Warrior Brothers (7 page)

That wasn't the first time an injury had almost shattered my dreams of service. The first time had been during the ordeals of training for the SAS.

While I had, in a sense, fallen into the army by accident, my decision to join the Regiment had been a calculated obsession. Midway through my basic training I'd made up my mind that the regular army just wasn't for me. As good as hiding in cupboards and screaming abuse at people probably was, I knew I needed more.

A former commanding officer explained to me that the SAS selects above-average soldiers and each year makes them a little more above-average. Unlike the typical guard duties fulfilled by most infantry soldiers, in the SAS you work alongside the most highly trained soldiers in the country, and you're given the most challenging tasks. As far as I was concerned, the guys in the Regiment had the best job in the world and I wanted in. I wanted to join the SAS.

I was halfway through basic training when I informed my platoon staff that I wanted to be an SAS soldier. I wasn't sure what to expect so battened down the hatches and braced myself for a cyclone of abuse. But the weather remained pleasant – no gale-force ‘Fuck you!' and no pounding of the parade ground. To my surprise, they actually took my request seriously! My drive and determination, it seemed, were enough to overcome concerns about my age and lack of experience. I was interviewed
and my details were passed up the ranks during Infantry Employment Training (IET). I passed the basic requirements and found myself empanelled for the next selection course, due to begin in eight months' time.

Although I attempted to find out everything I could about the SAS selection course, not many guys seemed to know too much about it. I knew that the course was approximately three weeks long and was incredibly taxing, but everyone who passed selection was soon swallowed by the ‘special forces serpent' and never seen or heard of again. There were those in the Battalion who had attempted the course and failed, but really, how credible was their advice? They were still in the Battalion.

Finding the time to train for SAS selection was always going to be difficult, but my section commander generously offered his experience in helping me and Jack, a brother I met during basic training, to prepare. We enjoyed the challenge. Before going out for a night on the town I would often con some poor soul into doing a 10- or 15-kilometre pack march with me. There was no time to waste, and weekends that should have been spent recovering from hangovers were instead filled with gruelling training sessions.

Some of the more senior soldiers in my battalion, especially those who had either never attempted selection or had previously failed, were less than thrilled that two guys still undergoing IET had made it onto selection. My physical training instructor at the Basic Training Centre in Kapooka told me that aspiring to be an SAS soldier was a great goal but I should wait three or four years before having a go. When he had attempted selection he'd made it to day seven – a third of the way through. A guy from the reconnaissance platoon questioned my navigational experience. I think he'd made day four. I knew where I wanted to go, so I wasn't going to be dissuaded by anyone, no matter how senior or experienced they were.

But sometimes a sense of purpose and determination isn't enough. Halfway through selection training, disaster struck. While on exercise, I was running with an injured soldier draped
across my shoulders (a weight of 90 to 95 kilograms). Pushing through the pain and effort, I failed to spot a small pothole on the track ahead, and before I knew it my left ankle rolled and gave way beneath me.

I fell heavily, shocked at the sudden pain. It was the first time I had ever rolled my ankle, and I couldn't believe that one piss-weak joint could pack it in so utterly. SAS selection was looming and my ankle couldn't support my weight. I had less than four weeks to recover.

I was extracted from the field for physiotherapy and rehabilitation. After seven days the discolouration began to fade and the swelling had gone down. While the swift improvement to my ankle was a marked relief, the enforced time off from training had allowed my feet to soften. While stomping up Enoggera Hill with 35 kilograms on my back, the full implication of this hit me. My feet blistered and wept, huge chunks of skin rubbing away to leave me frustrated once again.

But I would not let a bunch of blisters stop me, especially with the selection course so close. With gritted teeth, I taped my feet up and continued to pound the mountain tracks and nearby roads over the next two weeks. I felt I was almost back on track.

Then, with eight days to go, the nightmare returned. On a stifling day, with a heavily laden pack, I had spent the best part of an hour clambering up the side of Enoggera Hill. After reaching the summit I was impatient to make it back to the mess for lunch, so I decided to run down the access road. As if in slow-motion, with sweat obscuring my vision and the Brisbane heat burning my skin, my left foot glanced the side of a hole before buckling under the weight of my body and pack. I didn't even have time to raise my hands as my body slid face-first into the bitumen.

I can still feel the disappointment and rage that welled up in me. Justifications sprang to mind: I was fatigued; I was trying to protect my wounded feet. They made no difference. Lying flat on my back, tears pricking my eyes, I screamed into the air at
the top of my voice: ‘Fuck!' I wasn't screaming from the pain, excruciating as it was, but because my dream of being an SAS soldier – for that year at least – was over.

After the shock had subsided, I shook myself free of self-pity. I wasn't accustomed to giving up and this seemed like a bad time to start. Looking around, it seemed that there was no-one within earshot, so I rolled my pack off, steadied myself and hopped the remaining 3.5 kilometres to the regimental aid post.

By the time I got there my body was shaking. I was dehydrated and, bravado aside, I was dreading what the doctor was going to say to me. A civilian, he took one look at my inflamed ankle and red-raw feet and offered his diagnosis in a dispassionate voice: ‘Your feet are a complete mess. They'll never heal in time for SAS selection. And this is the second time you have damaged your ankle in less than a month. I'm going to recommend that you be discharged from the army.'

I had joined the army on a 12-month contract and so his recommendation alone would be enough to finish me. Dispiriting as this was, it was the doctor's next words that cut the deepest: ‘It's not fair on you and better for the army if you just call it a day. Once you damage an ankle like this it'll be a recurring injury.'

Horrified that this bespectacled clown wanted to fuck with my dreams of service, I quickly switched to salesman mode. I told him how hard I had trained for this, that becoming an SAS soldier was something I wanted more than anything else, that if he didn't get in the way of my chance for selection, I'd do everything I could to show I was worth it.

He squinted at me and pursed his lips. It felt like an age passed before he spoke again. ‘Well, I can't make you discharge early …' he began.

The colour returned to my face.

‘Okay. I'll refer you to the military hospital for X-rays. Provided there is no fracture, I'll recommend that you receive daily physiotherapy. Prior to departing, your ankle should be thoroughly strapped. Good luck.'

I could have kissed him. Three days before the selection course began, I threw away my crutches and tried to walk. The next day I went for a jog, and the day after that I ran. I also hardened up my feet with regular soakings in Condy's Crystals and by spraying them with methylated spirits.

I decided to approach the selection course in stages, one day at a time. I had no idea if I would be there at the end. If I wasn't good enough, fine – I'd try again the following year, and then the year after that. What I did know was that I would never quit.

On the day of departure, my company commander called me into his office and offered some last-minute advice: ‘Look, son, you are going for the SAS with only a year of army experience under your belt. Big call. But I guess the SAS are after guys who make big calls. Just remember, when your morale is down, pull out your brush and polish your boots. It will help.'

I left his office in two minds. I was inspired by his support but perplexed that polishing one's boots was seen as a morale-boosting activity. Now I really wanted to pass selection. Surely SAS soldiers didn't have to polish their boots to feel good about themselves!

When the Hercules aircraft landed at RAAF Base Pearce, I was extremely apprehensive. An SAS warrant officer boarded the aircraft, and the aura that surrounded him convinced me that I was making the right choice. I felt inspired and, more importantly, I felt ready. This was my chance at selection. I thought about how much I wanted it and considered my options: doing oil changes in my dad's workshop or polishing my boots back in the Battalion. No thanks. I wanted to be the best soldier I could be. I wanted to be an SAS soldier.

From the very beginning it was clear that all the best training we'd had in the SAS would be put to use in East Timor. The patrol that I was part of was brimming with talent and confidence. There were no weak links. Even though our operation in the border region was fact-finding rather than offensive, we were expected to be able to handle ourselves if we encountered a sizeable enemy force. The squadron commander had great trust in not only the ability of our patrol commander, Steve, but also in the men he'd selected for this patrol.

Steve was an SAS soldier with 12 years of experience. His personal skills and cool persona set a standard not only in our troop but also within the broader squadron. He was well known for his capacity to get even the most difficult jobs done. As a water troop sergeant, he had achieved notoriety for his high expectations of his men and for his gruelling sand sessions around an eight-kilometre cross-country track at Campbell Barracks in Western Australia.

Steve looked like your stereotypical SAS soldier, oozing confidence and a steely resolve that intimidated many. This was helped by his good looks, which were perpetually camouflaged behind a pair of Oakleys. There wasn't a sergeant in the entire troop who didn't fear Steve's wrath if they failed to deliver the required standard of excellence, but his effect on me was inspiring. He was a man of strength. No
matter what the challenges facing us, there was no apprehension if Steve was running the show.

The patrol 2iC was a sergeant from the British Special Boat Service (SBS) who was on a two-year posting to Australia. Buster had a terrific sense of humour and could always be relied upon to lighten a situation by making himself the clown. Normally, a soldier of his standing would command his own patrol, but because this was the first decent operation for some time, there were too many Australian patrol commanders who needed the experience. Luckily, Buster was content at the rear of this talented patrol, offering advice when appropriate. In recognition of his rank, on this operation he wasn't lumbered with the patrol's administrative duties; I had previously been our patrol's 2iC so I took on the responsibilities of administration, the number two scout position and was also the patrol translator.

Buster was initially a little on the heavy side – he must have been horrified the first time he walked into our troop office and saw that it was filled with guys who loved to train hard. He often spoke about his induction ‘jog', a cross-country thrashing that he had hated. As hard as it was on him – and it was probably made harder by his typical British breakfast of bacon, eggs and beans – I wasn't surprised to hear that he'd completed it strongly nevertheless.

Even at his least fit, Buster was incredibly robust and was never afraid to push himself. He was always strong underwater but running wasn't really his thing. That said, he did manage to show up his fair share of other soldiers around the cross-country track during his two-year posting. He also wasn't shy of getting his shirt off during drunken sessions up at the Gratwick Club, the Friday afternoon SAS bar we frequented. It was not an unusual sight to see Buster, shirtless in the bar, challenging someone to a few chin-ups. His best was 15. He soon began to drop clothes sizes too, and within 12 months even his wetsuit was falling off him.

Charlie and I were the two patrol scouts and had worked together for several years, including the lead-up to the Heard Island operation. If any man was too nice to be in the SAS, then it was Charlie. It was a pleasure to be working alongside him again. Charlie was one of the most morally astute men I've ever met, a man who nearly always looked for, or brought out, the good in people. His work ethic, self-discipline and integrity were inspirational. In a sense, Charlie epitomised many of the traits that SAS soldiers are selected for. But he was never in your face with any of it. You could talk to him for ages without suspecting that this man was bordering on the elite in fitness and other respects. He was a fantastic bush soldier, one of the best, and this was largely due to his self-discipline. He was the perfect choice for lead scout.

The patrol medic, G, was a fiery individual with a big heart. After growing up in Melbourne, he had led an interesting life – he was street-savvy but wild. G was close to 30 when he passed the SAS selection, but by the end of his first year in the troop he had been identified as a hard-charger, an energetic soldier with balls the size of basketballs. G prided himself on his medical skills, and rightly so: he topped his patrol medic's course during his first year in the Regiment. He was fitter than most men, but the thing I loved about him was his steely determination. Not many things in life are certain, especially not when it comes to human beings, but G's mettle under fire was never in doubt. If we found trouble, he would not only stand up and deliver, but having done that, he would no doubt deliver some more.

The final member of the patrol was Jimmy, our signaller. This man had forearms that made Popeye look like he was suffering from a spinach shortage. His enormous reputation for moral and physical strength preceded him. Like many SAS soldiers, Jimmy was a paradox: at once a warrior but at the same time incredibly kind and gentle. Although I'm sure he would never have admitted it, beneath his tough exterior
he was a big softie, especially when it came to his wife and children. For me, that mix of compassion and physical power is what true strength is about, and it was there in all the best soldiers I've ever known.

Our team was stacked with men who were at the upper echelons of their experience levels. We were close-knit, high-performing and keen to see some action. We were so secure in each other's ability that we felt confident to storm the gates of hell. Once again, it was the waiting that was the problem! All six of us were acutely aware of how close we were to finally seeing some action. The more experienced members of the team had come close on other operations – we'd all had our own Heard Island-style dry runs – but we still hadn't tasted the real thing. It was almost like an ache, not a bloodlust, just a need to use all that training. And as we waited, our sense of camaraderie, of brotherhood, only grew.

Two weeks before the East Timor deployment, our troop, the water troop, went on a training trip south of Perth. I had been detached from the troop on my six-month language course and was rather anxious to return and work with the boys again. It was an excellent chance for us to get back to basics and rehearse our core insertion skills – which is a whole lot less dirty than it sounds! Our days were full of diving, boating and canoeing, topped off by physical training sessions that included beach runs and boxing circuits. Throw in a few nights on the piss and it was the perfect week – working, training and playing hard. Weeks like that are what I miss most since departing the Regiment.

We were accommodated in an army reserve barracks for the week, so naturally we were respectful of our surroundings. Unfortunately, there was one notable exception. The walls of most barracks are lined with military artefacts, pictures and plaques. This particular base even had a couple of Japanese
swords captured during World War II. It also had something extra: a life-size mannequin named Private Lonely. Private Lonely had been a member of this army reserve unit for years, possibly decades, and he had become its mascot. Lonely was an iconic figure – some might even say a legend.

After a hard day's training, it was decided that the guys would have a few beers before getting an early night. It didn't take long for this theory to break down and it was Buster who led the charge. Obviously not prepared to wait for dinner, the big man took the cap off the biggest jar of pasta sauce available and proceeded to skol the entire contents. It was probably the greediest thing I have ever witnessed, and he devoured the lot without spilling a single drop.

And he didn't stop there. Obviously famished, and egged on by our laughs, he grabbed a second bottle of sauce – a smaller one – and gulped that down as well. I was intrigued by how the litre-plus of sauce, mixed with several litres of beer, was sitting inside that stomach of his. If he'd been able to keep it down, it would have been both gross and strangely impressive. As it was, it was pretty much just gross. His body's rejection of the rich cocktail was truly disgusting to behold, but the fact that he didn't let it affect his appetite for more beers made us laugh all the harder.

It was at about this time that Private Lonely joined the party. In full ceremonial uniform he was obviously overdressed for the occasion, and the constant dumb smile on his face seemed to us like a provocation from the start. After some discussion, we agreed that Lonely looked uptight, so the boys encouraged him to relax a little by removing his tie, unbuttoning his collar and strapping a can of VB to his right hand. It was definitely an improvement. Jimmy pointed out that Lonely had a large cavity in the centre of his back and we quickly adopted it as a place to store our empty beer cans. Lonely didn't appear overly concerned and just kept on smiling.

Over the next few hours Lonely really came out of his shell. He became the life of the party. He also sported several new tattoos, courtesy of a whiteboard marker that someone found. There was much hilarity, but at this point Lonely could still have been transformed back to his old, pristine self in a couple of minutes. This would soon not be the case.

My recollection is that Private Lonely became increasingly boisterous under the influence of alcohol and began to pick fights. I'm pretty sure the boys would back me up on that. It's all a bit hazy, but at some point in the ensuing altercations, Lonely's nose was bitten off. We had now passed the point of no return. How in the hell do you replace a mannequin's nose? We couldn't even find the bloody thing. Perhaps Buster found it lying on the floor and ate it?

It was then that I noticed all these cool swords hanging on the wall. I stood on a stool and eased one out of its scabbard. As I applied the tip to Lonely's neck and straightened my arm, poised to strike, one of the boys placed a restraining hand on my soldier.

‘Give it here, mate,' he said. ‘If I'm going to lose my job over this, then at least let me have the satisfaction of taking the prick's head off.'

The warrior calmly draws his sword behind his head and strengthens his grip around the handle. The sword does not waver and is held upright, while the elbow of the lower arm points directly at the target – the neck of the enemy. The warrior, whose body is at 45 degrees to his prey, draws in one final breath and focuses all of his energy onto the point of impact. Then, in an instant, the blade slices the air in deathly silence and removes the head in one clean motion.

If this was the way a samurai warrior beheaded an opponent, then I guess it is fair to say that I've witnessed the complete opposite.

This guy took his place behind Private Lonely and looked a little off-balance from the start. I'm not even certain that
both of his eyes were open, let alone focused on where he wanted the blade to strike. He drew back and then swung with all his might. The sword slammed into the top of Lonely's back, missing his neck by a good six inches.

As we all cheered, Lonely toppled over and his head fell off after connecting with a table on the way down. The sword fared no better. Having been wielded more like a prehistoric club than a precision killing device, it now looked like a banana.

As the night drew to a close, we decided to clean the barracks and fix up the poor dishevelled private before heading off to bed. Beer cans and tattoos were removed from Lonely's body and a new uniform was found. We even ironed it in an attempt to restore some of his lost pride.

But the fact that he was headless posed a greater problem. Even if we managed to stick the old one back on, it was missing most of its nose. Luckily, a replacement head was found in the store. We convinced each other and ourselves that the unit's members wouldn't notice the difference. The shoulder-length blonde hair and definite female features wouldn't matter too much. Lonely, supporting his/her new head, was returned to the back of the store and we all agreed to admit to nothing.

The following evening the army reserve unit was having a formal event in the dining area. We didn't take much notice as the tables were readied for the festivities, but a more dangerous question started floating around the gathering: ‘Does anyone know where Private Lonely is?' A few of us who were still feeling quite seedy from the previous night looked at each other and raised our eyebrows, committed to our denial of any knowledge.

Fearing that their mascot had gone AWOL, a search was conducted. Before long, and to our relief, we heard hysterical laughs when Lonely was found sporting his new female head. One of the reservists said that their platoon sergeant, who had recently gone overseas, had probably taken the head to
get some photos of Lonely on his travels. This sounded plausible. It looked like we were in the clear. After all, surely a troop of SAS soldiers wouldn't do such a thing. But after several hours' investigation, the web around us was tightening. The company sergeant-major approached one of the boys and asked if we knew where Private Lonely's head was. Always cool under pressure, he responded quickly: ‘Who's Private Lonely?'