The Easy Day Was Yesterday (2 page)

Water buffalos bathed in the muddy waterholes along the roadsides, farmers tended their rice fields and children played games on the verges. I managed to snap off a couple of shots of the scenery — it was unbelievably peaceful. Ujwal’s rickshaw stopped and he took my camera, getting some shots of me travelling along in my tiny, uncomfortable rickshaw. After three or four kilometres we started to move into more civilised areas. The open spaces and farms gave way to sporadic food stalls and houses until the farms were totally gone and we were in a crowded market area. I felt totally relaxed and was enjoying the ride as we wove our way through the crowds of people in the market. I got some good photos for the collection and decided just to chill, forget about work and enjoy my day off. I even managed a quick call to Zac (my youngest son) and told him where I was and that I’d be home in about five days. The markets were alive with smells, colours and sounds — these are the things I love about the subcontinent and they reminded me of the extraordinary markets in Karachi.

Ujwal’s rickshaw pulled up, so I directed my driver to pull up next to him. Ujwal was deep in conversation with his driver, so I sat there for a moment enjoying the hustle and bustle of the market. A frenzy of high-pitched chatter filled the air as 20 different people haggled for a better price with 20 different shopkeepers. I loved it and was glad I had got my lazy arse out of bed to have a look at this place. I was just thinking about doing some shopping for the kids when I heard Ujwal stop talking.

‘Wow, this is a great place mate, what’s the plan?’

‘Ahhhhh, we are at the border,’ Ujwal replied, his voice tinged with concern. ‘Really, where is it?’ I asked, looking south for something that would identify the place where the two countries met.

‘Behind us,’ Ujwal pointed to a boom gate with a raised arm, completely concealed by a massive mango tree.

‘What! Are we across the border? Are we in India?’ I blurted out in disbelief. ‘Yes, the border is just there, we rode through no man’s land. I didn’t know.’ ‘Fuck me!’ I spat. I got out of the rickshaw and took a pace back towards no man’s land and Nepal.

A man yelled at me from a small concrete building about 25 metres away and further across the border into India, so I stopped and looked at him. Then I had second thoughts: nope, screw you buddy, I’m outta here. The noise of the market seemed to fade and die as people paused in the midst of their haggling to watch what was happening. Two policemen stepped into my path. I contemplated running straight through these two fat coppers, but felt that twinge in my calf. Fuck it. The police directed me towards the angry man who was still yelling at me in Hindi. Again, I thought of running straight through the cops. Each brandished a very old .303 rifle and I was sure that, even if they took aim and fired, I’d still be safe at a distance of 10 metres. But then I reconsidered. I hadn’t done anything wrong and, besides, Ujwal was still sitting in his rickshaw and would be caught and the cops would eventually find me in Nepal.

Apparently the Nepalese and Indians are allowed to cross into each other’s countries freely, but the same laxity certainly doesn’t apply to foreigners. I was probably the first white man ever to sit in this rickshaw, so the drivers would’ve had no idea that I couldn’t cross the border. And where were the border guards and immigration? The seating and parade ground? Where was the fence or formidable barriers to indicate I was entering a different country? That old boom gate behind the tree surely couldn’t be it!

I was now more than a little concerned and wanted to kill Ujwal and the rickshaw drivers although, really, this was my fault. I shouldn’t have dropped my guard. I should have known exactly where we were. I should have briefed the rickshaw drivers and Ujwal so we all knew exactly what was going to happen this afternoon. I didn’t do any of that. I simply placed my destiny in the hands of virtual strangers and that was a mistake and something I would never usually do. I had been complacent and my complacency had led to this trouble. Damn, what an idiot!

‘No problems Paul, I’ll pay them off and explain it was a mistake, we’ll be okay,’ said Ujjwal as we walked towards the angry man and what I thought must be the immigration office, with two large police in tow.

As we approached the office I assumed it would be quickly sorted with a few laughs and a ‘fine’, but I was still filthy for putting myself in this predicament. I mean, we had crossed about five metres into India and hadn’t even got as far as the immigration office, so I was sure this wanker just wanted some money. Ujwal and I stepped into this small, dirty concrete building and were directed to two plastic chairs on one side of a tiny, filthy wooden desk. I took the seat next to the wall and Ujwal took the other. Then the angry guy just went off. He yelled all sorts of obscenities at us. He was a tall guy, maybe 185cm, in his late fifties, with thick grey hair combed back over his head. He had a wispy white beard that was well trimmed and obviously suffered from a terrible case of vitiligo that left his face marked with sporadic patches of uneven pigment. He spoke good English and spat words like ‘criminal’, ‘terrorist’ and ‘spy’ at me, all the while continuing to sell himself, and the very sheepish guy next to him, as immigration officers. Then he started on Ujwal, calling him a motherfucker and cunt and seemed poised to launch himself at Ujwal. The smaller, quiet guy next to him said nothing and seemed very embarrassed by everything, even trying to stop the abuse with calming hands. The angry man demanded my passport and, despite having it in my pack, I said I didn’t have it on me as I had no intention of coming to India. I thought if I gave it to them I’d never see it again. On hearing the news that I had no passport, he reeled back as though he’d heard something just too offensive to imagine. He frantically rummaged through his bag, fumbling around in search of something. Finally, he produced a recording device, put it in front of me and asked me to say that again.

‘Say what?’ I asked. Ujwal also started to say that this was ridiculous. The angry man interrupted by calling Ujwal a sisterfucker and telling him to shut the fuck up if he knew what was good for him.

‘Mister,’ he began, ‘am I threatening you?’ He didn’t wait for my answer. ‘You must answer the question, do you have your fucking passport you terrorist cunt?’

‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ I replied, stalling for time to consider my position.

On hearing this, the angry man entered a new level of rage. His face turned from spotted white and brown to bright red. He started to froth at the corners of his mouth and appeared ready to boil over. Then he let out a high-pitched scream.

‘I’M ASKING YOU IF YOU HAVE YOUR PASSPORT YOU FUCKING TERRORIST CUNT! DO YOU HAVE IT OR NOT?’

Ha, interrogation, I thought, is that the best you can do, you ugly old prick? I’ve been interrogated by much better people than you and managed to survive 72 hours, so good luck trying to break me, you old wanker.

‘Sorry, what is it you want?’

In 1988, having successfully completed the SAS selection course and the four-week jungle training course, we entered the resistance to interrogation phase. I thought I was prepared for it, but nothing can prepare you for interrogation. We had just arrived back in Perth after the arduous eight-hour flight from North Queensland and were instructed to ‘get on the buses and make sure you have a seat to yourself’.

At around 10.00 pm the buses drove into the barracks at Northam and were ambushed by the Counter Terrorist Squadron. I watched as the driver was roughly manhandled from the bus and thrown to the ground. Two men dressed in black and wearing gas masks ran up the aisle of the bus yelling, ‘Look down!’ and ‘Put your hands on your heads!’ Anyone who was too slow to comply was belted over the head and persuaded into the required position pretty bloody quickly. I was seated up the back of the bus, so it was a few seconds before they got to me and gave my head a solid slapping for good measure.

Moments before the attack we had been sterilising our gear so we couldn’t be identified or linked to certain patrols. Col (a mate of mine from the 1st Battalion) expressed concern about his name written under the epaulettes of his jumper. We agreed that this might be a problem, but then he decided we were all being too serious and commented that they’d probably never find his name. We were expecting this interrogation exercise as the final phase of the patrol course and another test to gain entry to the SAS, so we prepared ourselves as much as we could. This included jamming as much emergency chocolate down our throats as we could take.

The men yelled and screamed in the aisle of the bus. When they told Col to stand up (he was seated in front of me) I thought they were talking to me, so I stood up as well. So Col and I are standing up together, but they only wanted one and it wasn’t me just yet, so they punched me in the head and screamed at me to sit down. I didn’t need to be told twice, and the unexpected punch all but put me back in my seat anyway. Col was dragged off the bus and then they yelled at me to stand up. I didn’t want to make the same mistake again so stayed where I was. This really pissed them off and they grabbed me and forced me to my feet using my hair as a handle. I felt a short jab in my left kidney as additional persuasion to behave. The bus was full of tear gas so I had tears in my eyes, snot ran from my nose and my airway was on fire when they finally dragged my pitiful arse off the bus blindfolded and handcuffed.

They half-marched, half-dragged me, steering me by the scruff of my neck into a building and threw me to the ground. I lay face down with my hands above my head. I thought I was on my own until I heard a guard say, ‘Ah, Col.’ I allowed myself a little laugh, as did a few others. Col hadn’t lasted 10 minutes before they had found his name on his epaulettes. We all copped a solid kick in the guts for laughing.

After about four hours lying face down on the floor, I was hauled to my feet, shoved into a room and forced into a chair. A senior soldier was seated on the other side of the desk. He was very matter of fact and seemed only to want to process me. He asked for my personal details and I gave him the usual name, rank, serial number and date of birth. Okay, that seemed to be acceptable. He then asked for an emergency contact, my next of kin.

‘I can’t answer that question, Sir.’

‘But surely you’d like us to tell a family member where you are?’

‘I can’t answer that question, Sir.’

‘You should feel free to talk to me. I want to do all I can for you and I’d like to tell your mother where you are and that you’re okay. So what’s her name?’

‘I can’t answer that question, Sir.’

‘Okay, suit yourself. You will be issued with clothing, so remove all your clothes and put them in this bag.’

I got out of my gear and stood naked in front of the desk, suddenly struck by how bloody cold it was.

‘Okay, sign here. You are being issued with a shirt and pair of trousers,’ he said as he slid the neatly folded garments across his desk.

‘I cannot do that, Sir.’

‘What can’t you do? Sign this form? Surely your army is the same as mine and all items must be accounted for?’ he asked incredulously.

‘I can’t answer that question, Sir.’

‘You do realise that I can’t let you have these warm clothes if you don’t sign the form?’

‘I can’t answer that question, Sir.’

‘So be it. Guard!’

The guard walked through the door. ‘Yes, Sir?’

‘Take this prisoner away.’

The guard grabbed my elbow and shoved my naked arse outside the room where I was cuffed and a pillowcase forced over my head.

The interrogation continued for three days. Once a day (and at different times to confuse us) we were fed a combination of whitebait, lemon grass and potatoes, all served in boiling hot water. We were marched out in small groups holding onto the shoulders of the person in front. We then had to kneel down and a guard lifted our masks just so we could see what we were eating. We were told that if we looked left or right, the food would be removed. We only had a brief period to eat, so it was a matter of shoving as much food into my mouth as quickly as possible, despite the boiling water. When we were finally released from the interrogation, the roof of my mouth and my tongue were burnt and blistered.

During one interrogation session I just about cracked. It was probably my fourth session and I hadn’t signed anything or divulged any information. But this bastard got to me. As I sat there naked wearing only handcuffs, the interrogator sat alongside me and started to rub my nipples with a pencil describing how I could move to his room and keep his bed warm for him at night. Fuck this, I thought. So I grabbed his camouflage shirt by the scruff and pulled him towards me. I released him and tried to punch him with my handcuffed hands. I managed to connect, but it was a pretty ordinary hit and he would have barely felt it. So I grabbed him again and he started yelling, ‘Lunatic! Lunatic!’ Then the walls of the interrogation room erupted as men raced in and grabbed me in a choke hold until I let go. They dragged my naked, sorry arse outside and rushed me back to the holding area. I was only back there for a few minutes enjoying the euphoria of having won that little tussle; I could still hear that fool yelling ‘Lunatic! Lunatic!’ and I chuckled to myself, enjoying my victory. But the feeling was short-lived and naive. I realised that this was probably the end for me and that the last eight weeks of hell had been for nothing. Then two men grabbed me and dragged me backwards out the door and forced me into the boot of a car. No-one said a word and I was thrown around in the boot for about 10 minutes as the car seemed to drive some distance, but probably only did laps around the camp.

When the car stopped and the boot opened, I could sense the bright lights through the pillowcase over my head. I was dragged from the boot and someone told me that I’d committed a terrible offence punishable by death but, due to the commander’s leniency and his dislike for homosexuals, I would only have to walk through the punishment chamber. I sensed that there were a few people around me — maybe six or seven. They put a lasso around my waist and told me to walk. I took very small steps and waited for the kicks and punches to rain down, but only got one kick right in the middle of my back which sent me crashing into a swimming pool. The pool had underwater lights and I could see my pillowcase floating around my head. I tried to surface but struggled to swim while my hands were still cuffed. When I finally managed to break the surface, the wet pillowcase suctioned to my face so I couldn’t take a breath and then someone stood on my head to force me under. I sank back down a few feet and again watched the pillowcase floating around my head. I tried to reach up and pull the pillowcase off my head so I could get a breath, but the lasso around my waste pinioned my elbows to my sides. I grabbed the rope and tried to pull it into the water, but I couldn’t get a proper grip and my tormentors had a good hold of it. I was hurting now and starting to get a little concerned. I hoped the blokes on the side of the pool weren’t having an in-depth discussion and wouldn’t forget that there was some loser at the bottom of the pool. This was getting serious. I thought I was fucked and rapidly ran out of air. My lungs started to heave and pulsate and tried to force me to open my mouth and take a breath of water. I opened my mouth and the water sat there just waiting for me. Just when I thought my lungs would win, I was pulled from the water by the lasso.