Little Tim, Big Tim (9 page)

‘Stay away, I mean just stay away,’
James threatens.

I exit the toilet block and am surprised that James is swinging his boots wildly in front of a man and proclaiming that this is our toilet and for him to stay away. I stand outside the toilet and protect him the same way as he protects me. I ask him why he is doing this as we snarl at the man who is totally confused by our antics.

‘I don’t have to put up with bad men doing what ever they like to me when the Old Man’s not here to force me,
’ he defiantly states.

I become aware that James has more insight into the attacks than I could ever possibly grasp. I want to tell him about Peter the pain holder, how I can’t feel the pain and don’t remember most of the details of the attacks.

I decline to tell him my secret for two reasons. The first is that I don’t want him to think he is different because he doesn’t utilise others like Peter, Shane or Gary to carry some of the burden that is cracking him. The second reason is the mental state he finds himself in after asking the next question.

‘Tim, when is this going to stop? I can’tput up with this shit anymore. Poofter’s on one night, Mum on the others,’
he proclaims.

Before he has finished the word ‘others’, his lip trembles and tears roll down his cheeks. We sit down in the middle of the soccer pitch and we both cry, hugging each other.

The turbulent life we live has only allowed us to have few memories of tender moments; not the usual way brothers bond.

We are proud of each other’s achievements and successes though. I, truly, am so proud of James’ survival, especially since he has no other personas to carry the burden and all of him is doing the suffering.

Again, for another fortnight, we are forced on alternate nights into the evil darkness; each night feeling pain, shame and guilt. What makes it worse is that we are not only suffering at the hands of strangers, but also church members.

Mum and the Old Man argue all day and into the night. They are having a serious argument in the hallway. Stewart is home after one of his frequent disappearing acts. ‘Whack, whack’: the quiet after the second whack forces James and I to investigate.

‘
Don’t ever hit Mum again,
’ Stewart has the Old Man up against the wall.

The Old Man smiles back at him to show that at any time he can regain control of the situation.

James and I see for the first time that the Old Man is in a semi-vulnerable situation; we take the initiative as flashes of the countless beatings I have suffered surround me. James is in front and we simultaneously strike blows; James to the body and I jump to contact one to his head, right into his eye.

He seems to be enjoying the punishment. In silent defiance, the smile that creeps across his lips seems to be stating ‘
c’mon, do your best
Or is it something else? Blows keep connecting with his body and head as the three of us give some well-earned payback.

An explosion of energy rebounds me off the wall where the Old Man had been cornered only a few seconds ago. It’s frightening the speed at which this overweight man can move.

Stewart cops it first; three punches rapidly to the face. He is stumbling backwards from the velocity of the attack when I trip over and am solidly kicked in the rib area and collect Stewart as we are flung backwards to the end of the hall. Stewart and I lie crumpled against the front door. James ends up on top of us from an open-palmed shove to his chest.

The Old Man stands over the top of us and surveys the damage he’s caused. A demonic laugh rises from within him and he brags that he has whipped us collectively. That laugh and that demonic look; I’d never been more scared of that man, or anyone, before or since.

Mum screams at him to get out or she will call the cops.

‘Get out, get out, get out,
’ she screams.

‘Stop being so neurotic,’
is his reply.

My brothers and I don’t move in case we suffer another barrage of violence. He notices how we are fretting, wondering what his next move will be when he suddenly turns and walks out the door without a word. Although Mum has told Dad to leave, I believe it was our action that finally forced the change.

Is this the end of my nightmare? Maybe for me, but I know James is still tormented with abuse from Mum. Stewart packs his bags and leaves through the front door.

The dysfunctional family going separate ways will only create different ways of being dysfunctional. Dorothy, the youngest, suffers unrelenting physical abuse from Mum and from Nina, our eldest sister. James continues to be in his own personal nightmare and I suffer physical and emotional abuse from Mum and Nina.

As Little Big Tim, I level out from the sudden disappearance of our father and the usual disappearance of Stewart. The sexual abuse seems to have finally stopped. The school holidays finish and I start to develop friendships. We decide to move again because the Old Man is living opposite the school and Mum is wary about us having to travel past his house everyday. This is refreshing, considering the decade that just passed where she couldn’t care what he did to us.

One day, I see James’ bike out the front of the Old Man’s place with the front door still open. I hear James and the Old Man talking down the hallway of the house. The usual belly of bile and dry throat accompanies me as I hear James yelp in pain.

I freeze at the door that stands between us. I want to turn and run from the house to protect myself, however, I have failed my brother before and this time I cannot turn my back on him.

I push open the door and bust the Old Man forcing himself onto James. James looks at me and proclaims that the Old Man has forced him.

‘I
know mate, pull up your pants and go home,
’ I say calmly.

‘Are you coming too?’
he pleads.

‘Yeah mate, I’m coming too,
’I reassure him as I pick up a wooden walking stick and hold it out menacingly.

‘James, get dressed and get out of here,
’ I tell him.

‘But you have to come too,’
he begs.

‘I will mate, just get out of here.
’

He pulls his pants up and moves past me. The Old Man sits on the bed with his pants down around his ankles. I think to myself that this is a favourable situation; his pants around his ankles means he can’t chase me. With my exit planned (out the door and down the hallway where James will be waiting), I raise the cane above my head and say,

‘I’d love to crack this over your head.’

‘Why don’t you have ago?’
he taunts.

I move closer to be able to carry out my threat but I have no intention of striking him. My will for violence hasn’t reached a level where I feel justified striking him when he can’t protect himself. After all the pain and torment he has put us through, the one of us that holds the cane can’t bring it down.

I turn to leave the room and the pathetic sight of the Old Man sitting on the bed half-naked. I think to leave the cane up against the wall. Suddenly my face is slammed viciously into the wall as the Old Man, with his pants around his ankles, flies into me. I rebound but can’t get onto my legs. I yell to James,

‘Run, James, run,’
I gasp as the wind leaves my chest.

‘James, come back here now,’
the Old Man orders.

I collapse to the floor and now the Old Man has his pants up to his waist and lunges through the doorway.

‘James, come back here now or I will hurt Tim!’

‘Don’t hurt Tim, I’ll come back,’
he promises.

James is still in the house and I am searching for a second breath. I grab the cane and lodge it between the Old Man’s legs. He falls through the doorway.

‘Run, James, run. Don’t stop; get on your bike and go.’

I pray he will listen to me and run. I hear his feet patter on the wooden floor and out onto the verandah. Confirmation comes when the Old Man slams his fist down, still lying where I have tripped him.

‘Damn, damn, damn. He’s gone and you’re going to pay for it,’
he vows.

I wait for a beating and a kicking and get both. The kicking comes first.

The persona of Peter who is always on call when the pain gets too much cannot believe the damage we are receiving. As Little Big Tim I have done my best to stay in the
Light.

The Old Man stinks like he hasn’t had a shower for days. He grunts as he viciously rapes me another time. As Peter, I switch the pain off and try to understand why the Old Man wants to punish us the way he does. Is it control? Maybe his discipline revolves around the threat
‘you will do as you are told’.
That’s what control is; we have to do as we are told. As I feel the movement behind me I block the pain, but smell the stench and feel the drops of sweat fall onto my back. I wonder if the Old Man’s own Old Man had said to him ‘you will do as you are told!’ He finishes what he is doing to us and I am ripped away, as Mark comes to take over.

Now, as Mark, I push back with all my might. He is doing his pants up and is easily unbalanced. I jam him up against the side wall, kick him solidly in the shins and push him to the ground, then reach down and pull my pants up.

I rush for the door still trying to do up my pants, and go the wrong way out the door into a hallway. I turn right and slam into a wall. I fear this miscalculation will get us caught again, but this time the Old Man just has a raucous laugh as I bounce along the walls trying to find the front door.

I can still hear the laughing as the Old Man relishes the comical situation. The fact is I have no idea how to navigate his house. He has no idea that I, as Mark, hadn’t entered his house, but I’m glad we got to give him a slight rough up.

When I finally get out of the place, away from the stench that is still present in my nostrils, I snort to clear my nose. Home isn’t far away. I don’t know what to expect, just that it has been some time since I’ve had control of our body. I remind myself that the family members will call me Tim, not Mark.

Once again, I manage to bluff Tim’s family into believing that I am the real Tim. However, school catches me out again; I just am not as clever as Little Big Tim and there is no way I can bluff the teachers at school any longer. I have a plan.

About a month after my return, Mum has moved us to another town in the same locality. Mum is finding it hard to make ends meet so I suggest to her that I leave school and get a job.

She initially balks at the idea but eventually allows me to make my own decision. I start looking for work. Mum’s interest in my brother allows an opening for me to escape the madness. I present her with the Army enlistment papers, and she signs.

‘It’ll make a man out of you.’

I think to myself, you already stole that opportunity. And I will never let anyone betray me again.

‘Wake up, wake up.’

The image blurs, and I feel pain as a drop of sweat trickles into my eye socket. I instinctively wipe my eye only to realise I’ve introduced camouflage cream from my face. The intense sensation causes me to shoot to my feet, knocking the man who intruded my sleep to the floor. The fear in his face reminds me of who and where I am. I reach over to assist the scared man to his feet. The equipment on the floor reminds me of what I am here to do—this time it was only a short blank-spell.

The startled man belongs to the aircrew of the Hercules aircraft that we have been flying in for hours. The destination: somewhere in the Western Australian desert.

‘Stop frightening the help, will you.’

The command comes from my Patrol Commander, Barry Wilkes. A Sergeant in the SAS (Australian Special Air Service), this man has been my patrol commander for the past three years, admired by many and revered by me. He has taught me everything I know and now I am his senior operator without rank. The other three members are still asleep; it’s my responsibility to wake them up.

The nearest man to me, Corporal Phil Reynolds, our Patrol Second in Charge (2IC), has always worked with Barry and has recently refused the option of being in command of his own Patrol. It is rumoured, but never admitted, that Phil is distrustful—any other operator would be capable of keeping his good mate alive. I lean over his sleeping figure, aware to be at arms length. Barry watches curiously from the rear of the aircraft.

Phil, with his eyes closed, senses the invasion of his personal space. A gush of air cracks as his arm lashes out and long slender fingers squeeze my larynx closed. I still have not reached the speed of protection that Phil has mastered.

‘Still not fast enough—keep trying.’

Phil makes eye contact with Barry, who beckons him to the open ramp. His large slim frame moves across the red nylon bench seats, stepping onto the knees of Andy and Jim, rudely awakening them.

‘Get your shit together,
’ he orders.

We quickly strap on our parachutes, webbing and packs. Our rifles are the last item; we are ready for the dark abyss that howls at us from the rear of the aircraft. As we wait, no one speaks a word. The crewman I knocked over earlier sounds the sixty second warning. I turn my back to have the ripcord pins checked for security; a solid slap on the parachute rig cover confirms all is in order. I return the favour.

We waddle down the aircraft towards the open ramp. The force of the turbulence pushes us back; we are forced to lean forward at an acute angle. Once stable, Barry reaches up to the top of his helmet and cracks his light-stick—it soon glows a fluorescent green. We all follow suit.

The green light comes on. We holler above the shrill of the aircraft’s engines.

‘Go, go, go.
’

On exit, Barry is swallowed by the lonely blackness of the night. His plunge swiftly becomes an uncontrolled tumbling; a strap securing his pack is loose. He slides and tumbles out of our view.

A quick visual inspection of Andy’s equipment is all I have time to accomplish. The check is reciprocated and we dive from the aircraft, gripping each others arms. We are immersed by the unknown.

The equipment we carry on this mission soon causes an unstable flying process. My legs should be trailing with our heads together. But on this occasion, I can’t get my legs up and we clash together head to head, toe to toe, our bodies’ vertical. We drop to Earth like pins falling to carpet.

The shovel, an additional item for this mission, although padded, causes a deep gash near my armpit. But we are now spinning, twisting and tumbling through the night, which is far worse. My side becomes warm from the blood. My heart chills.

‘Don’t concentrate on what you can’t fix,
’ I proclaim to myself out loud.

Instinct and training dictates survival. We have to slow the spin speed or we will lose consciousness. Immediately, trying to attain a humanly tolerable speed, I drop the leg opposite to the direction of the rotation. Andy does the same. It works; we start to slow.

The incident has been expensive in altitude and location. I look for light-sticks of the other members’, however I can’t see light in any direction.

Slowly spinning to the right, we finally adjust to a stable flying position.

Comfortable for about three seconds, smiles appear on our contorted faces. They disappear suddenly though, as we enter a rapid left-hand spin.

Our altitude is now five thousand, two hundred feet. The designated break height is four thousand feet. With my brain screaming for stability, I let go of Andy—the last thing we need is one of us free-falling through a developed canopy. The golden rule is to know the position of the other Patrol members. Since I only know the position of Andy, I know maintaining visual contact with him is essential.

By the time I stabilise, he has tumbled nearly three hundred feet below me. His light-stick is receding rapidly. Poised above him, I observe his frantic attempts to get his body into the Delta-position. With his head down, arms by his sides and legs straight, he struggles to get stable. His inexperience leads us into an untenable situation, which is becoming extremely dangerous as he slides beneath me.

I take evasive action and try to slide away but he seems to be magnetically attached to me and follows my every move. He has no idea what is happening above him. From my position I can see the difficulty he is still having to get into a stable flying position.

His dump height is three thousand five hundred feet. At his third attempt he reaches his ripcord.

‘Jesus, he’s going to pop his canopy!’

We are still at four thousand feet. As the canopy flashes off his back, I can’t help but gasp.

‘Shit I’m too close!’

As it develops, my face gets whipped. Fortune favours though, as there is enough air in the canopy to bounce me off. It’s as though I’d bounced onto a trampoline incorrectly and I fall, flailing off its side.

Somehow during the contact I don’t collect any suspension lines, which would entangle us and mean certain death for us both. I race past him, at a separation of only five metres.

‘Shit!’
he yells.

Plummeting past, I wear a relieved smile.

At two thousand five hundred feet I pull my ripcord. My canopy opens beautifully. I rotate, swinging under the canopy, three hundred and sixty degrees, trying to sight anyone. I can see Andy, his second light-stick hangs, swaying gently beneath him. Since I am the senior Patrol member at the lowest altitude,

I am required to lead the team to the designated target. This contingency plan was spelled out in our orders.

Andy will be concentrating on my second light-stick. We have designed this system so we can follow the light of the soldier below. I reach down to my leg, break the elastic band and let the light-stick drop. It’s attached to my leg by a two-metre cord.

We have been ordered to dump at different altitudes; the result will be that canopies of the Patrol members will create a stack above me. As I gaze silently into the nothingness before me, I know my next responsibility. Get everybody down safely.

The wind direction is all-important; I know my canopy is driving with the wind. I scan for a safe place for the team to land, hopeful that the upper winds are the same direction as the ground winds.

The team is first-class at canopy control; we are jumping with round canopies. During mandatory rehearsals we landed within twenty-five metres of each other.

This was a huge feat considering that these canopy’s responses are slow and when you hit the ground with a wind speed higher than eight knots, you unavoidably experience landing backwards, which is the majority of the time.

Another unusual item that I am required to carry for this mission in the Western Australian desert is a twenty-litre plastic jerry full of water. The jerry strapped to my chest is obscuring my vision; I am at a thousand feet and trying to focus through the blackness, when a helmet comes floating past me. The air seems to be filling the helmet; it seems to resist gravity as it continues on its way.

Tuck, someone’s having a rough ride.’

At five hundred feet I still can’t see the target and it’s pitch black—there are no lights, no fires and no torch flashes. The RAAFies (Royal Australian Air Force members) have fucked up again and put us in the wrong spot.

At two hundred feet the blackness seems to lighten, the most inhospitable ground that you could wish not to land on, rushes towards me. All rock; jagged rocks, boulders—this landing is going to hurt.

At two hundred feet on a round canopy you are too low to do any major adjustments. I am lucky this time; I am correctly bringing the team into-wind.

‘But the ground,’
I say to myself.

If no one breaks a leg on this jump I’ll be very, very surprised. I hit the ground hard and do the best Para roll that I can accomplish to wash off the momentum of the impact.

The bloody jerry (literally bloody from my own blood dripping out of my shirt) strikes a boulder, brings me to a full stop and winds me. I twist around gingerly to see if Andy follows the same path that I have taken. He has. Good, this will give the lads at higher height a chance to land together.

Barry’s fate doesn’t cross my mind, I know and respect his experience and I know he will find us. All four of us land safely with only one additional minor mishap; Andy has sustained an ankle injury, a sprain. He knows as well as we do that there won’t be any assistance until we are well clear of the drop zone.

He will have to put up with the pain, knowing Barry will move us at least five kilometres from the drop zone before we stop and rest. This is where the parachutes will be left, marked for pick-up. Operational procedures stipulate that the drop-zone is never to be compromised, so the parachutes will be buried at least five kilometres away from the drop-zone at a designated location. Also at this location anyone injured will be given first aid, some serious painkillers and strapping for a sprain.

Andy, the lucky bastard, won’t be feeling any pain tonight. My cut is manageable and I will have to wait the same period as Andy before getting the medic to dress the wound.

‘
Where’s the boss?’
I ask Phil.

‘
Fucked if I know,’
he quietly whispers.
‘What happened?’

Just as I am about to explain the boss’ untidy exit, we hear the familiar sound of air passing through the vents in a canopy.

He is off line to our right and the obvious problem is that there is a rocky knoll between him and us. Phil comes up with a brilliant idea just in time—any later Barry would’ve been setting himself up to land on the other side of the knoll.

Barry can not see any lights to follow so Phil throws his light-stick into the air. Barry focuses on the green light-stick and begins to make his move towards us.

He just clears the knoll by a few feet; we can tell he is concerned about how low he is—as he clears the lip of the knoll he has his knees up to his ears. We can almost hear a sigh of relief, as his feet are extended to prepare for the mandatory backward roll.

Upon reaching his location we notice he has vomit all down his front. Andy asks him if he is all right and he whispers,

‘Rough ride, but better out than in.’

‘Who brought us in?
’Barry questions Phil.

‘Tim did.’

Well Tim, you are a good man in a tight spot.
T look at him to ensure I heard right; I am finally acknowledged as an equal.

During the first stop, my job as Patrol Signaller is to get our location from Barry, who at this stage has done a resection to get our true location. SAS SHQ (Squadron Headquarters) will need to know the location of the parachutes and plot our progress on their maps.

‘Fucking RAATies,
’ he says, as he passes me the true grid reference.

‘
Wont be long Boss.’
I confidently whisper.

I quickly code the grid reference and tap on the Morse key back to SAS SHQ. The grid reference indicates that we landed ten kilometres away from the correct Drop Zone. Thanks to the RAAFies we’ll have an extra ten kilometres walking on top of the usual twenty. We have already walked about five kilometres; so simple mathematics tells me that we’ll have to do a further twenty-five kilometres tonight.

We will walk the distance throughout the night. Barry gives the order to move off as soon as I acknowledge that the code has been successfully sent. The trick to effectively travel long distances, carrying over sixty kilos, is to concentrate on terrain changes. It stimulates the mind and alerts you to distance already achieved. The desert however is always the most deceptive; its environment can offer no visible changes for hours.

The rocky plateau stretching before us offers a slight change of terrain. The boulders and rocky outcrops we have been weaving through become smaller in size and frequency. Another hour and the rocky outcrop transforms into a carpet of rocks the size of cricket balls which roll my ankles, straining the ligaments and tendons painfully. I am drenched with sweat and look down at my boots, concentrating on not getting an unwanted injury, which would make the evening even more uncomfortable.

The cricket balls become marbles and, although more forgiving on the ankles, slow our progress as our boots compress and compact the loose surface; the grinding sound resonating across the plain.

We have travelled about twenty-three kilometres and the ground is becoming pebble free. Barry decides to stop; he is aware that the loose red dirt is drawing us into the hardest topography that any soldier carrying a lot of weight can suffer— bull-dust.

While this mission is only an exercise, our professionalism always maintains standards required during operations. The patrol members move to their designated position within the man-made defence circle. All members except Barry individually move out a visual distance and survey the surroundings, then return to the circle and report. When all reports indicate that there is no sign of enemy, it’s time to have a feed and prepare to get some sleep as the sun is rising across the blanket of red dust which is now swiftly transforming into dark ochre.