Kicking Bombs

by Barry Stevens

  I answered him with a simple no. Surprisingly the two of them softly lowered me to the ground and sat me up against the side of one of the drums. They both stooped down and asked me what injuries I had. I listed the major ones, including what I thought were now infected cuts around my wrists and ankles. One of the men called another man over who was also in uniform and said something to him in Arabic. He went straight to a vehicle and returned with a small case. To my disbelief he tenderly removed the rags I had wrapped around my limbs, revealing some very nasty looking wounds. After a short discussion the man started to clean the injuries and applied some ointment and clean bandages. The ointment must have contained some antiseptic because I could feel the soothing effect shortly after he applied it.

  The two original men dressed in uniform returned and told me they were going to pick me up and move me inside. I could see what looked like a large warehouse with corrugated iron walls and two roll-up doors large enough for a semi-trailer to enter. Once inside it looked like any normal warehouse with drums and cardboard boxes placed on pallets scattered around the concrete floor. There was a set of offices up on a mezzanine level with a set of steel stairs leading to them.

  I was carried to a six-metre shipping container that was open in the corner of the building; the container walls were lined two deep stacked to the roof with more drums and as I soon found out were filled with something. The two men placed me inside and another came over with an old blanket and a bucket of water. The big fat bastard who’d kindly dragged me down the length of the truck came over carrying an empty five gallon drum with the top cut out of it and a bag of something. One of the soldiers told me that I was to be locked inside the container for a few days and the bag contained some food. If I didn’t cause any trouble I would be left alone but if I made any noise he, the fat bastard, would punish me. I simply gave an understanding nod and they walked away. As soon as they were out of the container the forklift tightly filled the empty space at the entrance with a pallet of filled drums and someone closed the door.

  13

  The Container

  Landmine Anti-Personnel SPM-1

  Made in Singapore. Along with dozens of other landmines Iraq had thousands of these. The VS-50 is a real mongrel of a mine to find and make safe. From the outside it’s a simple, round, plastic-cased anti-personnel mine, formerly manufactured by the now-defunct Valsella munitions factory in Italy (a munitions factory that supposedly had financial connections with the Vatican). Though unlikely to kill anyone, the explosive charge contained in the VS-50 is enough to blow a person’s foot off. Tests have proven that the effects of an anti-personnel mine are worse if the poor bastard stepping on it is wearing a boot, for two reasons: firstly, a lot of military boots have a thin steel plate running through the sole and this steel plate turns into shrapnel and is shot up into the leg; secondly, the leather shape of the boot itself actually funnels and directs the blast up the leg turning bone into shrapnel and blowing that up into the upper leg. If you’re going to stand on a mine you’re better off wearing a cheap pair of thongs. The explosive force from this mine is capable of penetrating 5 millimetres of mild steel leaving a 80 millimetre diametre hole. Approximately 10 kilograms on the pressure plate for a minimum of 0.10 seconds is enough to set it off.

  I was now in total darkness, feeling my way around on the timber floor searching for the water they left me. Even though I was extremely thirsty I had to force myself to drink only a little at a time, not knowing how long it had to last. Trying to come to grips with my new situation I decided to set myself up as best as I could so I felt around for the bag of food to see what they had left me. Although the floor was ply it had a lot of small pieces of gravel strewn across the surface obviously brought in by the forklift. Even though it had been three days since I had eaten last I still wasn’t hungry, but I knew I had to have something to get some strength back. Reaching into the bag I found another with some cooked rice and another with some soft cucumbers, tomatoes and spring onions; not exactly a feast but I supposed it was better than nothing. I forced myself to eat some rice and a tomato, then cupped my hands over the water bucket and had another small drink of water before lying on the blanket and falling asleep.

  When I woke up I realised that had no idea how long I’d been asleep for. It could have been eight hours or even eight minutes. I ran my hand down my leg to my ankle injuries and felt the dressings. To my relief they were dry, indicating that they had stopped bleeding and hopefully the ointment was keeping off any infection.

  Lying in the darkness, I noticed a faint dull light coming from one corner of the container. For a moment I thought it was spots in front of my eyes. I couldn’t see it clearly as the drums were in the way, but I thought it must be an air vent of some sort. I used a drum to pull myself up into a half-standing, half-crouching position in an attempt to better investigate. Again the pain from my ribs and muscles was incredible but I kept at it until I was standing straight, staring into the darkness. Finally I could clearly see the faint shape of small louvres high up in a corner. Although there wasn’t enough light to help me see anything I now had a way of being able to tell how many days I was locked up for. I decided to place a piece of gravel on top of one of the drums every time the light from the air vent disappeared so I could keep track of the days.

  After lying in the dark for what seemed an eternity before the light returned I treated myself to another drink of water and a cucumber. I decided it was probably a good thing I couldn’t see anything because the cucumber felt real soft and at times soggy. It wasn’t long before I heard the sound of the roller doors of the warehouse opening and the forklift start up, confirming my light theory. The forklift must have needed a tune-up or something because the driver had to continually rev the engine to keep it going.

  I decided to keep myself busy by listening to the faint murmurs of voices coming from outside, and after a while I could differentiate between voices. I decided to give them nicknames in an attempt to keep track of how many people were working at the facility. During the day a number of trucks came in and the forklift would start up and unload or load them. Quite often someone would scream out instructions from what must have been the office on the mezzanine floor. I thought I could account for four separate people whose voices I could hear over again throughout the day. The person calling out the commands was always the same so I gave him the nickname ‘Boss’, and the man operating the forklift was always the same so I called him ‘Rev Head’. Because I wasn’t completely sure what the other two did I simply called them ‘Wanker One’ and ‘Wanker Two’.

  During the day I ate very little and possibly drank more than I should have but it was getting hot inside the container and the smell of the oil drums was starting to get stronger. Plus I had to urinate into the empty drum they gave me and the acidic smell from that was increasing with the heat.

  After a while I heard the roller doors close and the warehouse went quiet; knock-off time. I started to count in an attempt to ascertain how long it was between when the door went down till when the light coming from the vent went dark. If nothing else it was keeping my mind active and distracted from the reality of it all. I knew there was 3600 seconds in an hour so I started counting. Every time I reached a hundred I placed a piece of gravel on my lap. I was intent on doing this right so I kept at it until the light was gone. In the dark I felt down and counted 68 stones from the pile on my lap. I reckoned that the sun in Iraq was going down around at around 6 pm at this time of year, and calculated that they were leaving at around 4 pm.

  From then on I knew I had a very long and lonely night ahead of me until the entertainment returned again tomorrow.

  Although I intended to do a similar count to try to estimate when they arrived at work I woke up to the sound of the roller doors opening. Boss immediately shouted out across the warehouse floor and Rev Head started up the forklift and started shifting pallets. I could hear Wanker One talking to someone for a while, very close to the cont
ainer, but I couldn’t make out who it was. The discussion did get a little heated at one point and even though I couldn’t understand a single word their voices were definitely louder and argumentative. As they walked away one of them hit the side of the container half a dozen times with something hard. The first hit made me jump but I quickly realised it was just these morons trying to stir me up.

  As well as trying to keep tabs on who was in the warehouse and what time it was I decided it was time that I started to concentrate on some exercises in an attempt to get more mobility back into my body. At first I simply started with some leg raisers and trying to twist at the hips while I was sitting. Although my leg muscles were starting to feel better my broken ribs were still very tender. I pulled myself up off the floor using one of the drums to steady myself while I stood and then slowly walked around the small area inside the container they had left me, leaning against the drums as I walked. After a few short minutes I’d had enough and decided to try again later.

  I heard a car drive inside the warehouse and only one door close. This was strange as I noticed that all of the vehicles with the exception of the forklift were left outside in the compound. Boss yelled out ‘Al-salaamu alaykum’ in a friendly way so I gathered they were friends. Everyone else in the warehouse came over to great him. I heard the stranger mention chai; they were having a break and a cup of tea. It seemed like a long time before I heard the car door open and close and the vehicle leave the warehouse. Shortly after Rev Head started up the forklift and work resumed.

  During the rest of the day I concentrated on some simple exercises, remembering that the cruel bastard group of army physiotherapists at the First Military Hospital in Enoggera who looked after me when I was there years ago, recovering from parachuting injuries, wouldn’t care less if it hurt; just as long as the exercises got done. I realised then that it had to hurt to get the muscles moving again and get some blood running through them.

  The food they left me was rank now, but I managed to eat all of the rice before it spoiled. The tomatoes and the cucumbers were rotten from the heat and the bunch of spring onions they left me was nothing but mush. I still had half a bucket of water left so I knew I was good for another two days at least. Lucky for me that I still wasn’t hungry, probably because of my stomach injuries. Trying to look at the bright side I supposed in one way I was lucky because it would have been a lot worse if I was constantly hungry with nothing to eat.

  Soon I heard the roller door close and the warehouse was quiet again. This was becoming the worst part of the day as it was getting harder to keep myself busy and my mind active. I tried not to think about my family and friends because I knew that if I did I would shift into a deep state of depression that would be harder to survive than my physical wounds.

  The next morning was the same as the others; the door opened and Boss started shouting out orders. The forklift started up, Rev Head revving the hell out of the engine constantly so it wouldn’t stall. All day I could hear Wanker One and Two jabbering about the warehouse and trucks coming and going as usual. Their lunch break came and went and other than a few more heated arguments between Wanker One and someone I presumed was a driver, everything was standard. As the afternoon went on the heat inside the container was becoming unbearable. The stench from my toilet bucket was unbelievable. I tore off a piece of the blanket and wrapped it around my mouth in an attempt to filter the smell a little but I immediately found it too claustrophobic and took it off. Up until now I still hadn’t unwrapped the bandages around my ankles — I couldn’t see them even if I did.

  Throughout the long nights and days I kept up with my exercise routine. I was finding it easier to stand up now and found that I could walk around in small, tight circles quite well for longer periods. I made up a little game to amuse myself — I tried to walk through the dark from one side of the surrounding drums to the other and stop as close as I could without actually bumping into or touching them.

  Just another way to keep active and live through my current situation. I was trying to prepare for the interminable hours to pass as I waited for the roller door to close, marking the end of another day, when I heard a car pull up into the warehouse. The boss was quick to welcome the driver as his car door opened. I heard the boss yell something out to Rev Head and he turned off the forklift and the roller door came crashing down.

  I was straining to listen to some faint talking when suddenly someone fumbled with the lock on the container, pulled down the double handles and opened the double doors. Boss screamed and Rev Head and the forklift started up. The light through the gaps in the drums was a very welcome sight and for a moment I was excited but then reality hit me; I was still a hostage and was more than likely going to die.

  After Rev Head removed the drums from the entrance the men walked into the container. They instantly covered their mouths with their hands and swiftly turned around; the stench was bad even to them. Boss, who I saw for the first time, was an older man about 60 years old, dressed in a well-pressed suit and tie. I recognised the other man who had just arrived as the soldier who supervised my dressings days ago. This time, however, he was dressed in a traditional white dishdash, well starched with a red-and-white-checked shemagh neatly wrapped around his head.

  It was clear that this man was in overall control of the situation as he was courteously requesting the others to carry out some tasks for him. The big fat bastard, who I soon found out was Wanker One, came into the container and went to lift me up when I held up my hand and stood by myself. The young man suggested to me that I should pick up my toilet bucket and follow Mustafa. So Wanker One, Fat Bastard, was Mustafa. I don’t know why but for some smartarse reason I picked up the drum, looked Mustafa square in the eyes and said, ‘Okay, you fat bastard, let’s go.’ Although he didn’t understand a word I was saying the young man did and I could see a smile appear on his face as if he appreciated my cheek.

  I was taken into a room under the office and shown to a traditional squat toilet where I dumped out the contents of the drum and rinsed it out with a short hose beside the toilet itself. Fat Bastard then motioned to me to take off my clothes and wash under the hose. I had nowhere to go in the small room so I was left alone while my escort waited outside. I struggled to get the overalls off but finally did and started to hose myself down.

  I turned off the hose for a second and unwrapped the bandages from around my ankles. As I expected my injuries were still red and had pus oozing from the wounds. The dressings were far too toxic to replace on the injuries so I decided to leave them off and see if some air to them would assist in drying the cuts up a little. While I had the chance I washed out my orange overalls and wrung them out as best as I could. I used the toilet in the room and for the first time since I could remember managed to squeeze out a crap; if I was going back into the container a smelly turd in the drum would be the last thing I would want. As I was slowly putting the overalls back on Fat Bastard came in and yelled something, obviously wanting me to hurry up. The young man then came into the room and asked if I was alright and ready. I simply nodded and walked out of the room wearing my wet but refreshing overalls.

  When we got outside the young man asked me how my wounds were. As I was doing my best not to talk I simply showed them to him. I couldn’t believe it when he said something and the box full of first aid equipment came back out. The young man and the boss stooped down beside me. The young man said that with my past military training I should be able to treat myself. I pulled the box closer and looked inside. I found a tube of antiseptic cream, which I applied to both ankles. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I found an old square tin of paraffin-covered Bactrigras gauze the same as my mother used to use when I was a kid; it has an antibiotic integrated into the dressing and was just what I needed at this point. I placed a few pieces of the gauze over the wounds, opened two seven-centimetre bandages from their plastic wrappers and covered each ankle. So much for letting them air out. But the antibiotic cream and dressing shou
ld give me a far better chance of healing and less of a chance of coming down with blood poisoning or something similar.

  After I completed the dressings the young man and Boss motioned for me to follow them. I slowly made my way up the stairs and into an office where I was told to sit down on a kitchen-style chair near the main desk. Boss sat behind the desk and the young man leant up against the desk corner closest to me.

  He picked up a briefcase from the floor beside him and opened it up, taking out a large buff-coloured envelope and tipping the contents onto the desk top. It was all of my identity cards, my passport and wallet, as well as my watch and issued dog tags. Looking me in the eye he said, ‘We knew who you are. You are Australian citizen. Not in army anymore. You are employed by the United States Army to collect and dispose of bombs as part of Captured Enemy Ammunition program being conducted by the United States Corps of Engineers.’ He spoke about my position in An Najaf and said that some of the people who had worked for me spoke very highly of me and said that I was a good man who was always helping them. Over the time that I had worked in Iraq I had unknowingly made some local friends who supported the resistance against the US-led invasion. It was this reason and this reason only that I was still alive.

  He said to me, ‘You are to be given the chance to make a statement on film. It will be sent to Aljazeera to be telecast worldwide. You will demand the immediate withdrawal of Australian troops from Iraq and Afghanistan. If the troops are not withdrawn you will be publicly killed and only the Australian Government will be responsible for your death.’