Little Tim, Big Tim (11 page)

The message I send is: ‘We need water now. Patrol location: live cache site.’

No answer. Barry is pissed off and grabs my pack that carries the radio. Throughout the evening it’s been shared between the five of us. The others have dropped their packs forty kilometres back where the re-supply had failed.

Barry was a qualified Patrol Signaller prior to being given command of his own patrol. He returns about an hour later having tried every antenna known to man, and throws the pack down.

‘No fucking joy,
’ he laments.

I look around. All the patrol member’s faces display dejection. Our lips are cracked and bleeding. We are all sucking the blood from our lips to ensure no precious fluids escape our bodies.

The jerry of water is retrieved from the cache. We have six bottles of water each. Barry puts water discipline rules in place: there is no drinking unless ordered and it’s to be only a Green army bottle (1-pint) capful each time. Hopefully, following this discipline will allow us to reach our destination which is about ninety kilometres away. We are heading for some dams that are shown on our maps. Our maps are twenty years old and we are all praying that these dams will be full of water.

We start walking late in the afternoon. It will be ‘fuck the rules’ from now on; we will move day and night. By the time we reach the other packs we have expended two bottles each— four left go to get us to the site of the dams. The dams are five kilometres short of our designated pick-up point. We know that by the time we get there we will be 24 hours late for pick-up, which in our minds is okay. We have a ‘lost comms’ procedure which dictates our nominated time of pick-up. If we are not there, the same designated aircraft will try to pick us up exactly 24 hours later. We will be on time for the second pick-up.

With no water left in our bottles, we are all hoping that five kilometres from the coastline will be enough for the dams not to be brackish. I spot them first. My legs have a sudden burst of energy and I run to the lip of the first dam. My heart sinks at the sight of the dam. Sure, there is water there, but it’s black and silty, and has dead animals in it. I sink to my knees and just look at this depressing sight. Then I hear one of the boys.

‘Let’s check this one.’

There are four dams in a row. When I finally look up, the rest of the patrol is standing around the last dam. As I reach their location, Jim has climbed down the side of the dam, and is spitting the water out. His comment drops all our spirits.

‘It’s
fucking salty!
’

That’s the last straw. It starts with Barry dropping his pack and proceeding to give it a kicking. He violently loses the plot.

We all release the built up aggression by yelling,

‘Fuck the army.’

I look to the sky, and ask
‘Why?
’ Our feet are stripped of skin and we are battered and bruised. Even the plaster dressings on our feet are not protecting the damage done during the walk to the dams. Every one of us is limping and the weight we have lost is phenomenal. Our bodies are now eating the muscles away. We are in poor shape and we know it.

Sixteen hundred hours and we still have to travel the last five kilometres to the beach to catch our designated aircraft, expecting it to pick us up at 24:00 hrs.

The last five kilometres are the climax to the whole ordeal.

It takes us three hours to travel the small distance. We are still carrying equipment weighing between forty and fifty kilograms with no food and no water. The struggle to finish the trek is debilitating and slow.

When Barry flops we all do the same. By the time we get to the beach we are resting every 100 metres. We find the hardest part of the beach by driving our heels into the sand. An impression more than I centimetre means the plane will bog for certain. The length of the landing ground has to be one hundred metres long. We find the desired length and hardness.

Precedence must be given to adapting a functional survival mode routine. Anything of clear plastic is fastened to live Tea-Tree limbs. Tea-Trees are very spindly and sparse and will not generate much moisture. The technique involves collecting evaporated moisture from the leaves. It’s a technique that will only work when the sun is up.

I wonder why Barry has ordered this action. Weren’t we getting off this shoreline at midnight? I silently question myself. I remember what Barry has taught regarding survival situations— it’s always better to do things now, not later, as later you might be too weak to achieve a simple task. Barry, the most coherent, has correctly applied this principle. I feel fortunate that Barry is a leader who knows what’s required to maintain a sense of hope in a situation that is hastily deteriorating and may result in a fatal outcome.

I’m told to set the radio up and establish comms with SHQ, to give the code that we are waiting for exfil. I follow orders.

For the next three hours I keep tapping on the Morse key. I am away from the group as high ground enables me to achieve better comms. Because we are near the ocean, the radio waves will travel more easily to Swanboume, Perth, the home of the SAS Regiment.

I’m directed to go the emergency frequency and contact Perth and also Canberra, who will both be manning the frequency twenty-four hours around the clock. Barry approaches me at 2330hrs and checks the set for serviceability. Everything is working at our end. 01:00 hrs arrives; no plane. 02:00 hrs arrives; Barry tells me to pack up and get some sleep. I start packing the set up but collapse on the spot and sleep for a solid four hours.

Morning arrives. Andy is extremely sick and has been vomiting throughout the night. He has lost a lot of precious fluid and blood, and it appears he has a ripped stomach lining. I know we have to get comms or Andy is going to be the first one to die.

I grab the radio set and notice that Phil and Jim are nowhere to be seen. I ask where they are. Barry produces his map and shows me a black square, a homestead on the map. It’s about fifteen kilometres away from us.

‘The boys left a couple of hours ago. Hopefully they will find water. Put the set down and just rest. Save your strength,’
he recommends.

I’m absolutely shagged and just operating on what little adrenaline and endorphins I have left in my body. It’s about 1600hrs when they return. The remaining three of us can’t move, or more to the point, are completely depleted of energy and strength. Our tongues have swollen, filling our mouth cavities—a very abnormal experience.

The boys have found water, probably equivalent to ten litres. The water was found in a life raft container that originally would’ve been attached to a HMAS patrol boat. Someone a long time ago must have found it on the beach and used it to collect water off the drain at the homestead which had been abandoned years before. How ironic; the Air Force is responsible for the neglect that has placed us in this perilous condition, and flotsam from the Navy is presenting us with a reprieve.

The desert has taken over the homestead, but because this half container remained in the shade, it has stored precious water that has saved our lives—for the time being. Andy requires water immediately.

Phil and Jim douse their neck scrims, usually used for camouflage, into water and administer it past our swollen tongues. We are gagging from the introduction of water into our systems.

I sleep for a couple of hours then find Phil squeezing water into my mouth again. The swelling of my tongue is subsiding, and I can feel the fluid passing the tongue into my stomach. I ache all over from being too dehydrated, but I am alive.

I fall asleep again, or pass out, I’m not too sure. I wake late the next morning re-hydrated. The boys have been administering fluid to me throughout the evening. After everyone recovers we have five more bottles to survive on. If we don’t get picked up soon, we will all die.

It’s 21:00 hrs when we hear an aircraft approaching. All ears are strained listening for the hum of the engines. Free-fallers can identify most aircraft by getting to know the distinguishing sound of each particular aircraft. This one is ours. We move gingerly with our feet ripped to bits and, to identify the landing ground, light the fires for the aircraft.

The
Plius Porter
plane lands safely. The pilot turns to taxi the full length of the advanced landing strip to be able to take off into the wind. We fling our packs and bodies in whilst the aircraft is rolling forward. The urgency displays the last effort required to gain safe haven. We are going home!

There is iced water on board. Even with cracked lips stinging like hell, we are all able to slowly suck on a piece of ice. The aircraft lifts and we are leaving the desolate place where we almost perished.

As the pilot banks his aircraft, and I recognise the location of the Tea-Trees that we laid under, too exhausted to move, an overwhelming wave of betrayal and abandonment floods over me. I know the emotion, and I know not to let it surface. I fall asleep—or pass out.

Our next stop is at the Regiment Barracks at Swanboume. Finally, a familiar place, but the face at the door is unusual. It’s the Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM). He says to us,

‘Have a rough trip boys?’
No one answers him. He continues,

The CO has put you blokes on stand-down (short leave). Get your feet fixed and get some rest. Come in next week for your next order. Barry, Phil and Tim, the duty driver will get you home.’

The RSM is gone. No one is going to question him. Why were we left in the desert without any water?

At home, I dump my gear, strip off and head to the shower. I must’ve passed out in the shower for I find myself on the shower floor with the water being very cold. My skin has shrivelled like a prune so I must’ve been there for some time. I try to stand and fight the pain in my feet, though it’s a better idea for me to sit back on my arse. I reach up and turn the taps off then drag myself to bed, where I stay for seventy-two hours. I wake up every now and again, but am just too exhausted to move and suddenly fall asleep again.

After my three days of sleep and rest, I decide to eat everything in the fridge and repair my feet. The gash in my side has become septic and requires treatment and a dressing. I have pressure sores from losing so much weight, so I treat these as well and dress them.

My selection course Instructor, Sgt. Dave Sherrick, turns up on the sixth day of my stand-down. He has my next order in his hands. As I open the door he says,

‘
You lucky sod! They’re giving you an advanced demolition specialists course. You are to report in three days time.’

‘What about my patrol?’
I ask.

He explains that my patrol has been disbanded. Jim and Andy are posted to other war role squadrons, and Phil and Barry are doing build-up training for their next tour of the Counter Terrorist team.

Dave doesn’t ask what happened—nor should he. What happened to us will remain in the minds of those involved. It’s far better to let it slip away as you always have something else to think about which requires one-hundred percent concentration.

My next distraction will be to study the theory of demolitions. I have limited time to absorb the new information— in three days I will be expected to know and understand the theory and application of advanced demolitions. Sgt Dave, who is about to leave, says,

‘Tim, remember the old saying, ‘you weren’t there, it didn’t happen Get on with the job andforget what is in your mind.
’

I do just that and prepare myself for the next stage of my career. I never work with any member of the desert/beach patrol again. I feel betrayed.

After successfully completing the advanced demolition course, I am busy stripping and cleaning my weapon when the second in charge of the squadron comments to me that my hair is thinning out.

‘For Queen and Country Sir,
’ I offer.

The exchange that follows confuses me and I’m sure my reaction leaves him completely bewildered. He bends down and whispers into my ear,

‘You aren’t the only one from the beach who is losing their hair. Andy and Jim are thinning rapidly as well. Also, Barry and Phil are now sporting a grey streak on the sides of their heads.
’

He recoils when I look him in the eye and ask him,

‘What do you mean by
‘the beach’ sir?’
my question is an honest one.

His eyes search mine for some explanation. My lack of memory is real. With not a word spoken he affords me sanctuary, he understands and respects the method I have chosen to continue to function.

The attitude of, ‘I wasn’t there, it didn’t happen,’ is not created by me. It’s a phrase common to the Special Forces. Soldiers are taught how not to be controlled by stressful experiences. This phrase is a catch-cry for most, for me it’s a way of life.

At the time, I have no evidence of the missing event, or knowledge of the missing gaps in my life. The only evidence that is becoming more prominent are the times when others look and react cautiously around me, as the Captain has just done.

A true indication that I am suffering memory gaps happens when I become aware that I am on guard duty again, with no memory of being assigned the duty, if it’s a punishment, or how I got dressed and arrived in this time and space.

Silence is golden; so I keep the bewilderment of these lost events to myself Familiarity dictates that my world is just as normal or sane as everyone else’s. But as the lost time and space begins to become more frequent, even I start to question if my behaviour and relationship to the relative reality has credence. The answer to the surfacing dilemma comes in the form of an extremely dangerous act. This time not strange looks or reactions, but fear etches on the faces of those who are witness to my mental implosion.

Career suicide! I point a loaded weapon at someone else.

I am training for selection for the Counter Terrorist Team and have engaged my target with two rounds. My brain hears the order to raise weapons and engage the target to my front. I about turn and raise my weapon to face the range Safety Officer. Very calmly, he orders me to engage my safety catch and move off the range towards him. I apply my safety catch and follow his order. Travelling the short distance towards him, I then can’t remember if I have applied my safety catch and keep repeating the action until I stand in front of him and present my weapon.

‘Tim, your weapon is on fire,’
he states.

I look down at my weapon that he is by now holding and what I see is the complete opposite of what he has just stated. My eyes and brain show that my weapon’s safety catch is on safe. I shut my mouth as he moves the safety catch to the safe position. The fog lifts and I am back in his reality but with this, the second of two safety breaches, that’s it, the end of my career.

From elite soldier to a glorified gardener, the highest paid lawn-mower man in Australia. There is no improvement in my mental dysfunction. I believe if there were, the hierarchy would’ve reinstated me back to operational duties. But there is no referral to a psychiatrist for assistance, either. Perhaps they don’t want me back, just ‘out’. With no help coming, I discharge from the Army and apply the fundamental policy of ‘I wasn’t there, it didn’t happen.’