I took advantage of the chance to try to stretch out my arms and shoulders and move my legs around. I pulled myself up against the iron in one corner and had a good look at the cuts on my ankles and wrists. I knew that if I didn’t get a chance to clean them soon they would easily get infected. I pulled the top of my jocks away from my waist and saw all of my pubic hair caked in dried blood like mud. When I felt down the left side of my ribs there was a lot of swelling surrounding some very tender egg-sized lumps.
I dropped my head back against the tin wall and said to myself, Shit. What the hell I am going to do to get myself out of this mess? I can’t walk. I can’t even stand. My arms are so sore and stiff I’m flat out moving them. I have at least four broken ribs, some definite internal injuries and if I don’t get these cuts cleaned up soon I will surely get an infection that would make my chance of survival almost impossible. And just to top it off there are a couple of dozen bad bastards outside who would like nothing more than to put a bullet in my head.
I spent what seemed like a full afternoon sitting up against the wall. I managed to bend my legs one at a time so I could softly massage my feet in an attempt to get some circulation back into them. My lips were still swollen and my mouth was as dry as the dirt I was sitting on. I couldn’t even manage to wet my sore lips with spit I was so dry. It started to get dark and I could smell the aroma of something spicy cooking.
A few men who I hadn’t seen before came and stood in the doorway for a while and had some sort of discussion, obviously about me. One of the men was dressed in a man dress and a business suit jacket worn like an overcoat. He squatted beside me and looked over my tattoos, pinching them as if he were checking to see if they were real. He grabbed my left bicep and pulled my shoulder forward to show the other men standing in the door a tattoo that I got when I was twenty years old and very drunk in Kings Cross in Sydney after recruit training at Kapooka. A rising sun badge the size of your palm that proudly had ‘Australian Army’ emblazoned in the scroll at its base.
This bloke pushed me back into the wall and said in very broken English, ‘You Army Australia?’ I dropped my head back against the wall of the shed, closed my eyes and shook my head. Obviously not happy with my reply he shouted at me again, ‘You Army Australia!’
I mumbled as best I could, ‘A long time ago … retired … no more in army.’ He screamed something out and the old bloke who everyone seemed to bow down to pushed his way through the crowd now filling the doorway and squatted down beside me. After a short discussion with the bloke in the suit jacket and having to tell everyone else to shut up he asked me, in a very soft voice, ‘Are you in the Australian Army?’
I wanted to make my reply sound as convincing as possible, but considering I almost couldn’t talk because of my dry mouth and swollen lips my reply was nothing more than a mumble. I lifted the back of my hand to my lips and tried to lick them. He looked at me and said softly, ‘Are you or not?’ I tried to say something again but couldn’t so I just shook my head. He said, ‘You were a soldier?’ This time I looked him in the eye and nodded. He asked me, ‘How may years ago?’
Because I knew I wouldn’t be able to say anything I held up both hands and indicated fifteen with my fingers. He asked me whether I was in the army for fifteen years or whether it had been fifteen years since I have been a soldier. I waved my hands in an attempt to tell him I had been away from the army for fifteen years. He got so close to me I could smell the strong smell of his cheap aftershave and told me that he thought I was lying. Again I closed my eyes and shook my head. He stood up and said something to the group of men standing at the door.
A small group of them came in as he walked out and picked me up by the shoulders and feet and carried me towards a rectangular mud brick building that was as wide as the whole back of the compound. As they got to the closed door one of the men who was carrying me under the shoulders kicked the door and yelled something. The door opened and I was carried inside through the main room at the entrance and into an old bathroom or laundry. Although there wasn’t any sinks or bath tubs in the small room there were the remnants of a tiled wall and floor and a dripping tap stuck out of the back wall. Again there wasn’t a door itself but there was an old frame where one had originally been. As they dropped me onto the floor the old man came back into the room and knelt down beside me again. This time he introduced himself as Hadji Mohammed and that he was a servant of Allah. ‘I am in command of this group of very brave men who are willing to die to rid Iraq of the Americans and their slave armies,’ he said. He went on to tell me that he was a kind man with a family and a store at the market and that he had been forced to fight for Iraq all of his life. He said he had to fight on the border against Iran, and he had to fight in the mountains against the Kurds. He told me he lost his son in the war against Kuwait and then had his house bombed by the Americans when they murdered innocent people to steal Baghdad. He explained that he hadn’t seen his wife and daughter for almost a year: ‘Last time I with my wife I say to her that I am not returning because I am to become martyr and die for Allah. Peace be upon him.’
I wanted to say something but not only did I know that it wasn’t possible, I also remembered what he said about talking and there was no way I could handle another beating at this point. Just before he stood up he said, ‘I think that you are a brave man and would be willing to die for your beliefs. Are you married man?’ he asked me. I nodded. ‘You have children?’ Again I nodded. He seemed to go quiet for a short while but continued to stare at me. ‘How many? How many children?’ I held up one hand and pushed out all of my fingers indicating five. ‘Five!’ he said. ‘Boy or girl? How many girl?’ I held up two fingers. ‘Agh; you have three sons. You must be proud man.’ I nodded slowly and put my hand on my chest in the way those of most Arabic cultures do when they want to show sincerity.
After he stood up he said something to one of the men who left the room and returned with a piece of rag. The old man turned on the tap and told me to get clean and left the room with all of the others. I literally crawled on my stomach over to the tap and sucked the lukewarm water up off the floor through my split lips. They started to sting but even that felt soothing. I slowed down a little and started to pool the water in my hands and splash it onto my face. By now the water was getting cooler and started to be incredibly soothing. I painfully lifted myself up as far as I could, leaning against the wall under the tap so that the water flowed onto my chest and stomach.
I ran my lacerated wrists under the water and tenderly tried to wash away the dirt, carpet fibres and dried blood. As I cleaned the deep gashes in my wrists and washed away the dried blood the cuts reopened and started to bleed freely onto the concrete slab. I took the rag that they gave me and started to wipe deep into the lacerations in an attempt to clean as much crap out as I could. The pain was incredible. I started to shake and clenched my teeth but I knew it had to be done. I worked slowly in an attempt to reduce the pain but all it did was turn the ordeal into a long, drawn-out process that hurt like hell. After my wrists I softly wiped the wet cloth across my lips and every once in a while filled my mouth with water and spat it out onto the floor. Even the water coming from my mouth was pink with blood. I ran my tongue around the ulcer-like cuts on the inside of my lips and gums and realised for the first time that two of my teeth in my lower jaw were so loose they were almost falling out. I shook my head to myself and thought, What else?
The cuts on my ankles were deeper than those on my wrists, but for some reason they weren’t as painful to clean. I could clearly see what I thought must be my Achilles tendon behind my left ankle as the skin pulled away; although this particular cut wasn’t as deep as the one on the front of my right ankle it was about a half-inch wide.
I used my teeth and tore the rag into four wide strips and two small pieces; one of the pieces had a pocket sewn on it. I slowly pulled down my underpants and gingerly slid them over my legs and feet. I started to wash around my crotch and couldn’t
believe the amount of dried blood that had stuck to my pubes. At least this wasn’t hurting and I could actually scrub the area and get it as clean as possible in this situation. I decided to roll onto my side so I could wash around my backside and then suddenly felt the stabbing of a rib digging into the flesh on the inside of my chest. In all of the relief I had been applying to the wounds on the outside of my body I totally forgot about those on the inside. I slowly lifted myself back upright again and lay back against the wet and cool wall under the tap, breathing as shallowly as I possibly could to reduce the pain.
After a couple of minutes of getting up the courage I rolled onto my right side, which was the side up against the wall the whole time I was being kicked and beaten. I thought I had better hurry things up in case they came in and turned the tap off on me. I rinsed out my jocks as best as I could and twisted them out in an attempt to squeeze out the bloody water. I reached around over my hip and started to wash my bum when I smelt the strong stench of crap. Whatever caused the bleeding also had caused me to lose control of my bowels and at some time or other I’d shit myself. All of the dried-up blood was mixed with dried crap and completely covered both cheeks. Even to these stinking bastards I must have reeked.
Not that I could have smelt anything. I was still having problems opening my left eye and I had a feeling that I either had a cracked skull near the corner of the eye or the cartilage on my nose had been broken, because that side of my face was so swollen and sore I knew there must have been some major skeletal damage.
As soon as it felt like I had finally managed to clean myself properly and I could no longer smell anything rancid I slowly pulled my underpants one leg at a time over my feet and up my legs. It was difficult to pull them up to my waist simply because it was too bloody painful to lift my backside off the ground. I had another drink of water and turned the tap off. I rung out the two small pieces of rag and attempted to dry myself down as best as I could. When I had finished I removed the now blood-soaked makeshift bandages covering my wounds. I turned the tap back on to just a trickle so as not to cause attention to myself, rinsed them out again and rewrapped my injuries.
As I lay on the wet floor I could hear a group of men outside talking to the old man. They were eating — I could smell the same rice as when I initially came into the building. At this point I was far from being hungry. My stomach was so knotted with pain and nervousness that eating was way down on my priority list. I crawled over into a dry corner of the room and lay as close to the wall as I could. I was starting to get real cold; a combination of the cool water and shock.
Suddenly I sneezed; I had no idea that something so simple could cause so much grief. The pain caused by my broken ribs was phenomenal. I let out a huge moan that caused two men to come and investigate. On entering the room they saw me rolling on the ground holding my chest. They said something and then the old man came into the room as well. He asked me if I was sick. Grimacing, I nodded and continued to hold my chest as it was the only way I could get any relief.
The old man said something to the two men and one of them then returned with a dirty old blanket which he threw at me. As crappy as the blanket was I thanked them in Arabic and they left. It’s hard to believe that something as simple as a blanket reeking of stale sweat could be so comforting. I did what I could to fold it on the hard concrete floor in a way that would ease my injuries and pulled what was left over me. For the rest of the day and that night I found myself drifting in and out of a hazy, hypnotic sleep, waking only when I rolled over onto or bumped an injury.
12
Shifted
160mm High Explosive Mortar
Made in China. One of the coolest weapons that Saddam had in his arsenal, although not the largest. It’s a scaled-up 120 mm M1938 mortar on steroids, pumping it up to 160 millimetres. Originally it was designed by the Russians but the Chinese soon realised its potential and made a copy. During the design stages it became apparent that drop-loading a 40 kilogram bomb into a 3-metre high smooth bore tube would be too difficult for any soldier so it was redesigned as a breech-loading weapon. It contains a substantial recoil system to soak up the massive shock of firing a 160 millimetre bomb and to stop the baseplate from burying itself in the sand. The tube sits in a cradle which is attached to a baseplate and standard but oversized tripod. To load the weapon, the barrel is pivoted forward, which exposes the rear end of the tube. The bomb is then loaded, locked into place with a catch, and the barrel is swung back into the cradle, which automatically closes and locks the breech. The round itself is fairly kilometres.
As the sun rose the next day I could hear the call to prayer outside in the mud-walled compound recited by a voice I recognised as Hadji Mohammed. It dawned on me that during prayer time there wasn’t anyone watching over me. Obviously there was no hope at all of me taking advantage of the situation now as I was far too injured to go anywhere, but I did convince myself that this could be vital in the future when I needed some time alone and to prepare. For what exactly I wasn’t sure.
After prayers my hosts had breakfast and talked amongst themselves for possibly an hour before a truck pulled up in the area outside the compound. When they walked into the hut Hadji Mohammed starting calling out orders to his men and three of them came into the room I was being kept in. One of the men threw me a pair of bright orange overalls similar to what the Americans make the prisoners at Guantanamo Bay wear. I tried to put them on while lying on the ground but I still didn’t have enough dexterity. Even though they could see I was trying to comply they started shouting at me. Again Hadji Mohammed came into the room and went off the deep end at these stupid idiots and made them assist me.
The next thing I knew I was being carried outside. I could see there was a fairly new model truck parked outside with a new set of galvanised steel side gates on both sides and drums on the ground all around it. They lifted me up and placed me on the back of the truck up against some other drums that were already loaded. They then stacked 44 gallon drums all around me leaving me a space about two metres long and half a metre wide down the centre of the truck bed. They then placed a piece of thick plywood over the drums and me, basically enclosing me in the centre of the truck. Another layer of drums was stood up over the top of the drums on the floor, so it looked like a truck stacked two high with empty oil drums.
Hadji Mohammed called out to me and asked if I could hear him. I thought it smart to answer him as I knew I would be in deep shit if they had to unload all of the drums to punish me for not playing their game. He told me straight up that if I made one single sound or any trouble along the way he had given orders for the driver and his offsider to shoot me immediately. He said that I should be grateful that he allowed me to be loaded onto the truck without being tied up or gagged. Personally I think he knew that I was in no condition to do anything or go anywhere anyway.
After a bit of gibberish from Hadji Mohammed, obviously directing the driver, the truck left the compound. It wasn’t long before I noticed we were on a sealed road and by the sound of the truck engine we were doing some speed. Every once in a while we hit a pot hole and the drums bounced all over the place; they hadn’t tied them down as any normal truckie with any brains would have done. Even though I was bouncing around on the floor with the drums I still had to continuously push them aside out of my way to stop them from crushing me or, even worse, the plywood shifting and everything above me coming down like a shower of shit.
It felt like we had been travelling for hours. The roads weren’t getting any better and we hadn’t slowed down any. I could often hear the sound of other trucks and cars passing by us in the opposite direction and the occasional horn being sounded. We started to slow down as I could feel the road under us turning to a pot-holed gravel surface and we suddenly came to a stop not far from the sealed road. I heard the air-assisted park break hiss on so I knew we would be stopping for some time. The truck was turned off and the two men got out, talking as they walked away. I could hear other
people talking and vehicles passing by so I knew we weren’t far from the road. I heard a truck door open and close beside us and it started up, released its park break and drove off.
We had to be in a roadside food or fuel stop of some sort. The sound of people talking was constant and was the sound of dozens of vehicles passing, stopping and leaving. I thought it very wise to simply lie still and not make any commotion simply because I didn’t know if the people I would have been calling to for help would really help me or just tell the truck driver. Knowing my luck it would have been the latter and I would end up in a shallow grave out in the desert somewhere.
After what felt like an hour we took off again and were back on the sealed road. It wasn’t long before we were driving through a large town or city. I could hear a lot of traffic and we were constantly stopping and turning corners. Again the bloody drums were moving all over the place. After a while we stopped and I could hear the driver talking to someone outside the truck. I heard a large door slide open and the truck move in a few metres and stop.
A million things suddenly went through my mind. We’re here, wherever here is. What the hell is going to happen now? I started to get real nervous and started to shake with fear until I reminded myself that I couldn’t let these arseholes see that I was scared because they would see a soft spot and work on it. I took a few deep breaths and thought about nothing but hardening up mentally.
It wasn’t long before the truck started to be unloaded. There were a lot of men talking and I could hear a forklift driving around the truck and the sound of the drums hitting the ground as the men threw them off over the side. After a while they made it to me and some big fat bastard I had never seen before grabbed me by the ankles and dragged me to the back of the truck. Two men dressed in Iraqi Army uniforms took hold of my arms and pulled me off the back of the truck onto the ground and tried to stand me up. I uncontrollably groaned with pain and grimaced as they did. One of them asked me in very good English, ‘Can you stand by yourself?’
Kicking Bombs Page 9