Warrior Brothers (2 page)

My first operational deployment in the SAS was in early 1998, as a member of a four-man team. We had been deployed to join a naval mission near Heard Island, to help seize any vessels found fishing illegally within the Australian exclusion zone.

Heard Island lies deep in the southern Indian Ocean, approximately 4000 kilometres south-west of Perth and 1000 kilometres north of Antarctica. Alongside its immediate neighbour, the McDonald Islands, ownership of this uninhabited, desolate, sub-Antarctic patch of land was transferred from the UK to Australia in 1947, and it is now classified as a nature reserve.

To describe the conditions as rough would be putting it mildly. Heard is dominated by an active volcano, the Big Ben Massif, and its summit, Mawson Peak, claims the title as Australia's highest territorial point at 2745 metres. Eighty per cent of the island is covered in ice that can be up to 150 metres thick, and broad glacial fingers extend into the ocean where they are broken off by the brutal winds (gusts up to 210 kmh) and waves (up to 17 metres). The average daily maximum temperature is three degrees Celsius. With three out of four days being cloudy, Heard Island is far from an ideal tourist destination.

The wind chill is deadly, as is the icy water. A person who enters the water unprotected may only have a couple of
minutes before falling into hypothermic unconsciousness. Even with an immersion suit, you wouldn't survive longer than about 30 minutes. The Patagonian toothfish, however, thrives in these deep, icy waters, growing up to 2.2 metres long and weighing up to 100 kilograms. A prized delicacy in the United States and Europe, the fish may only be caught by three authorised Australian vessels. Unfortunately, the 200-nautical-mile exclusion zone around the islands is frequently breached by long-line poachers who launch from numerous African ports. That's where we came in.

Heading towards Heard Island on the HMAS
Newcastle
in search of illegal fishing vessels was hardly counter-terrorism. It was a classic peacetime operation – we were using our expertise to save a fish we had never heard of. But our SAS training in medical, language and humanitarian skills would at least get a workout. And it was still a sensitive task: some years later, our deployment on the decks of the MV
Tampa
showed how easily the presence of soldiers in such a context could be politicised.

This operation didn't have the risk factor that some of our later deployments would, but we were all hungry to put our skills into practice. Negotiating the monstrous waves of the Indian Ocean presented our first real challenge. Within several days the weather had begun to deteriorate, and the seas rose accordingly. Even the most experienced amongst us, those with cast-iron stomachs, were lying flat on their backs, breathing deeply and trying to keep their rising nausea at bay. Most men were almost overdosing on seasickness tablets, which weren't much use in any case. We were barely holding on to the contents of our stomachs as it was, and the sickly taste and smell of the tablets were producing more waves of clammy retching. Not quite their intended purpose.

It made no difference that we had been at sea for more than 10 days. Waves broke relentlessly over the frigate, and
there had been considerable movement on the vessel's metal bow. The hull had been displaced in some places by at least 30 centimetres, and the aft area was churning through the swell like a corkscrew. Monster swells continued to line up along the horizon. The windswept southern Indian Ocean offered no comfort and the heavy-clouded grey sky promised more of the same.

And yet, peering through the water-splattered window, feeling the floor rising up to meet me as nausea grappled with my stomach, I felt content. Finally, I was getting exactly what I'd signed up for. Finally, I had been deployed on a real task.

When I was young I never dreamed of joining the military. I thought the guys at school with shaved heads and camouflage pants had a screw loose and probably watched too many
Rambo
movies. Surrounded by strong and loving women, the first grandchild on my mother's side and the only grandson, little ‘Keithy Boy' was being groomed to be a musician rather than an SAS soldier and adrenaline junkie.

As a boy I was far from being a stereotypical alpha-male. I watched
The Sound of Music
and
Grease
, I cried on my first day of school, I left others to play footy while I had organ lessons. I still remember sitting there, my back perfectly straight, as my music teacher asked me to turn up the volume for ‘In the Mood'. As the pitch of my musical efforts increased, so did the heckling from my mates on the road below. The peanut gallery began to sing along, albeit out of tune and with slightly differing lyrics: ‘In the Mood' became ‘In the Loo'.

I have always had a special relationship with my mother and, although she was disappointed when I gave up music, I was never forced to do anything that I didn't want to do. She told me I would regret it and she was right. Who knows, I may have moved on to the electric guitar. Now that would have been cool.

Our family was close. Ma was the driving force, both around the house and in the office of the family mechanical repair business. Through the early years growing up, my dad, a tough, loyal and honest man, worked his butt off to pay for family
extras. My sisters and I were extremely fortunate children, given the opportunity to have a crack at any sport or activity we liked. While money was tight outside of the mortgage, food and general living expenses, extras included our sporting activities, as well as the odd trip to Pizza Hut or McDonald's.

At 11, after I saw the film
Kill or Be Killed
, I decided I wanted to pursue martial arts. Due to the outlay for uniforms, my parents made me wait six months – so they could be certain it wasn't just another passing fad. It wasn't. Something about the discipline needed, the energy it took and the sense of pride I got from practising was exactly what I'd been looking for. Rugby league, surfing, cricket and basketball all came a distant second to my love of kicking, punching and swinging dodgy homemade nunchakus.

I achieved my first black belt at 14. By 15 I had moved on to kung fu, and two years later I became a level one instructor. Running my own branch kept me busy, focused and healthy at a time when many of my friends were smoking a lot of pot. Training very quickly became my life. Dad wasn't overly fond of me kicking the hell out of the back of the house, so he looped some old car tyres around a tree in our backyard. I would flog those things, sometimes until my shins bled. The harder I kicked, the more it hurt – and the more driven I became to break through the pain threshold.

I loved the physical and mental challenges, but while the training gave me a powerful sense of drive, it failed to offer me a clear sense of purpose. It was, however, a welcome distraction from the other side of my life at that time: my apprenticeship as a motor mechanic. It had been a strange choice on leaving school, as I'd previously shown no mechanical aptitude whatsoever.

At 16 I had craved three things – challenges, excitement and sex. I weighed up my options. I could stay at school and double my girlfriend around on my pushbike, or complete a trade at my father's workshop and drive my girlfriend around in a shitty car. I chose the shitty car, but my heart wasn't in the work.
I approached my apprenticeship as a stepping-stone to somewhere else.

Despite my father's patience and support, that time was more than a little stressful. He knew I hated the job but he did his best with what he had: a son who was bored mindless changing oil and completing 60,000-kilometre services on vans. The repetitiveness drove me mad, and my restlessness was only kept at bay by my rigorous training regime. If I knocked off at four o'clock, I'd be roaring down the road at a minute past.

While I somehow managed to finish my apprenticeship, settling into regular work as a qualified mechanic only heightened my sense of dissatisfaction. It took a colleague's idle comment to shake me out of my rut. We were sitting together having morning tea, staring at our cracked fingers and dirty nails, when he looked over at me and said, ‘Dude, you are going to be working for your dad doing services for the rest of your life.'

Although his teasing comment was just standard banter between us, it stayed in my mind. The more I thought about it, the more I hated the idea that my job as a motor mechanic was all the excitement I would ever be offered in life. I left within a couple of days. I applied for the police force but found it wasn't recruiting at the time, so I looked for another home for my training and obsessive determination. Suddenly the army didn't look that bad after all, especially if they would let me jump out of aeroplanes.

Was I passionate about saving the Patagonian toothfish? Not really. They weren't much to look at and, apparently, were rather oily to eat. But if protecting these unsightly fish offered me a little excitement, then count me in. Our patrol was joining an existing naval mission, lending the particular skills that we brought to bear as SAS-trained men – and before we'd even begun, the threat of missing out was dangled over our heads. In training and preparation our team had been made up of six, but Heard Island was strictly a four-man operation. Two of our number, the team leader and the second-in-command (2iC), were guaranteed positions. The rest of us, being in our mid-twenties, were notably younger than the average SAS team, and the knowledge that only two men could take part had us all a bit toey. Even a fishing expedition – a low-risk task – would give us some chance to put our training to use and was definitely better than shooting targets on the range.

Ultimately, the team leader chose Charlie and myself, the two soldiers who had not yet seen operational action. The men who missed out, Todd (ES) and Evo, were exceptional soldiers who had previously seen active service in Somalia as members of the 1st Battalion, Royal Australian Regiment. The team was supported by JD, our witty troop sergeant, who provided the smooth link between us and the navy – a potentially fraught relationship.

The team leader was a man known as Buzz, and he was one of the most impressive and dynamic patrol commanders I've ever come across. He oozed confidence. His easygoing personality and quick sense of humour ensured a nice balance between work and play. Buzz could have been a movie star. In fact, I'm certain he's dreamt of such things.

Like many of the guys, Buzz joined the military almost by accident. After four long, fruitless days of having doors slammed in his face as an encyclopaedia salesman, Buzz decided to join the army as a steward. Can you imagine a mini version of The Rock being content to serve drinks in the officers' mess? This near-tragedy was averted by his roommate, who said, ‘Fuck that! You're going to infantry.' The Regiment should track that guy down and thank him, as Buzz has now spent near on 20 years kicking arse in the unit.

A cool and engaging guy, Buzz loved his boys as much as they loved him. He was a man who led by example and was surprisingly patient when it came to handling his underlings' colourful egos. He would, however, occasionally bring us back to earth with a session on the bench press, where he was the undisputed master.

Our training for the Heard Island operation was carried out in Nowra. If we'd thought that the army had a knack for reducing fun activities to nothing but hard work, the navy quickly proved itself even more adept. Our team, along with two fisheries officers, were forced to carry out countless rehearsals, including routine fast rope slides, all the while decked out in the immersion suits and heavy woollen boots that we would be wearing on the operation.

What promised to be difficult in the Antarctic conditions of the southern Indian Ocean was murder in the sticky humidity of February in Nowra. After 30 minutes, our faces took on the same glow as our puffy orange suits. Luckily, the exercises themselves were ones we were well used to, so despite the heat we took them as an opportunity to torment our team leader.

Buzz had recently been trampled by our entire team when he lost his balance during counter-terrorism training in Townsville. Despite his considerable fitness – and the fact that he was the one leading the team – as second man onto the ground he was a little slow to depart the rope. Within seconds, the next man clipped his shoulder as he descended, knocking Buzz flat on his back. Each time he attempted to regain his balance the next man would arrive and knock him back to the ground. This occurred four times in total and, although our faces were hidden by gas masks, our squinting eyes no doubt revealed that we were pleased with our efforts. In contrast, Buzz's eyes were narrowed, his shaking head letting us know how furious he was with our immature antics. Buzz's solid reputation in the unit, and our growing respect for him, weren't enough to keep us from trying to destroy his larger-than-life ego by outgunning him. As it was, opportunities to show him up were scarce, as his moments of vulnerability were so few and far between.

Other parts of our training regimen for Heard Island were less extreme, although not without incident. We carried out close-quarter battle (CQB) range practices and the navy clearance divers were provided with some pistol training. One drizzly morning on the way to the live-fire range I was the designated bus driver. I was an advanced driving instructor and rather proud of my competence behind the wheel. I was also young and incredibly brash. Not only did I pride myself on my driving abilities, but I had a perfect accident-free record. What's more, I had completed the SAS fast driver and instructor modules, and had attended a three-week WA Police advanced driver's course – which involved me pushing a Gen III 350 Chev V8 Commodore to just under 200 kmh while chasing cop cars around a racetrack. Be it an assault vehicle or a 22-seater bus, there was no difference as far as I was concerned. Before long, I had the bus sliding through some corners in what I believed was a controlled manner.
But in all the excitement I missed the entrance to the range road.

Desperately trying to keep my cool, I attempted to do a three-point turn on a fairly narrow stretch of road. It all happened very quickly: reverse, first, clutch, bang. I continued driving like everything was normal, trying to pretend that we hadn't all suffered a neck-snapping jolt, but a quick look in the rear-vision mirror confirmed the worst. A low-hanging branch of considerable girth had smashed in the rear window and a large section of the roof was partially crushed. There were also a couple of broken tail-lights for good measure.

Shock quickly gave way to ribbing and jeering. The navy guys didn't know whether to laugh or remain silent. My SAS mates didn't share their indecision: ‘You were able to slide this little baby sideways without coming undone but can't manage a simple three-point turn without nearly writing off the bus!'

Buzz just gave me an unimpressed stare and said, ‘I bet you're not really happy with that one.'

I tried not to let it faze me: ‘I don't know what you're talking about. I hate the navy and if I want to scratch the back of one of their buses then I will.'

What else was there to say? We laughed, despite the knowledge that a paperwork nightmare would soon begin. I had not only fucked up, but had done so in front of a full complement of navy clearance divers. I would not be allowed to forget it.

After completing the training, our team returned to Perth and joined up with the HMAS
Westralia
, while the clearance divers departed from Sydney on the HMAS
Newcastle
. Weeks later, we would rendezvous in Rockingham before departing at last for the Indian Ocean and Heard Island.