Warrior Training (26 page)

Mick and I rehearsed with the LRAD, moving it to numerous locations, to ensure we were able to respond to threats in any direction. While I untied the ropes securing the tripod, Mick disconnected the 240-volt power supply and ran it through the bridge to the opposite side of the vessel. I'd then carry the LRAD to the next location while Mick followed with the tripod. As he reconnected
the power supply, I donned hearing protection. We rehearsed until we were able to complete the task in less than 30 seconds. With the 20 seconds it took for the device to warm up, this meant we could be operational within 50 seconds.

The LRAD 500, an acoustic hailing device.

Tony would remain in the bridge in order to direct the skipper and maintain communications with the flotilla commander, who was located on the lead vessel. Other craft were always positioned to be able to afford mutual support if we were attacked; they had access to automatic weapons, including PKM medium machine guns.

The next morning, we also tested the water cannon and ran rehearsals for the crew. We identified suitable ambush positions where we would be able to disarm the lead attacker with ASP batons. With one of us playing enemy, we adjusted our positions and rehearsed striking an attacker's head as we simultaneously controlled his weapon.

Preparation and planning are instrumental to success. Many years earlier, when I was a junior trooper in the Regiment, Tony had offered me some invaluable advice. I was tasked to run a lesson for the squadron in the lecture theatre. When Tony asked how my rehearsals were going, I said, ‘I'm not going to worry about a rehearsal – I know the piece of kit. I'll cuff it.'

His reply: ‘Mate, it's easy to tell when someone is cuffing it. If you want to be able to stand up and deliver, then I suggest you do a rehearsal or two. But I'll leave the decision up to you.'

Mick, Tony and I maintained a 24/7 security piquet and increased our vigilance during high-threat times of dusk and dawn. At 0621 on 17 December, a suspect boat was
identified off our vessel's port side. We readied the LRAD and were operational within 25 seconds. We remained alert until the threat subsided.

Observing a suspect vessel in the Gulf of Aden.

By 19 December, the seas had turned angry, battering our convoy with a relentless easterly swell.
So much for the Gulf being like a lake
, I thought. The sea-state, just like the tomatoes I had for breakfast, was on the rise. I could taste the brine in my mouth.
Damn it!
I thought. I knew I had passed the point of no return. I struggled down the stairs and just managed to get my head over the side when the violent contractions commenced. After clearing my stomach, I looked up at the bridge to see if anyone noticed. Mick was standing there laughing. But when the seas reached sea-state six, it was his turn.

The crew, concerned that we had lost our appetites, pressed us to eat. There was no chance – just walking past the galley made me want to throw up.

‘
Saya tidak mau makan
,
aduh
,
sakit perut
,' I said with absolute conviction, telling them I didn't want to eat because I had a sick stomach. They expressed their sympathy by laughing.

After completing my shift, I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth.
Surely that will make me feel better
, I thought. As the vessel pitched and rolled, I held onto the basin to prevent being thrown about. The air-conditioning wasn't working so the bathroom was hot and stuffy. But it was the dreadful stench that wafted from the toilet that pushed me over the edge. I flicked off the lid of my toothpaste, held the tube close to my nostrils and sniffed like a coke addict. This only accentuated my desire to vomit. It was pathetic and I laughed in between contractions.

The following morning we learned that several guys on the other vessels had been vomiting. When I was asked how we were going, I decided to be up-front and honest. ‘No dramas here,' I replied. But the next 36 hours were torturous. We were aboard a tugboat that was designed to operate in harbours. A sea-state six made things rather uncomfortable.

The following day we closed in on the coast of Oman. Late that afternoon, we observed two vessels moving across our front. We slowed down to assess the situation and readied the LRAD. The conditions were atrocious. The boats were heading towards Oman, possibly trying to escape the weather. We continued on.

At last we reached our destination, the port of Salalah. The hotel we checked in to was filthy – my bed looked like someone had been sleeping in it. The next day I flew home, arriving on the morning of 23 December. I had
only spent 17 days away – almost nothing in comparison to years past – yet it was definitely long enough. I really missed taking the kids down to the beach.

I knew my transition was complete when I had the opportunity to deploy at short notice to Afghanistan with the reserve Commandos over Christmas. It wouldn't be the same as going with the Regiment, but it was still an operational deployment. There were several reasons why I wanted to go, the strongest being to deploy with Al, one of my closest brothers. Al and I have been mates since primary school.

When Al had asked me to be his best man, he handed me a bottle of beer. The brand read:

‘Why's your name first?' I asked, grinning.

‘Yeah, but your name's written in larger letters.'

‘That's true. Cheers, big guy.'

Al is a part-time Commando and is also studying medicine. For someone with a ridiculously high IQ, he's pretty funny, coordinated and surprisingly normal.

Al had his reasons for wanting to deploy, and although he asked for my opinion, he knew his decision had to come from within. As for me, after much deliberation I turned the opportunity down. I didn't want to spend another four months away from my family, especially over Christmas. Unless my circumstances changed, I would only contemplate short tasks. I had spent more than a decade
going away; now that I knew what it was like to be a dad, I wasn't prepared to give that up. Perhaps people do change.

The week before Al left, I threw him off a 45-metre bridge into the ocean. He was attached to a rope. The abseil was spectacular. We also went for a fast run.

Al serving in Afghanistan.

‘I'm going to set a cracking pace, mate,' I told him. ‘This is similar to the speed an SAS troop runs when they're going hard. I want you to beat me to the other end of the bridge.'

He did. It was obvious Al had trained hard. Physically and mentally, he was ready to go to war.

Since Al's deployment, two Australian soldiers have been killed in Afghanistan. I heard about the first incident on the news, and I immediately thought of him. Al wasn't just a mate, he was a brother. A day later I found a message on my mobile from a voice I didn't recognise. I listened to it at least five times, then played it to Colleen.

‘Who do you reckon this is?' I asked her.

‘Don't know. I've never heard the voice before,' she replied.

I played the message again. ‘Do you think it could be Al?'

‘Nah, it's definitely not Al.'

I listened again, trying to connect some part of the
message to the guy I had known since I was five. ‘You're right. It's not him,' I said.

But it had been Al. He'd been out on patrol when a soldier 15 metres in front of him tripped an improvised explosive device and disappeared. For this man, death was instantaneous, but for his family his death lingers forever. You can try to justify a death like this to those who are grieving, but in the end, when someone you love dies, it's just fucking sad.

Al's voice had carried the tone of a much older man. It was a lifeless voice – serious, distant and vague. We spoke later that day.

‘You alright, mate?' I asked.

‘Yeah, I'm fine. It's sad – he was a good guy.'

‘I was hoping it was you so I could have your motorbike,' I said with a laugh.

Al laughed too. ‘Yeah, well, you'll have to wait.'

Phone calls from soldiers on deployment are always guarded and a little weird, as they can't speak freely. I never asked Al what he'd been up to and he didn't discuss anything operational. I knew what it was like, so I spent the time telling him that he was missing out on a great summer.

Two weeks later a 107-mm rocket passed within 40 centimetres of Al's head. One of his mates wasn't so lucky. Although they had been struck by a violent hand, the Commandos' commitment to each other only intensified. For years Al had heard my stories; now it felt strange to be on the receiving end. But I was proud of him. Not a condescending, big-brother proudness. He was a mate and a soldier who had handled himself well under testing conditions.

I'm not sure how Al will find the transition from war to civilian life. The sounds, smells and images of war will remain etched in his long-term memory, but so too will the camaraderie that was forged during adversity.

One day we'll chat about it.

History provides a rich collection of stories of soldiers and armies who have displayed something special – those who have blended brains, courage and brawn. When I read about the Battle of Thermopylae, I was so impressed by the commitment and loyalty of King Leonidas' men to each other that I used their actions for motivation when working with the Auckland Warriors rugby league side in the lead-up to the team's 2008 NRL finals campaign.

The Auckland Warriors were an impressive outfit of men who displayed a wonderful combination of the warrior's spirit and humility. For me, it was an honour to have been invited to work with such a fine group of men. Their sense of teamwork and mateship was on par with that of my brothers in the Regiment, and like many SAS soldiers, they were heavily inked with meaningful tattoos.

Ahead of the team's vital match against the Melbourne Storm on 14 September 2008, I sent an email to their conditioning coach, Craig Walker, who pinned my message on the boys' lockers:

In the history of the NRL, no team in eighth position had defeated the minor premiers in the first round of finals. The Auckland Warriors, just like the Spartans, fought as a team and punched well above their weight. The Warriors were victorious while the Spartans eventually lost their lives, but both had self-belief and were not intimidated by the strength of their opponents.

Giving advice to others is one thing, but I also realise the value of self-criticism. I regularly reflect on my own
shortfalls. Unless you're aware of your weaknesses, how can you possibly become stronger?

I have been addicted to adrenaline and the rush associated with working in dangerous locations. The time when you're fighting for survival is also the time when you feel most alive. It is near-on impossible to recapture this feeling in regular life. Trust me – I have nearly drowned trying.

When soldiers return from war, especially if they have had near-death experiences, they sometimes develop an attitude of invincibility – a bit like adolescent males who are charged with testosterone. Having been there, I know the feeling. I'm also aware that this mindset can be more perilous than bullets or bombs. Your ability to acknowledge danger can be more relaxed than that of someone who hasn't experienced such things. What others consider to be dangerous, returned soldiers sometimes view as acceptable, or even as desirable.

I have done some crazy shit in my time, including leaping off a bridge into water in the middle of the night without assessing the risk. After having a large quantity of salt water forced into my arse at high-speed and bruising my tailbone, culminating with six weeks of discomfort, I realised that there is a fine line between seeking adventure and making bad decisions.

Although I like to challenge myself in the ocean, especially when it gets a little nasty out there, I work hard on my fitness and skills, which gives me the ability to extend myself. My training includes underwater work, a combination of both high- and low-heart-rate breath holds.

I was recently stuck in the impact area of a large surf after losing my board. For over 15 minutes I was repeatedly
sucked to the bottom and held under for 10 to 20 seconds at a time. The water was so aerated that I was unable to swim to the surface. Every time I needed a breath, I had to dive to the bottom and launch off the sand. I was rarely able to steal more than one breath before being sucked through the next wave and driven back down. I was telling myself to calm down and relax – drowning on my local beach would be bloody embarrassing. The three large blue-bottles that were wrapped around my neck were the least of my concerns – I'm sure they hated the experience as much as me. I eventually made it in, 350 metres down the beach. When I got to the car I noticed my lips were blue; I was hypoxic.

I'd be a liar if I said the experience didn't rattle me a little. The next day I jumped in the pool with a couple of mates and did some underwater work. Training and preparation are critical for anyone who likes to push the limits.

Sadly, a young male exchange student from Saudi Arabia also ventured into the surf that night; he had been celebrating his 25th birthday with a group of friends. It was late, he was a poor swimmer, the surf was treacherous and he had been drinking. I knew how difficult I had found the conditions – the poor guy didn't stand a chance.

For people like me, my mates, young adolescent males and soldiers who are trying to negotiate their way back to a more banal lifestyle, I try to remember this: if we must fall, then let it be the hand of fate, not waste, or while doing what we love; our fleeting moments of madness should not remain forever.

Over the last couple of years I have heard of soldiers from several countries who boast about taking life, as if the experience should give them special status or joy. For me, such comments either show a false bravado or belie far deeper problems: that they have been desensitised to the point that they are out of touch with society. Killing may be integral to war, but it is not a sport. In war, there are no trophies and there are no winners.

Some guys pretend they are winners – a false ideal that is usually accentuated when in the presence of others and alcohol. But I challenge these men to rise from their beds in the middle of the night, walk to the bathroom, face the mirror and peer deep into the eyes before them. When there is no one to challenge their ego, when the night is as quiet as a corpse, what sort of man do they see? When they close their eyes and picture the faces and bodies of those who breathe no longer, do these indelible images give them the same uplifting feelings as watching children play?

For me, catching a wave, having a laugh with a few mates or hanging out down at the beach with my family gives me joy. And like any parent, I'm definitely guilty when it comes to bragging about the exploits of my children. Taking life does not define who I am: it is something I have had to do and it brings me neither guilt, pride nor joy. It was a requirement of war, and the memory of it gives me a hollow, dead feeling that I don't like to think about.

In the lead up to Anzac Day this year, I spoke with a number of World War II veterans who, to this day, still harbour a deep hatred for those who they met in battle. But these men were usually subjected to horrors that we
may not fully understand. Despite this hatred, I have never heard one of these vets speak of taking life as if they had just hit the cricket ball over the fence for six. That is one thing I love about the elderly: they are more inclined to tell it how it is, rather than try to be perceived as something they are not.

Throughout my life I have gained inspiration, knowledge and guidance from many people, from family and friends to martial arts instructors and SAS patrol commanders. I have also drawn strength from people I barely know. Whenever I meet someone special, I try to ascertain what it is that makes them unique. It could be the way they have dealt with adversity, or how they have reached the top of their chosen field, or how their actions have had a positive effect on the lives of others. I find myself analysing them and hoping that a small piece of them will rub off on me.

But I don't gauge my success by comparing myself to others. Those who do so are often left bitter and fail to reach their potential. I compete with myself, because then the potential for growth is infinite; I am not bordered by those above and below.

My experiences, training and relationships have shaped my life, but the way I reflect on these things allows me to grow and progress with confidence. Not everything I attempt works out, but I give everything I attempt the same level of commitment.