Warrior Brothers (27 page)

We were just outside Fallujah, gearing ourselves up for the run into Baghdad, when Kuwaiti Ops called. Apparently, one of the clients had left a bottle of sample water in our vehicle and it was essential they get it back. It looked certain that we would be turning around and driving another four hours back to Jordan. As I cursed my luck and began to plan the return trip, my driver nervously spoke up. In halting terms he informed me that he had thrown the bottle marked ‘HD sample water' in the bin at Alasad Airbase.

This was the same individual who later broke our only funnel for refuelling and, rather than confessing, threw it into a bin and kept quiet as we spent 20 minutes looking for it. It was the final straw. His track record was poor. I'd had to take him aside and tell him to refrain from eating in front of the clients unless he first organised something for them to eat. I'd often return to the vehicle and find him munching away on a packet of chocolate biscuits. This was easily fixed: I would take the packet and pass it to the clients in the back, telling them to eat the lot. Then there was his constant moaning about how much his back hurt. On one occasion he asked one of the clients to roll up a jumper and place it behind his back for him. Other times he refused to drive because he was too tired.

I had to make a decision: should we go back to the dam to
organise a replacement sample or not? My driver, not as apologetic as you might hope, had a typically surly response: ‘I'm not going to be killed for a bottle of sample water.'

My reply was immediate and unequivocal. ‘You don't have to. I'm fucking you off as soon as we get back to Baghdad. Drive on.'

We made Baghdad and returned to the Palestine Hotel to await instructions. Before long Kuwaiti Ops made contact. They informed me that the next phase would require just one team, my team, to head back to Jordan to pick up a client and return to Haditha Dam. Fabulous. The second team would return to southern Iraq. Heading back to Ambush Alley with just four operators, two of whom were struggling, bordered on insane. They were orders, but it didn't take a genius to see that they were irresponsible, inadequate and left us incredibly exposed.

One of the men who was due to take leave identified the shortfall and approached me that evening. ‘Hey Keithy, your driver sucks, man. I'll put back my leave and go with ya if you want to piss him off.' His only stipulation was that he wanted to be in the lead car with me.

I was impressed by his attitude. Volunteering to put himself in harm's way meant he had to be a little crazy. In other words, he was my kind of guy. I requested permission for the lion to replace the mouse. Kuwaiti Ops approved the request and the unwilling driver was sent home.

At least now we had some decent mapping. We headed back past Fallujah and picked up our client, Glen, from Jordan the following morning. We then moved back to the dam to retrieve the bottle of sample water. It was ironic that the goose whose actions had led to the repeat trip was not actually here. Glen asked where he was and I was completely honest, admitting that he was not up to the task so was moved on. My candour cemented a strong bond between us.

Glen was a former US marine so immediately under
stood the implications of a contractor being so far below the required standard. A feeble excuse would have been an insult to his intelligence. Glen was also not surprised when the driver of the second vehicle was given his marching orders. His erratic driving had nearly killed both himself and Pottie when he panicked and forced a truck off the road. He was unable to maintain spacing and his vehicle had become isolated. He then attempted to close the gap and narrowly avoided a head-on collision. To be totally honest, he did nothing to prevent the incident – the driver of the truck took the evasive action and prevented a couple of fatalities.

I was involved in a similar situation in Afghanistan 18 months later when Si and I travelled from Kabul to Kandahar on a security assessment task. We had spent many hours training our interpreter, Sonny, as a driver. Considering he was behind the wheel of a beat-up Toyota Corolla, and the fact that if we were ambushed, both Si and I could immediately return fire, we thought it was a sound option. I was proved wrong.

The road from Kabul to Kandahar takes six hours by car and passes through some highly dangerous and remote locations. Due to budget constraints, we had no funds for additional security, so we decided on a low-profile approach. We draped local dress over our upper bodies and even removed our sunglasses whenever we approached a built-up area.

Not long after entering Zabul province, two four-wheel drives – filled with approximately 14 armed men – forced our vehicle off the road. In an instant, Si and I disengaged our safety catches and took aim. I exited the Corolla and came face to face with three Afghani men, two of whom had wild and frightened eyes. Their safety catches were still applied so I knew I had the initiative.

I took a gamble and flashed my US Department of Defense badge and yelled at Sonny to tell them that we were on a reconstruction project. He said nothing and remained frozen at the wheel. The tension was palpable. The situation became increasingly hostile and, after several more prompts, Sonny spoke; the men lowered their weapons.

They were border guards and said that the area was far too dangerous to be travelling around with so few security personnel. Although I would never task another security consultant to do what we were doing, it was a risk we were willing to take – once. Our excitement did not end there.

Sonny was rattled by the incident and, upon reflection, Si or I should have taken the wheel. But we didn't. About an hour from Kandahar, on a two-lane stretch of road, Sonny attempted to overtake a slow-moving bus. I could see another bus approaching but, before I could tell him to wait, Sonny pulled back in behind the bus and slowed down.

Good decision
, I thought.

Then without warning, Sonny accelerated and pulled out into the oncoming traffic. Despite my yelling at him to stop, we were soon level with the bus and were now looking at death. The oncoming bus was now less than 20 metres away when the driver yanked on the wheel.

The oncoming driver's eyes must have looked similar to mine. Very fucking large and round.

Si and I braced for impact, and I think I recall hearing someone yell, ‘Fuck you, Sonny!' It was probably me. But Sonny was capable of more.

He slammed on the brakes and lost control. We were now veering sideways and were sandwiched between two buses. Somehow we exited unscathed, to the sounds of blasting horns and screeching tyres. If Sonny wasn't spinning before, he now resembled an egg that had been thrown in the blender. He remained this way for the next 24 hours. Relieved to be alive, I immediately told Sonny to pull over and thanked
him for the near-death experience. It was exciting, but his days of driving were well and truly over.

Back at the dam, having found the elusive sample water, we departed for Jordan the following morning. The US Ops room expressed concern for our four-man team. They believed that driving two non-armoured vehicles around this part of Iraq was courting danger.

I agreed.

The great rapport that we had established meant that the US advice was like a friend's. They were right, but there wasn't a lot we could do about it. I asked if the major could organise an air escort for the next morning, as we would have to depart before the roads were cleared. He said it was probably too late to organise but he would see what he could do.

The following morning we departed just before first light. We had travelled no more than 10 kilometres when two rotary-wing gunships straddled the road from high above.

‘Are they for us?' Pottie asked.

‘I think so,' I replied.

This was more like it. The choppers surged ahead and cleared the numerous
wadis
and suspect areas ahead of us. In one particular area the two birds hovered above a creek crossing and waited for our vehicles to make it to the other side safely. This air cover was maintained until we passed the village of Hit. The pilots then gave a very clear thumbs-up before heading back to Alasad Airbase. That US major was one hell of a man.

Once again we made the five-and-a-half-hour trip to Jordan without incident. Then we returned to Baghdad while also attempting to validate additional fuel stops. By this stage we were running close to empty and, despite the threat of danger, we had little choice but to source fuel at a service station that was several miles west of Fallujah. It wasn't a safe
area to enter, much less make a stop in, but we didn't have a choice. Sometimes, even in the face of a daunting threat, you just have to go for it.

Watching Reyne, my three-year-old son, run and launch himself into an Olympic swimming pool can be somewhat unsettling. What begins with utter conviction and confidence very quickly turns into a fevered thrashing until he reaches the steps.

I vividly recall one day at the pool before he was able to swim. I was distracted for a minute as I helped his elder siblings fit their goggles. I turned back and noticed that Little Mr Impatient (surely not a genetic thing!) had disappeared into the water. As a wave of angst drained the colour from my face, I ran to the poolside, cursing my poor parenting. There he was, at a depth of more than two metres, calmly sitting on the bottom.

Retrieving him from his watery perch, I expected either tears, sobs or, at the very least, a spluttery cough. Instead, I was given a cheesy grin before he asked if he could do it again. This is the same child who observed other children at swimming lessons get overwhelmed by fear and anxiety, screaming like a crew of chainsaws stuck on full throttle. When the swimming teacher threatened to throw the cryers into the middle of the pool, Reyne, looking excited, put up his hand and asked if he could have a go too.

It is these attributes that worry his mother, Colleen. Not his exuberance for life, but his fearless nature coupled with his drive to do exciting things. Such traits seem guaranteed to lead him on a similar journey to mine. Although many people comment that Reyne is like me in this, the thing that I find most
disconcerting is that he is far more gutsy and radical than I was at his age. Does this mean that later in life he'll require more intense rushes than even his dad?

I've never had the luxury of being able to do by halves anything that excites me. Trying to maintain a balance has always proved to be a challenge, and one that I am yet to conquer. It may be a challenge that is beyond me. Any skills I have, any achievements I make, have rarely been through natural ability. It has always been my demented level of drive that has made things possible. I try to achieve a balance, try to put less of me into fewer pursuits, but as soon as I have a spare five minutes I begin looking for something else to throw myself at. At times I hate this side of my personality and admire those who are able to cruise while enjoying their surrounds. To smell the roses would be divine.

Where does this asphyxiating level of drive and determination come from? Is it ingrained at birth, an indelible gift from my genes? Or is it learnt? I believe that these qualities are so deeply etched that they must always have been there. This mindset was certainly suited to an all-consuming lifestyle in the SAS, but since leaving some years ago, nothing I do or achieve is ever enough. Nothing scratches that itch.

Prior to my first patrol signals course, we were provided with Morse code training sets to assist in our preparation. After learning the alphabet and numbering system, I began to crank up the cadence on my beep–dashing machine. We were expected to have a thorough understanding of the characters on day one of the course to allow us to quickly attain a standard of five words per minute. In the week leading up to the course I could comfortably take Morse code at 14 words per minute while watching television. The skill came naturally to me, but it was the hours of commitment that made it possible.

And my obsessiveness was even worse if I didn't succeed at something I had set my mind to. God forbid I fucked up – my level of determination and self-reflection would spiral out of control. Before being a fully-qualified patrol medic (I had one
week to go of a six-week intensive course), my patrol commander asked if I would like to place an intravenous line into one of the patrol members for practice prior to test week. We were severely dehydrated, so there was no shortage of volunteers (victims) to choose from.

The man I chose had never been given fluid before. I was also told that the Corps medics usually had difficulty extracting blood from him, as the veins in his arms were deeply embedded. In training, 20- or 18-gauge cannulas were usually preferred, as they are significantly smaller and easier to slide into a vein. Not knowing that he was nervous of needles, I decided to use a 16-gauge cannula in order to really test myself.

After preparing my intravenous bag and placing a tourniquet around his upper right arm, I was concerned that I was unable to locate a decent vein. I made a selection on the back of his arm before showing him the 16-gauge cannula. My comment didn't display a great bedside manner: ‘Look at the size of this freaking thing. It looks more like something you'd stick into a horse than a person!'

I lined up the cannula at 45 degrees and inserted the needle into the back of his arm. The vein I was going for rolled and I missed. Without a word I removed the cannula and placed an alcohol swab over the site. Things then became interesting.

My victim passed out and began to make choking sounds! My initial reaction was horror.
Great, not only have I missed the IV, but I have killed one of my mates!

My patrol commander, an outstanding man with years of experience, asked me what I was going to do. I informed him that I would simply maintain a patent airway and monitor his vital signs. I then laughed and said, ‘I think he just passed out.'

We elevated his lower extremities to increase the blood flow to his major organs and brain, and within 30 seconds he had rejoined us. To my huge relief, he sat up; I apologised for missing his vein, then he passed out again. It was the choking sound that followed that grabbed my attention. Once more I maintained a patent airway and recorded his pulse. In his
dehydrated state, his pulse had dropped to 28 beats per minute. Basically, his body had gone into shock.

After he came to, I administered small sips of water and offered him some chocolate to suck on. The colour soon returned to his face.

I reflected on my efforts, and once we returned to base I asked for a word with my patrol commander. I basically fell on my sword and told him that missing a vein in a non-trauma situation was inexcusable and that it would not happen again.

The commander dismissed my concerns out of hand. ‘Everyone misses a vein from time to time. I'm more concerned that he fainted,' he said.

That evening after I arrived home, I grabbed a cannula and began to practise by inserting the needle into pieces of fruit. I must have jabbed a banana and orange 300 times over the following days. I passed my medical testing but the real test would come two weeks later, when my patrol commander asked me to administer IVs to the entire patrol.

After three successful IVs I turned to my former patient. He looked just as concerned as I was. He didn't want to faint, and I didn't want to be the cause of it. I took my time, located a vein on the front of his arm and slid the needle into him – albeit without the horse-needle smart-arsery. I received flashback – blood flow into the rear of the cannula – so I slid the plastic cannula inside his vein. I was in.

Similarly, the first time I fired a pistol on my close-quarter-battle (CQB) course, I was far from impressive. After firing 10 rounds at the A4 piece of paper from a range of four metres, I was mortified that there were only two holes in the 16-centimetre circle, and three bullets had missed the target altogether.

My team leader, who came to have a look at the training, glanced over my shoulder and whispered, ‘Would you like a shotgun?'

That afternoon I stood in front of the mirror in my room and practised my CQB stance-and-draw sequence. If I mastered the
basics, then surely my shooting just had to improve. The same man who offered me the shotgun, Buzz, entered my room and asked me to join him in the gym.

This would normally be an invitation I would never have turned down, but this time I did. ‘Are you serious? You saw my freaking shooting today. I was all over the place. I'm going to spend an hour or two working on my stance and pistol draw.'

Obviously wanting a training partner, he immediately reassured me: ‘Mate, it's the first time you've fired a pistol. Trust me, you'll get heaps of practice.'

I would not be persuaded and stayed in my room, working on my footwork.

Two days later we were given our first validation shoot from a range of five metres. My first four bullets landed in the bullseye. No-one was more surprised than me when I passed.

Once again, Buzz peered over my shoulder: ‘Hmmm … how in the fuck did you manage that? Must have been a fluke!'

By persevering when I was under par, I'd made myself well above par. I was not the most accurate shot on the course or in the troop, but I was able to compete with the guys who were.

Many years later, as a contractor in Iraq, I was running some pistol training and I placed a target approximately 45 metres away. I withdrew a Glock 17 and fired one round. Joe, a former Selous Scout and a poetic shot with a rifle, approached the target and said, ‘Hey, Fenno, you missed.'

I'd half-expected to miss – after all, the target I was going for was an A4 piece of paper with a black circle in the middle of it. I hadn't fired a pistol for some time, so from that range I didn't expect to hit the paper.

Joe laughed. ‘I mean, you missed the black dot in the middle. Only by a couple of centimetres. Where in the fuck did you learn to shoot like that?'

Impressing a man of Joe's incredible background gave me a kick, but with that shot I was just lucky. Obsessiveness and determination get you a long way, but nothing quite beats just being arsey.