• I am only still alive because of the will of Allah.
• The body that lies on the floor in front of me is First Sergeant Benjamin Schroeder.
• He was an American murderer who was responsible for killing innocent women and children from his helicopter over the skies of Iraq.
• Any infidel who Allah bestows upon us will have the same fate brought upon him.
• You are reminded that all Australian troops are to leave Iraq and Afghanistan before the holy month of Ramadan or reprisals against the people of Australia will commence beginning with my own public execution.
• God is great!
As soon as the statement was finished I was lifted from the floor and taken to the rear of the mud hut into a small room with a squat toilet in the floor. The door was closed and I could hear a man standing outside talking to Negara. I decided to take advantage of the toilet and use it while I had the opportunity. Even though I had not had a crap for days I still found it painful and assumed the cause of the constipation must be related to my internal injuries.
No sooner had I given up trying to use the toilet when the door opened and Hadji Mustafa stood and waved to me to come out. He escorted me outside to an old pick-up truck beside a large pile of dried and salted sheep skins. In the back of the truck was a long box made of timber planks and pieces of plywood with holes drilled through the end that was up against the cab. Hadji Mustafa motioned to one of his men to tie me up although I quickly objected and showed him my wounds from the previous time.
He said something in Arabic and the men tied the rope tight around my elbows and chest leaving my wrists and ankles unbound. Initially I thought this was a good thing but as soon as I lay down in the box the rope tightened up around my chest and my broken ribs began to ache again. I tried to explain to Hadji Mustafa but this time he totally ignored me and the lid of the box was placed on top of me and nailed shut. I could hear the skins being loaded on top of the box; the more skins the more the outside noise was muffled.
Again I was inside what could very well be a coffin. Although I knew it wasn’t long ago that I’d thought I was going to die, I suddenly had another spurt of confidence and convinced myself that I was going to get out of this alive if for no-one else but my family. I started to think of what I would do if different scenarios arose. What would I do if we were stopped at a road block? Would I call out for help? Considering the amount of people I had seen within these groups wearing police and army uniforms could I expect to get any assistance even if I did? What would I do if I was placed back inside a hole or a container? What about my injuries? How would they hinder me? Obviously my ribs would stop me from running very fast and my wrists and shoulder injuries would slow me down in a one-on-one fight. What if I made a weapon like those made in prisons around the world? A shank to stab with or something with a sharp edge I could use to slash with? It seemed obvious that for some reason they never kept me tied up when they put me away. Obviously they felt that wherever they put me was secure and I had no chance of escape. This was an obvious advantage to me; possibly the only one I had and somehow had to make use of it when the time arose.
For most of the trip I could feel that we were travelling along sealed roads. At one point we swerved through some chicanes — what I perceived to be an abandoned road block simply because we weren’t stopped. Soon after the chicane I sensed that we must have entered a town or a city. I could hear the muffled sound of traffic and smell both the stench of open sewers and the aroma of streetside cafes. We often came to a stop and then took off again as if we were at an intersection or something and I could hear the traffic getting louder or at least heavier.
These smells and noises continued for what seemed to be ages. The intersections became far more frequent and although the traffic noise became less frequent the smell from the sewers was stronger. Suddenly we turned sharply onto an unsealed road. I could hear gravel being kicked up under the mud guards and the never-ending sudden jars from potholes reminded me that my bound chest still contained a heap of bruised and broken ribs.
When the truck stopped I breathed a sigh of relief and remembered all of the scenarios I had gone over in my head. The first thing I needed to know was where the hell I was! This would dictate what actions I could take when I escaped. Obviously I was in a city of some sort. I hoped it was Baghdad because of the huge amount of American and coalition forces based there.
I waited in anticipation for the skins to be removed and the nails to be pulled from by coffin so I could have a good look around. If there was electric lighting in the surrounding buildings there was a good chance I was in Baghdad as it had the only working power station. Although I had no idea what it was called I knew it was located on the side of the Tigris River beside one of the bridges still in use.
Finally the skins had all been removed and I felt the box being moved across the floor of the pick-up. I thought to myself, What the hell is going on? Why haven’t they started to remove these bloody nails? Then I felt the whole box being lifted and carried and a few men mumbling something. Bastards! There’s the first of my plans totally fucked. I couldn’t believe my bad luck. I just lay there in my coffin-like box in total disbelief, wondering what the hell was coming next.
19
The Iraqi American
Guided Missile Surface-to-Air SA-7B
Made in Bulgaria but designed by the Soviets. Many of these launchers were found in Iraq after the US invasion, but no rockets were with them. When we did find the rockets there were no launchers. This left us thinking that the Iraqis had used everything they had at hand in the early stages of the war and because their supply lines dried up quickly after the US crossed the borders they weren’t able to get resupplies before it was all over. Man-portable air-defence systems (MANPADS or MPADS) are shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles (SAMs). SAMs like the SA-7B are a threat to low-flying aircraft, especially choppers. The first missiles deployed in the 1960s used an infrared system to lock onto their targets. These first generation shoulder-fired SAMs are all dubbed as ‘tail-chasers’ because their seekers can only acquire and engage an aircraft after it has passed the missile’s firing location. At this point the aircraft’s engines are fully exposed to the missile’s seeker system and provides a sufficient thermal signature for it to lock on to. The reason that a lot of these first-generation SAMs failed to hit their intended target was simply because they were incredibly vulnerable to interfering thermal signatures from background sources, including the sun.
I could hear an echo coming from outside the box as if we were in a warehouse or large open room. Obviously I couldn’t see anything through the air holes in my box simply because they were behind my head. I did try but to no avail. The next thing I knew was calm talking, and someone removing the nails from the base of the box around my feet. As soon as it was open and I could clearly see light come through someone grabbed my ankles and, although I screamed like hell from the pain, pulled me out of the box onto the concrete floor.
There was a group of about a dozen men standing around looking down at me. Some were carrying AKs and some were wearing shoulder holsters with old pistols on display as if they were some sort of Iraqi mafia. All of them were wearing Western-style clothes — mainly jeans and T-shirts with imitation leather jackets. One of the men who I guessed to be in his mid-thirties gave an order to one of the men to cut me loose. As they did he lifted me up to my feet and looked me in the face and said, ‘Welcome to hell, princess,’ in a clear American accent. ‘These here men all belong to me and do exactly what I tell them to do. If you do anything other than what I tell you to do, they will kill you. If you ever try to escape they will kill you! If you ever try to fight us, they will kill you. Damn, man, even if you fart out of place, my men will kill you deader than road kill. Is that clear, soldier boy?’
I simply nodded and said, ‘Yes, sir!’ It was very obvious to me that this idiot was trying to make himself look all powerful in front of his little bunch
of misfits so anything I did at that time to upset him would result in me being punished, again so he would look good. I wasn’t going to give him the pleasure.
‘Most of my men here speak very good English so don’t use the excuse that you didn’t understand what you were told or we will open a huge can of whoopass on your lily white hide. Do you understand?’
Again I nodded and said, ‘Yes, sir!’
He looked at one of his men and told him to take me away to my new ‘accommodation’ and make me comfortable. The smartarse look on his face said it all. This bloke was a total fuckwit who had obviously run away to the USA scared shitless when Saddam was in charge. Then as soon as the US Army got rid of the old Iraqi regime and made it safe for him again he returned so he could look like the big man in front of those same people he’d deserted.
As soon as Baghdad fell in early 2003 thousands of Iraqi Americans like him fled back into the country any way they could to grab whatever they could. Most Iraqis had very little money or belongings and couldn’t get out so people like him coming from overseas had the advantage of cash and education to make themselves look good to the uneducated and mistreated Iraqis who remained under the iron-fisted control of the Ba’ath Party Government.
I was taken into a small brick room that had no windows, a concrete floor and concrete ceiling. A steel door with a huge steel hasp and staple lock on the outside was the only way in or out. A dull single light bulb swung from a perished two-strand wire from the centre of the ceiling. As I walked into the room one of the goons threw me a filthy pair of what resembled pyjama trousers and an old chequered business shirt. Each stank as much as the other, but they were better than the ragged pair of pants I was still wearing from the mud hut. After I got redressed I looked around and realised that the only thing inside the room was an empty 20-litre paint drum that was obviously my new en suite, and a rusty old drum full of dirty water. I sat in the corner thinking to myself, So much for my plan to escape!
All that night the light turned on and off as if it were connected to a city power supply. I knew Baghdad’s power supply throughout the city and neighbouring suburbs was very random, and turned on and off at least a dozen times a day.
20
More Torture
450kg Sub-Munition Cluster Bomb Unit CB470
Made in South Africa. The very first cluster bomb was a Swedish weapon made in the 1840s consisting of a bundle of grenades fired from a mortar. Iraq, like most countries, used these cluster weapons because they are extremely effective. There are many different variations of cluster munitions ranging from anti-tank, anti-personnel, incendiary, runway cratering and even specific bombs designed to deliver propaganda leaflets. This South African CB470 is nothing less than devastating. If there was ever a prize for the best bomb, this would be a medal winner. The main problem with cluster munitions is that they have an 8–12% chance of not detonating when they are supposed to; between the years 1964 to 1973 the United States dropped the equivalent of a planeload of bombs on Laos every eight minutes, and in 1996 it was estimated that there were still 500,000 tonnes of unexploded ordnance in Laos.
The next morning I was woken by the early morning call to prayer. We must have been located close to a mosque because it was extremely loud and clear. About 30 minutes later I heard some mumblings from outside my door and the sound of the big hasp and staple being opened. No sooner was the door opened than two goons I didn’t recognise came bursting into the room both swinging pieces of black PVC pipe. At first they started whipping me across the legs and then slowly moved up my buttocks and back. These things hurt like nothing I had ever felt before. I thought to myself, What else are these bastards going to do to me before they kill me?
They must have hit me a dozen times each when the American Iraqi came into the cell and they stopped. He looked down at me and said, ‘You’re coming with me, Mr Aussie man.’ The two men lifted their pipes up above their heads ready to strike again and gestured for me to get up. I did the best I could despite what had just happened but I still copped another couple of whacks across the back, just for the hell of it.
I was pushed into what looked like an open-floored abandoned factory and through another steel doorway outside into an open courtyard with a dried-up fountain in it. There was a high brick wall surrounding the area and at least a dozen scrawny-looking imported Australian gum trees scattered throughout the area. There was a wooden staircase leading up to the roof and I was quickly hurried up it with a whack from one of the pipes on just about every step. When I was finally on the roof I was pushed into another small, brick room.
As soon as I entered I saw the blood stains all over the floor and walls. All of the windows were covered with pieces of roofing iron. As well as the door which I was pushed through to get into the room there was another doorway in the far corner that had an old blanket nailed over it. The sound of what I thought was a TV or radio playing came from behind the blanket.
I was pushed onto the ground in the middle of the floor and the two bastards with the pipes tied my hands behind my back. The American Iraqi came into the room and said something in Arabic. One of the men disappeared through the blanket-covered doorway and soon reappeared with a rope tied with a hangman’s noose and an old wooden chair. As soon as I saw it I started to kick and shove everyone and everything I could, but all I got out of it was more floggings with the PVC pipe.
It was then that I decided to simply let them kill me and put me out of this misery. One of the men stood on the chair in the centre of the room and tied the rope around an old fan hanging high in the ceiling. He got down and smiled at me like he was getting huge kicks out of what was happening.
The American Iraqi came over and held his face an inch from mine as if to antagonise me more. ‘My name is Ali Qayumi, and today you either tell me the truth or I am going to kill you right here in this room! What do you think about that, Mr Aussie man?’
I looked at him straight in the face and said, ‘I think you will do whatever the fuck you want to do, you gutless piece of camel shit! I know that the only reason you have these two fuckwits in the room with you is because you know that you would be no equal to me alone so you have to bring in some brain-dead idiots to do your dirty muscle work for you!’
That didn’t go down well. He started screaming and carrying on in a mix of Arabic and English. The two men with him started hitting me over and over until I simply curled up into a ball on the floor, covering my head the best I could, and took it as it came. They stopped the bashing, stood me up and then shoved me back into the chair. One of the men went back into the other room and returned with a few pieces of tattered rope and tied me to the chair back, and my legs to the legs of the chair.
‘Okay,’ said Ali, ‘now you have shown how tough you think you are, we will start with the questions. You answer them truthfully and you will not be hurt; however, you lie and we peel the skin from your stinking body. First question, who do you really work for here in Iraq?’ ‘Oh, for fuck sake! I have told a heap of people all of this before; I am a civilian contractor disposing of captured ammunition.’
This only earned me another few whacks across the tops of my legs while Ali just stood there and shook his head.
‘Wrong answer, Mr Aussie man! You see, I know who you really are! The only reason you are now in my care instead of the camel herders you were initially with is because I have information proving that you work for an Intelligence organisation and your employment here is simply a cover. We don’t know which organisation it is; it could be American CIA, it could be the British MI6, or even the Australian equivalent, if they have one. Regardless, at this point we don’t know what information you are gathering, but by the end of this day you will have either told me who you work for and what information you are gathering or you will be dead. Your choice!’
‘Mate,’ I gasped, ‘you may as well just kill me now because I am nothing more than a civilian contractor. Where the fuck you got your information from is bey
ond me, but all I am is an ex-Australian soldier trying to make some fast money.’
One of the goons with the PVC swung way back and hit me so hard across the shoulder it knocked me and my chair to the ground. The other bloke came over and the two of them tilted me back upright. Ali just looked me in the eye and shook his head.
‘Why the hell do you do this to yourself, man?’ he said. ‘Just tell me what you know and we will stop the beatings. It’s simple, Mr Aussie man; tell me what we want to know and I will kill you mercifully. If you continue to be stubborn you will endure so much pain you will just wish you were dead. We can keep you alive for weeks if we want to, but we will punish you and we will get the information we want in the long run. So do yourself one last favour in your short life and open that hardass mouth of yours and tell us what we want!’
Although I knew it was going to be the wrong thing to say I just looked him in the face and said, ‘You can all go fuck your donkeys! You’ll get sweet fuck all out of me!’
The two of them just started swinging their pipes and whipping me over and over. The burning was unreal from each and every strike to a point where I must have passed out and soon after found myself locked back downstairs in my brick room with the steel door. I was so sore I couldn’t move at all. The only place I wasn’t hit was on my head and face. It wasn’t long before I passed out again. Thank God!
The following morning a little before dawn there was a major commotion outside in the courtyard. I could clearly hear at least three separate vehicles pulling to a halt inside the warehouse followed by a lot of commands being screamed by different people. In the background I thought I could hear someone mumbling in English then suddenly it was clearer; a man with an American accent was sobbing and pleading with them to stop.
Then the screaming started all over again. I couldn’t see what they were doing to him, but if they were true to their form and giving him the same treatment as I was given I knew he was in for a very long day. After about an hour of constant painful screaming the warehouse suddenly went quiet and I heard someone fumbling with the lock on my steel door. I dropped to the ground and curled up into the foetal position in an attempt to make them believe I was asleep or unconscious. No sooner had the door creaked opened than someone kicked me in my lower back so hard it rolled me over. The pain was so bad that this time I could do nothing but scream in a very low but agonising groan. I looked up to see a naked black man lying on the floor beside me. He wasn’t unconscious but from the amount of blood on his body I knew he wished he was.
Kicking Bombs Page 14