Warrior Brothers (10 page)

The sandy bottom must have silenced the militiamen's movement. The lead man held his weapon to his shoulder and stared intently into the foliage about 10 metres further down the bank from where I stood. For a second I could see the white sections in the right corners of his eyes. I knew that any movement would draw his attention straight to me. His professional stance and the way he held his weapon suggested he was far from just an average militiaman; this looked like a man with comprehensive military training. There were others, possibly two who were like him and three who appeared more of a ragtag bunch. They continued to move towards me and it was clear that there was no way out. In an instant I would be locking eyes with the lead man.

There was no time to think.

I instinctively flicked off my safety catch, raised my weapon towards the group of men and squeezed the trigger. My first round, fired from the hip, crashed into the lead man's shoulder, a cloud of blood and dust exploding as the bullet found its mark. I continued to fire, pulling my weapon up to my shoulder and dropping to one knee. I fired another five or six rounds into the direction of the group as the militia began to return fire and scatter for cover. For every bullet I fired, three or four were fired in my direction, most travelling high. Without the time to turn on my aim point –
the red dot inside my sight – I levelled my foresight onto the second man, fired several rounds and moved quickly on to another. It all went so fast. I was vaguely aware of one of the militia staggering as the rounds entered his torso, and I briefly thought that I must have been hitting his legs instead. But the militia only had to move four metres to the side before they disappeared around the corner of the bank, and within a blink they were gone.

As the dust cleared, Steve jumped beside me and delivered a 40-millimetre grenade into the creek. Jimmy took up a firing position on the other side of me. We stood shoulder to shoulder. It was a surreal moment – complete silence as Steve, Jimmy and I stood facing an empty creek bed. There was no sign of the militia at all.

Steve scanned the scene ahead of us, poised for further action. ‘What happened?'

‘Where are they?' asked Jimmy.

‘There were six of them in the creek,' I replied, determined to keep focused. ‘I think I shot three of them.'

Just as I spoke, there was frantic movement 50 metres ahead. The dense foliage parted and the clearing was filled again with men running for their lives, shooting back at us as they ran. Steve, Jimmy and I responded promptly to this second burst of fire, exchanging several more rounds and sending several 40-millimetre grenades whistling through the air in their direction. With every shot from Steve's rifle next to my head I could feel the shock-wave cutting into my eardrums. My hearing was now so distorted that my ears were pulsating with a loud and incessant ringing.

Steve made the decision to hold ground and assess the situation. After a brief discussion, he told us he wanted a better idea of what was happening further down the creek. I promptly volunteered to cross to the opposite bank, requesting the support of G and his trusty light machine gun, the Para Minimi. Steve arranged the other three remaining men
into a defensive perimeter, providing support on the bank to cover our movement as much as possible, and I moved down the bank and darted across the open creek.

With every step I expected a volley of fire to rattle past me or worse, but the adrenaline pumping through my body gave me the strength to scale the opposite bank of the creek in a couple of quick lunges. I then adopted a position ready to fire and covered G as he followed me across. Once again we braced ourselves for the distinctive crack of rifle fire. None came. We both attempted to slow our breathing, taking turns to hold our breath while listening for signs of enemy movement. From my new position I could see the motionless body of one of the militiamen, face-down in the creek. He appeared to have been shot at least four times in the upper chest and abdomen during our initial confrontation. Following the routine from training exercises, I dispassionately informed Steve that there was ‘one dead enemy'.

G and I began to traverse the bank. As we were relatively exposed, G remained in a fire position, offering clear lines of sight and fire down the creek. I propped myself on the bank to his left, scanning the close vegetation to his front. Before long G attempted to attract my attention. Eighty metres to our front, two militiamen were edging up the creek towards us. With my ears still ringing from the earlier assault, I didn't respond to G's whispers, but I had no problem hearing the burst from his light machine gun, which kicked into life with a high-pitched rattle as he poured rounds in the direction of the enemy. Why not? He was carrying 1000 of them, so he might as well put them to good use.

I adopted a firing position and got off several rounds before lobbing a 40-millimetre grenade into the dust storm that G's rounds were creating. G then delivered a perfect target indication and I responded with another 40-millimetre grenade. It was like clockwork. Then it was their turn.

After a brief moment of silence, we began to take fire from
our left flank. The rounds cracked over our heads and we could hear several coordinating voices. We took stock of our situation and swiftly realised that there were possibly militiamen across the other side of the creek, another group further down the creek on their side of the river, and yet another flanking our position from the left. We were very nearly surrounded.

I informed Steve of our situation and he ordered us to wait while he positioned some fire support to cover our path back across the creek. We were all too aware that the open creek was now a prominent fire lane and by re-crossing we would most likely draw some heat. With Steve initiating fire support, I was first to cross. G provided his own covering fire, which he did with a brilliant burst into the vegetation while I dropped back into the creek and broke across the open ground.

I was sure that there would be militiamen lining the banks, ready to pour some lead into my direction. My first thought as I began my run was how much I dreaded being shot in the arse. Being wounded is fair enough, but just not in the arse. G must have poured at least 50 rounds into the vegetation in quick time before following my progress across the open ground. His eyes were wild – his initiation in contact had started very well.

In those few minutes, G and I formed a significant bond. Relying on one another in a fight for life and death produces a tight brotherhood. We had both passed the other's test. Just as importantly, so too had our fellow patrol members, who had remained a calm and controlled support throughout the contact.

We joined our mates and Steve immediately reorganised his defensive perimeter. Jimmy attempted to establish communications with squadron HQ, informing them that the patrol was in contact and required the assistance of the rapid-reaction force (RRF). It seemed fair to say that we were in no doubt that armed militiamen were operating in the area.

Due to our split patrol, the encircling militia were unsure of our exact location and composition. They could be heard moving through the dense foliage but, especially with several of us now suffering a degree of hearing loss from the gunfire, it was impossible to identify their precise position or the direction they were moving. We would slowly glance at each other and indicate that we could hear noise somewhere to our front but would point to our ears before giving a slight shrug of the shoulders. The enemy continued to search and before long had managed to encircle us in a loose cordon.

Our nervous energy was at a peak, but despite ourselves G and I occasionally made eye contact and grinned at each other. Jimmy was having difficulty sending off the message, as there was an error at the base station that was preventing transmissions from being received.

From the rear of the patrol, Buster and Jimmy began to hear movement. Unfortunately, their signal could not be passed to the other patrol members as the dense foliage prevented us from maintaining eye contact. Charlie was located near the creek on the opposite side of the defensive perimeter. Buster heard rustling through the vegetation that increased in clarity and intensity as the enemy probed towards our position. His heart was pounding in anticipation of imminent contact. How many of them were coming? Would his weapon work?

While outwardly he remained calm, Buster later commented that he could ‘feel his chest bouncing off the earth below him'. He was lying in the prone position, scanning the vegetation to his front, when two militiamen came into view – no more than seven metres away. With his breath held, Buster fired two rapid rounds into the chest of the first man before adjusting onto the second, who was diving for cover.

In response, there was then a volley of fire in Buster's direction; an extended line of attackers, maybe seven to nine men, was attempting to sweep through our position. There
were also men to the rear carrying ammunition and organising the assault. Rounds were now cracking around the entire patrol, slicing the branches above our heads, sending a shower of leaves to slowly blanket us where we lay.

The marauding militia were taking fire positions. This was all the motivation we needed to remain low and calm, only opening fire when targets presented themselves. Battle in close country is similar to night operations. The aim is to prevent signalling your precise location until the last possible moment. Otherwise you are likely to find a flurry of grenades hurled in your general direction.

Jimmy placed his palmtop keyboard down and fired several carefully aimed shots into the moving vegetation, while Steve offered additional support. Several bullets flicked into the dirt mound within a foot of Buster, so he decided to take cover and deliver a grenade in the direction of an enemy he could hear moaning. Buster quickly sourced a grenade from his pouch and peeled off the safety tape. With a sharp pull he dislodged the safety pin before calling ‘grenade' and delivering the little ball of death to our attackers. The fragmentation grenade exploded, showering the patrol with dirt and debris. The moaning ceased but Buster delivered one more grenade into the same location for good measure.

Steve decided it was time to break contact. The attack had been interrupted, providing us with enough room to manoeuvre. I asked if we were taking packs. Steve's reply was immediate and decisive: ‘No. Remove all mission essential stores from your packs and leave the rest behind.' This offered us a greater range of mobility and stealth. Rations, water, sleeping equipment and miscellaneous stores would only hinder us in our attempt to break from contact.

Steve then ordered me back into the creek to observe the bank from the direction of the most recent exchange of fire. My time in the creek felt like an eternity as my back was now completely exposed. Charlie assisted Jimmy in clearing the
packs. Each grabbed a patrol radio, which could not be left for the enemy. Charlie then dropped into the creek beside me – we were now able to cover both directions.

With the patrol ready to move, Steve ordered the withdrawal. Charlie didn't hesitate and darted across the creek with the speed that was expected from his athletic frame, and I followed suit. Now, with the two scouts securing the opposite bank, the remainder of the patrol broke across the creek one at a time. There was some sporadic shooting from the vegetation on the opposite bank but we disappeared into the undergrowth.

Once we were clear, I looked Steve in the eye. ‘Goddamn, what a rush!' I whispered, quoting a line from the movie
Broken Arrow
. Steve laughed and the tension eased somewhat.

No longer encumbered by our packs, we worked our way through the vegetation with a new level of mobility.
This is how an SAS patrol should be
, I thought, finally able to crawl, weave and slide through the lantana and vines with relative ease and stealth. We'd travelled about 300 metres when Steve ordered another attempt to communicate with the squadron.

I was tasked to put the men into a defensive perimeter while Steve and Jimmy set up the satellite communications. G and his light machine gun were positioned to cover the most likely enemy approach route, alongside Buster at the six o'clock position. Charlie remained at twelve o'clock with Steve and Jimmy in the centre covering three o'clock. I covered a small opening in the vegetation at the nine o'clock position. Voice communications were established with squadron HQ and they were re-informed of the situation moments before the second radio failed too.

Although the majority of the squadron were conducting a raid some 15 kilometres away, a 12-man rapid-reaction force was sent to our aid from Dili. The RRF boarded two helicopters and thundered towards us. They didn't know what to
expect on the ground, but they were aware that their mates were in trouble, and that was enough. If they could have made those flying machines go any faster from sheer commitment and exuberance then they no doubt would have. In the meantime, we lay low and waited.

Within 20 minutes we identified the distinctive shapes of two Blackhawk helicopters in the distance. The members of the RRF couldn't see us against the background of parched vegetation. On Steve's orders I prepared a smoke grenade to signal our location. The birds continued past us towards the creek, before looping back and landing in a small open area of lantana in the centre of our position. This was some of the best flying we had seen. It was evident that the pilots didn't mind pushing the limits during a time of need.

Six men scrambled off the helicopter with eyes and fingers ready for action. We could not have hoped for a more reliable band of brothers to come to our aid, and we scrambled aboard before the pilots launched the bird hard into the sky. The six men who got off were relocated on the second helicopter, before the two Blackhawks circled back to the contact area so we could retrieve our packs. The terrain looked vastly different from above.

One helicopter hovered over the vicinity of the creek, ready to provide fire support, while the helicopter carrying us landed in a clearing approximately 40 metres from the contact location. Steve ordered Buster, Jimmy and G to secure the landing zone while he, Charlie and I were to head for the undergrowth to locate our packs. This was a vulnerable time for the helicopters, so we wasted no time, running in the direction of our packs with eyes wide open, half-expecting to run into another group of militia.