to
work together anymore. The group was punished again, and it was no surprise that I was made to watch.

We were then taken to the room with the desks and encouraged to sing. ‘Music and song are good for morale,' we were told. It was like karaoke but without alcohol. I remained quiet and watched the show.

‘Who's next?' said our captors. I rolled my eyes and waited for the obvious. ‘What about you, Fennell? Would you like to contribute to the team?'

‘Come on, Keithy,' said one of the boys.

I placed my head down on the table and waited for the mocking to begin. It never came, as one of the boys – perhaps wanting to be crowned karaoke king – sang a country song loudly and out of tune.

Next we were told that we were allowed to write a letter to our loved ones, to inform them that we were alive and well.
You can't be serious
, I thought.
This is ridiculous. Surely no one here would be stupid enough to write a letter and address it home
. I was wrong. Portions of these letters were later read out during our debriefing session. Now that was funny.

We were given a piece of white paper and several coloured pencils. I realised that to do nothing would have been to make a statement, thus further alienating myself from the group. So I took a pencil and sketched a large rectangle. I drew lines across the diagonals and then neatly coloured in each triangle with a different colour. The drawing had no significance or meaning.

We were handed an envelope and told to insert our letter, seal the envelope and address it. I wrote a fictitious street name and left it at that. Our captors collected the
envelopes and told us that they would be posted. In fact, they took them to another room and analysed them for intelligence.

Evo had written: ‘If a tree falls in the woods and no one sees or hears it fall, then does it really make a noise?' The interrogators thought he had lost his mind and were so concerned that they spoke with his patrol commander, who pissed himself laughing and said: ‘I told him to write that as a message to me.'