He explained that the resistance believed that all international soldiers in Iraq were their enemy, and allowing me to go free was a gesture of goodwill. If, however, the Australian Government and its military decided not to come to the party then it was their fault that I was killed. He said that if I were executed and it was telecast over the internet it would draw such negative publicity for the current government and its political standpoint that there would be an uproar throughout the country that would destabilise the whole nation.
I, on the other hand, knew quite well that the Australian Government would never bow down to terrorists regardless of who it was being threatened. If I was killed and the footage of the ordeal was shown on the internet it would be big news for a while and would definitely have tens of millions of hits from all around the world by sick mongrels who got their jollies by watching such a thing. But the reality was that after six months no-one would even remember my name and the footage would soon be lost in computer hyperspace somewhere.
The boss asked me if I had ever fought in a war when I was in the army. I shook my head, hoping that this line of questioning would end. He asked me why not and I decided that it was probably better for me to answer directly in an attempt to let them believe that I was willing to go along with their wishes. I told them that I was an instructor and that most of my military service was spent in training establishments. The young man asked me, ‘Have you been to Puckapunyal in Victoria?’ I nodded as he told me that he had family living there. His sister was currently working as a kitchen hand in one of the messes and loved the job and the free country life.
I looked at him and said, ‘Small world isn’t it?’
The boss man said a few words in Arabic and the young man called out something to Rev Head. For the next few minutes they discussed something in detail in Arabic, then a large glass pot filled with green tea was carried in and placed on the desk. Three small shot glass-sized cups were poured and four teaspoons of sugar were stirred into each. One was placed down in front of me and I was gestured to drink it. The young man asked me, ‘You are hungry yes? You would like something to eat?’ Never looking a gift horse in the mouth I said yes and thanked them in Arabic.
After five or six cups of tea, a large platter of bread and kebabs appeared on the table accompanied by a dish of traditional hummus and sliced cucumber, tomatoes and onion. Again I was gestured to help myself. Trying not to show that I was hungry I slowly took a piece of the flat bread and placed some meat on it. I covered it with some salad and hummus and savoured every bite until it was gone. The men helped themselves and asked me to have another, which I thanked them for and did. I couldn’t believe that I was being given such treatment. Obviously the statements made by my workmen in Najaf along with the fact that he had relatives in Australia somehow persuaded them to treat me with some sort of humanity and dignity.
After an hour or so, a good meal and a second pot of tea I was asked if I needed to go to the bathroom as they needed to leave now and I was to be locked back up again. The young guy said to me, ‘We lock you up for your own good. Many people want to kill you immediately. We keep them away and say to them that you alive benefit our cause. That is only reason you are not dead already.’
On the way to the container he asked me if I wanted anything. My obvious request was for food, water and a mattress of some sort as the floor was aggravating my broken ribs. He shook his head and said no, but told me there was fresh water in the container and food would be given to me at the end of every day, along with a chance to go to the toilet.
I thanked him in Arabic as the forklift filled the gap in the front of the container and the doors were again closed and locked, leaving me in total darkness. After all of the crap I just went through sucking up to these bastards just to get food and some sort of indication of what’s planned for me, I now knew that there was no way was I going to get out of this alive unless I did something as soon as possible. But this was impossible while I was locked up inside this drum-filled crappy container and even trying anything when I was outside was all but useless because they had the Fat Bastard watching me at all times. The mere size of him compared with my weakened state at this point in time meant he could easily overpower me at any time. Even if I could escape I had no idea where I was. I could be in the middle of Sadr City in Baghdad and I’m sure a white man running around in bright orange overalls would draw just a little bit of attention.
14
A Visit from Hadji Mohammed
35mm Air Defence Ammunition AHEAD PF High Explosive
Made in Sweden. The weapon Iraq used this stuff in was primarily the Oerlikon 35 millimetre twin cannon, which was developed by Oerlikon, a German company, in the late 1950s. It was so effective that it has been used by around 30 countries since then. A radar system called the Skyguard basically sights the weapon onto its target so any schmuck can use it as long as they know how to load it. In 1982 the system was used by the Argentines during the Falklands War — the Skyguard succeeded in shooting down a British Harrier in 1982 during the battle at Goose Green. Apparently Iran started producing or refurbishing these guns to be used against Iraq, but it’s not known how Iraq ended up with so many and how Saddam ended up with so much Swedish-made ammo.
That night I couldn’t sleep at all. I spent the night exercising and trying to come up with something I could say that would give me more time. I knew that the coalition and the Australian Government would be aware of my capture by now, but I also knew that the amount of times I had been moved and the way I was transported would make it almost impossible for them to have any idea of my location.
The next morning I heard the roller door open and the men start talking. It was clear that Boss wasn’t in the building. Instead I could hear other voices that I couldn’t recognise. The roller door came crashing back down and hit hard against the concrete floor. Suddenly I heard the forklift start up and someone fumbling at the lock on the container doors. As the doors opened and the pallet of drums was removed I noticed Hadji Mohammed from the mud hut standing in the doorway with five of his filthy goons. I knew that this wasn’t going to be good.
Hadji Mohammed yelled something out in Arabic and the men rushed in and dragged me outside. They held me hard up against the drums still on the pallet that had been removed from the container. Two of the men pulled my arms back against the drums while another threw a thin piece rope over my head and pulled back hard from the other side of the pallet, making it hard to breathe, when out of the blue another punched me hard in the stomach. This bloke should have been on the Iraqi boxing team because it was incredibly powerful and instantly knocked the wind right out of me. Trying to gasp for air with the rope pulling back against my wind pipe was a feeling so distressing that it’s hard to describe. There was absolutely nothing I could do to relieve the anxiety of not being able to breathe. Mercifully Hadji Mohammed said something and the man with the rope loosened it a little, allowing me to gasp and fill my lungs with air.
The two men holding my arms apart and forcing me back against the drums never let go or loosened their grip even though I never once tried to resist them. Hadji Mohammed then gave me the reason for their little visit. The Australian Special Forces, I presumed he meant the SAS, who he referred to as murderous dogs, had attacked his compound last night while he was away and killed everyone inside including the woman, his brother’s wife. He told me that this changed the situation entirely and that I was to pay for their actions.
After some screaming from Hadji Mohammed I was dragged back inside the container and thrown onto the floor. All of the men except for Mohammed removed balaclavas from their pockets, pulled them over their heads and ran into the container at me. Three of the men held me down so I was sitting on the floor of the container as another came in with a 12-inch long kitchen knife. For the first time since I had been captured I started to kick, scream and struggle against them, calling them all the insulting terms I could think of.
One of the men th
en came in with a small digital camera and started taking photos; the flash kept lighting up the inside of the container. The man with the knife placed it against my chest and cut through the shoulder of the overalls and ran the blade down my left sleeve to my wrist. As I did my best to wrestle these bastards off the photographer zoomed in on my old and now faded Australian Army rising sun tattoo and took a number of photos. One of the goons then twisted my arm over and took a photo of the just-as-faded tattoo of my Australian Army dog tags drawn on my left bicep. If only I had known what trouble these bloody tattoos would cause me, back in 1979 while blind rotten drunk in Kings Cross I would definitely have had something like a skull, snake and rose done instead, like every other stupid young soldier in those days.
After a few more photos Mohammed said something and the men hastily gripped me harder. There wasn’t a single thing I could do to even budge a muscle as I had completely worn myself out during the struggle and my ribs were incredibly painful. The man with the knife took hold of my left arm under my armpit while another man pulled it out straight, holding me by the wrist, with one of his feet on the side of my chest and the other against my neck. All of the men inside the container started chanting ‘God is great!’ in Arabic. All I could think about at this time was my family and how much I loved every single one of them.
I was making myself ready for the imminent moment, knowing that it was all over, when I felt the knife cut through the skin near my shoulder. I started to scream uncontrollably while the pain grew and grew as the man sliced his way through peeling back the skin as he proceeded. No sooner had he made the final cut when the man who had hold of my wrist twisted it around so that my now blood-drenched dog tag tattoo was visible. The man with the camera said something and the man with the knife pulled a rag from somewhere and wiped off the blood as he again took a thin slice of flesh, removing my other tattoo. All the while the man with the camera took photos of every agonising second.
When they finished removing the tattoos I was getting ready for the final blow when suddenly the men stood up and walked outside the container, jabbering amongst themselves. I was totally fatigued and in shock and just lay on the floor where they left me. I could feel the blood running down my arm under my armpit and watched it pooling on the floor. My overalls were now completely soaked through from around my waist up.
As I looked up towards the entrance of the container I saw the men now with their balaclavas off looking through the photos on the rear of the digital camera. The man with the knife had my blood-soaked tattoos in his hand talking to Hadji Mohammed when the roller door opened up and a car drove in.
15
Intervention from Torture
The AK-47 Assault Rifle
The AK-47 is a semi or full automatic, gas-operated 7.62 × 39 millimetre assault rifle that was developed in the USSR and designed by Mikael Kalashnikov. Kalashnikov’s work on the AK-47 began in 1945. And in 1948 the fixed-stock version was introduced into active service with selected units of the Soviet Army. Even after 60 years AK-47 variants remain the most widely used and popular assault rifles in the world because of their durability, low production cost and ease of use. It has been manufactured in many different countries including China and Pakistan. More AK-type rifles have been produced than all other assault rifles combined worldwide. By the eve of the Invasion of Kuwait that led to the 1991 Persian Gulf War, the Iraqi Army was estimated to number 1 million men and every single one of them had an AK. Apparently Saddam liked to present cut away chromed AK 47’s with mother of pearl grips and gold inlays to his so called battle heroes and senior ranking staff.
The door closed behind them as the young man and the boss came into view. All of the other men including Hadji Mohammed went quiet all of a sudden as the young man went ballistic with Arabic abuse. One hell of an argument started up with everyone shouting all together. Even the goons were into it when the young man pulled a pistol from the small of his back and simply shot Hadji Mohammed between the eyes, blowing his brains out the back of his head and all over the drums. This instantly stopped the argument and the men just stood in disbelief as a large ocean of blood oozed out onto the concrete floor beneath his twisted body.
The boss calmly made a few demands of everyone in the warehouse and things started to happen. The goons dragged an old canvas tarpaulin over and placed Mohammed’s body on it. The young man came into the container and had a look at my wounds; he helped me stand and slowly walk outside and over into the toilet. He left me there to clean myself up and I heard him standing outside making a few calls on his mobile phone. I was very surprised to see how calm he was.
The only word I understood was ‘Yella’, which means hurry in Arabic. A short while later I heard the roller door open and swiftly close and a man dressed in an old suit walked into the toilet. I was now naked, holding my blood-stained overalls over the large open wounds on my left arm, trying to stop the bleeding. He called out something and a blanket was brought in by Wanker One. He wrapped it around me and took me upstairs into the office where we’d had tea the day before. The boss cleared off the desk and lay what looked like a dirty old curtain over it for me to lie on. The man in the old suit must have been a doctor and he quickly went to work cleaning my wounds. He spoke very good English and apologised for not having any pain relief other than paracetamol, which he gave me.
After the doctor treated the wounds on my arms he removed the bandages on my ankles and redressed them. When he was finished he looked at me and said, ‘You must understand. Not all Iraqis are bloodthirsty animals. Most of us have lived through generations of bloodshed and horror and want nothing more than peace. But some people have lived this horror for so long they don’t know any other way.’ As he walked out of the room the young man came in with some green tea and biscuits. He placed them on the edge of the desk and helped me stand then sit down on a chair beside the tea.
He sat beside me and said, ‘Hadji Mohammed had no right doing that. He had been told that he was to leave you alone. That you must be unharmed until you had the opportunity to make a public plea to the Australian Government. Now, unfortunately, the gun shot may have given away your location so you must be moved again to another place.’ He assured me that he was going to supervise the move personally so no more harm would come to me as long as I caused no trouble. I assured him that I was in no fit state to cause any trouble at all even if I wanted to. Incredibly I was left alone in the office while he went downstairs and had Wanker Two come and watch over me.
From the office I could see that it was getting dark outside as the goons that Hadji Mohammed had brought with him were cleaning up the blood from in and outside the container. I could clearly see the tarpaulin with their leader’s body in it still lying where it was placed. The roller door opened and the boss drove a car in as the door closed behind him. He got out carrying a small shopping bag and came up the stairs with the young leader of the group. When he entered the office he motioned to my guard that he should leave as he opened the bag and revealed a woman’s blue burqa and a pair of old shoes. He also had one of the men’s balaclavas with him.
The young man explained to me that if I agreed not to attempt to escape or draw attention to myself they would allow me to travel in the back of the car dressed as a woman; otherwise I would be bound and gagged and placed in the trunk. He made it clear that if I did cause any trouble along the way he would have no choice other than to shoot me. He pulled the same pistol he used to kill Mohammed from behind his back, showed it to me in an attempt to convince me that he was serious and tucked it back between his shirt and his belt in the small of his back, pulling his jacket over it in an attempt to conceal it.
Again I told him that I was in no state to do anything and all I wanted to do was comply with his request. Before I pulled the burqa on over my now naked body the balaclava was placed on backwards over my head so I couldn’t see anything. This thing stunk worse than the urine in my toilet drum downstairs. I made a statement to that effec
t that caused a chuckle from the young man; nevertheless it stayed on. The burqa and the old shoes went on and I was led blindly down the stairs to the waiting car.
As the roller door went up and I was sat in the back I heard a second car start outside. After we started up and began to move we stopped for a very short time beside the car as the young man gave some instructions. Not long after, we left the compound and made a series of turns and increased speed; I gathered we must now be on a highway of some sort. The men in the car were very quiet. I felt the tension caused by the sudden unplanned change of location and the possibility of driving into a police or army vehicle checkpoint. I doubted that I could be so lucky considering my past experiences so far. Then again I supposed that if the young man didn’t drive into the warehouse when he did I would surely be dead by now instead of Hadji Mohammed.
After about half an hour everyone suddenly gasped and made a short comment. The young man said quietly into my ear, ‘Be still and calm. When I tell you to you must slowly wave.’ As the car pulled to a stop I could feel the end of a pistol barrel pushed hard into my back beneath my ribs. The driver rolled down the window and greeted someone in Arabic. The person outside the car said something and the driver got out and opened the boot lid. My heart sank; I would have been safe now if I’d made trouble and been forced into the back as threatened. After a short conversation the driver rolled up the window and we drove off. I was directed to wave slowly to my left and I did so with a little convincing from the pistol barrel in my side. Unfortunately the gauze sewn into the front of the burqa, which women normally look through, hid the fact that I was wearing a balaclava. Arabic custom restricts men from talking to women when they’re with men and, most definitely, when they are wearing a burqa and accompanied by a man. After a while we drove off the asphalt road and onto a rough gravel road that seemed to wind through tight corners. As the car came to a stop my door opened and I was escorted out and into a building. The door closed behind me and I felt someone removing my burqa and balaclava. I stood naked other than my oversized shoes until a man passed me a pair of traditional baggy pants and an overshirt. He took the shoes from me and motioned for me to sit on a chair in the corner. Looking around I could see I was now in a dimly lit brick-walled room with a very old and peeling paint job. I could smell cooking from a room nearby and hear men talking in another room somewhere within the building.
Kicking Bombs Page 11