Warrior Brothers (11 page)

Immediately, I nearly tripped over the twisted and mangled body of a dead militiaman. His eyes were open but lifeless. His bloodstained mouth was also ajar, but there was no breathing, no rise and fall from his damaged chest. The
fragmentation grenades had twisted his lower torso and the blast had bent one of his lower limbs into an impossible position.

Steve put a hand on my shoulder and told me to keep going. I didn't look back.

The first packs were only about seven metres from the dead man. We quickly rolled them over to ensure that they were not booby-trapped with grenades before attempting to throw one over each shoulder. Weighed down by two packs each, as well as an enemy resupply bag and weapon we had found, we trudged back towards the whining rotors. We piled aboard the Blackhawk with heaving chests, holding on as the bird pulled hard into the blue sky above. The helicopters circled the village one last time before heading east towards Dili.

We were on a high like no other. The enemy weapon was unloaded and a 7.62-millimetre round was handed to each of us as we slapped one another on the shoulders, relieved that we had all come through this close call unscathed. Up front, the pilots were chattering to themselves. I heard one load master comment over the radio that we were pumped. The pilot's response made me smile: ‘Yeah, you would be too if you had just shot some cunts that were trying to take you down.'

The birds glided home, filled with operators still high on adrenaline. Dishevelled and putrid, we were unloaded onto the helipad in Dili and welcomed by our mates. We were debriefed and it was later confirmed that five militiamen were killed, with a further three wounded. Various intelligence sources let us know that the Kopassus who were orchestrating and organising the militiamen had associated the helicopter buzzing over the area three days prior with the insertion of a small reconnaissance patrol. There had been at least 60 armed militia and another 40 unarmed men who were sent to search for our patrol. In three 20-man groups, further broken down into squads of six men, they had scoured the countryside for us. Unbeknownst to us, we were actually overlooked because we were positioned within the
confines of the village; the hunting militiamen did not think that an SAS patrol would be audacious or silly enough to hide so close to a major population centre.

Most of our patrol had a couple of restless nights of sleep as we came to terms with what had occurred during those 90 minutes in October 1999. In my mind I was back in the moment, reliving those minutes of ringing silence after a barrage of bullets. My thoughts linger on that motionless body, lying face-down in the dry, sandy riverbed.

Torturing myself, I have tried repeatedly to imagine what the injured militiaman must have been thinking during his final moments. When I talk to others about it, one of the first things they ask is: ‘How can you know what he was thinking?' But in my mind's eye it seems as clear as day. Our eyes met and in that moment he appeared just as shocked to see me as I was to see him. His face told me that he too was overwhelmed by the little pieces of lead flying through the air. He and his five friends panicked. They ran from me while randomly firing their weapons in my general direction.

I have never been shot but I am acutely aware of the havoc a bullet can do to a body. Travelling at 930 metres per second, the bullet would have ripped into his flesh with a sickening thump. If he was lucky, the bullets that struck him would have kept going on their course; but if this didn't happen, they would have bounced around his chest like a pinball machine. He was shot in the lungs, which might be a bit like taking in water in heavy surf when you are not expecting it. Your lungs fill with fluid and you cough and gasp for air. He didn't die instantly, but managed to scamper out of view before dropping to the ground some 10 metres away. His friends left him, so he would have felt alone and scared.

In my mind I write lines of dialogue for him, things I imagine might have run through his mind as he felt his life
begin to slip away:
‘I was the hunter, I was looking for them, and now I am feeling cold and I see my friends running further and further away. My vision is becoming blurred and I feel like I'm drowning. Here I am, lying alone in the dust, no longer able to move or breathe. I think I'm dying.'

I would love to hate him. This might relieve the sickening feeling that envelops my stomach when I think about the incident in detail. But I don't. Nor can I respect the mayhem that he might have been part of. I do, however, respect the fact that he had the courage to come after us. Unlike dated World War II films, where enemy soldiers are depicted as faceless automatons, these men, just like us, had lived, laughed and cried. They were human. I wasn't the victor in this battle. There is no gloating or glory. I just get the chance to keep on living.

 

We had, as a team, performed exceptionally well. Some of these men would go on to see significant action in other theatres of war, and some would not. It is sad when SAS soldiers leave the Regiment before their time. Sometimes life works out and sometimes it doesn't. You can analyse why things go wrong until you go insane, but there comes a time when you have to make a decision to move forward – to remain shackled in the past is a burden on your soul.

The five Australian SAS soldiers of this patrol would all be out of the green machine within four years. But that morning, on the helipad in Dili, it was all adrenaline and euphoria. The squadron quartermaster, Steve (a great guy), snapped a black-and-white image of the patrol which – with its caption,
Baptised
– captures our ragged elation perfectly.

Charlie was attempting to smile but was unable to fully open his eyes. The camouflage-cream that had served him so well during the previous few days had liquefied and run into his eyes. That stuff really burns! Holding the ammo pouch of the dead militiaman, he looks composed, his trigger finger extended outside his trigger guard.

Jimmy, rifle cradled in his right arm, appears exhausted and his face remains blackened from the strenuous patrol. His torso is twisted by the heavy pack slung over his left shoulder. If you look carefully, his relief at being part of the patrol is oozing out of him. He would have hated Steve, one of his closest friends, to have had this experience without him.

Buster is still on a high, relaxed and smiling. Although he had been a member of the British Special Forces for some 15 years, this was the first time he had been involved in contact at close range. His right trouser-leg is no longer bloused but is draped over his boot, and he is missing his right nomex glove, which he removed during the contact. Buster would later serve with great distinction in Afghanistan and would be awarded the Military Cross. Looking at him in this photo and remembering how he was under fire, I am not surprised.

Like Jimmy, I appear gaunt. My lower limbs have thinned over the three days of action. A sense of deep satisfaction has spread across my face – I knew I would see some action – and I am grasping an SKS rifle retrieved from the dead militiaman. The cam-cream has run from my face thanks to hours of adrenaline-induced sweating, and my clothing is still muddied from one of the creek crossings.

Steve carries the same steely resolve that he held throughout the contact. He is radiating not only pride in himself but pride in his men. His head is covered with a bandanna, while his M4 rifle is held firmly across his body. He has a shell dressing attached to the upper-left section of his web vest. Steve was awarded the Medal for Gallantry for his strong leadership under fire.

G is facing Steve, whom he held in high regard, while the christened light machine gun is cupped in his arms. His eyes are still wide with fire and he is radiating an even greater level of confidence than usual. His large pack no longer looks like a
burden but the trophy of a hard patrol. The coconut trees and wooded forest that tower above us in the background provide a reminder both of the tropical climate and the foreign terrain. And the dusty ground underfoot is our path back to headquarters.

We had proved ourselves under fire, and our smiles in that photo are a celebration of life. We may now have scattered and moved on with our lives, but that was one hell of a patrol.

In late August 2001, images of Australian SAS soldiers preparing to board a Norwegian cargo ship, the MV
Tampa
, were beamed around the world. Four hundred and thirty-eight refugees, or illegal immigrants, depending on which side of the argument one sits, had been rescued by the
Tampa
in the Indian Ocean after the boat taking them from Indonesia to Australia began to sink. Our deployment quickly became highly politicised. The fact that a complete SAS squadron was being used to secure the
Tampa
initiated a debate that divided not only Australians but people around the world as well.

Shortly after arriving at work on 27 August, we were told that we were heading to Christmas Island, an Australian territory located 500 kilometres south of Jakarta, for an interception task. Later that day, my wife received a telephone call informing her that I had been deployed for a maximum of three months. This was not the first time I had gone to work and failed to come home, so she wasn't stressed out. When Colleen turned on the evening news, there we were, unloading pallets of equipment on Christmas Island.

We spent that evening preparing our equipment while being updated on the situation. The Indonesian authorities had refused to allow the
Tampa
to dock, so the freighter's skipper, under the influence of some refugees who had
occupied the bridge, began steaming towards Christmas Island. The Australian Government denied the
Tampa
access to Australian territorial waters and, when this order was ignored, Prime Minister John Howard ordered our squadron to board the vessel.

Our team led the assault and secured the bridge while the remaining water-assault teams cordoned off the refugees. Committing highly trained SAS soldiers to such a banal task was, no doubt, an excessive display of force, but in fact our medical and linguistic skills, as well as our ability to secure the vessel, quickly lowered the tension level on board considerably.

After accounting for all personnel and conducting a thorough search of the vessel, we began to improve the sanitary conditions of the refugees. We emptied waste buckets into the ocean and were sprayed with urine and faecal matter as the wind blew them back in our faces, and we dry-retched as we scraped turds off the floor of a cargo container. It was an afternoon I would like to forget. Other soldiers prepared hot meals for the refugees, and some days later they were moved to an Australian transport vessel, the HMAS
Manoora
. Several SAS teams deployed to the
Manoora
to provide assistance and security.

The vast majority of the people on the boat were young men. Some were from Afghanistan but several groups I spoke to claimed to be from Pakistan. One Afghani who spoke English told me how he had fought with the Mujahideen and shot down 12 Soviet helicopters during the USSR's occupation of Afghanistan in the 1980s. There was another man who wore a gold watch and paraded around in a leather jacket, and we discovered several who were carrying large sums of US currency. Elsewhere on the vessel, I felt compelled to intervene when a father began to beat his daughter, who'd had an altercation with the jewel of the family – the prized son.

One Afghani man spent every moment caring for his wife and cradling his children. I made sure that his family, along with several others who had been relegated to the most uncomfortable part of the ship, were repositioned to an area of greater ventilation and comfort. This man reminded me of some of my friends from Kabul, and I recalled the great importance Afghanis place on family.

Several days later, the
Manoora
drew alongside another people-smuggling vessel; this one was carrying around 150 people from Iraq. They, too, were brought on board, but we had to search their bags before loading their possessions onto the ship. One lady lashed out and scratched my face, yelling in perfect English, ‘I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,' as I tried to search her handbag. It was jammed with packets of cigarettes, and her possible addiction to nicotine may have caused her outburst. But she later proved to be most helpful and influential when it came to organising the group and informing it of what was going on. She was a tough woman and I respected that.

The following day, several Australian Federal Police officers boarded the
Manoora
and detained the Indonesian crew of the second boat for people-smuggling. I acted as the interpreter and although these guys knew what they were doing, they still appeared genuinely naïve. The true beneficiaries of the racket – the men who actually took the asylum-seekers' money and employed the crew – may never be identified. We later learnt that many more vessels loaded with asylum-seekers had been ready to travel from Indonesia to Australia but, due to the Australian Government's hardline approach, had all turned around.

As our squadron was needed for another task, we were replaced six days later and sent home to Australia. Then came September 11.