Kicking Bombs

by Barry Stevens

  I can remember hearing soft voices as I was coming out of the anaesthetic. It was incredibly quiet and even though I was still feeling groggy I had the feeling someone was watching me. I felt someone touch my arm and reassure me that I was okay as I opened my eyes. It was another female medic dressed in US cams; she quietly asked me if I felt okay. I nodded, closed my eyes and went back to sleep.

  At some stage later I woke up to the sound of a lot of people standing around my bed. It soon become obvious that it was a shift change and the oncoming medical staff was being briefed on my situation. As they were walking away the doctor I saw when I was initially brought in came over to me, patted me on the leg and said he was glad to see me looking better. He told me that there were a lot of people waiting to see me and wanted to know if I felt up to answering some questions in relation to what had happened to me. I assured him I felt fine and would be okay.

  It wasn’t long after that when the first of many groups of people turned up. What I thought would be a couple of people asking me a few questions ended up being an epic interrogation. It went on for days. It seemed as if every department of the American Government and the US Military wanted to talk to me. The frustrating thing was they were all asking me the same bloody questions. Then they would return a few hours later and ask me the same questions all over again. I knew that these questions were extremely important so I patiently answered them all. No-one wanted to catch these bastards more than I did.

  I explained to them about First Sergeant Benjamin Schroeder and what happened to him, and Dexter Day, and Hadji Mohammed and the young man who blew his brains out, but the questions almost always revolved around Colonel Safi and the man with the US Military uniform and American accent. I had the feeling they may have known who this bloke with the American accent was and they needed me to give them some concrete info so they could crew him over.

  About the only people who didn’t want to ask me a million repetitive questions were the Australian Embassy staff. They were great! All kinds of people from the embassy including the ambassador himself dropped in from time to time to say g’day, and brought me little gifts. I was assured that my family had been informed and that my story had made the Australian media. It seemed like I was to be a bit of a celebrity when I finally managed to go home. So I wasn’t ready for what happened next.

  27

  American Agencies

  Landmine Anti-tank SB-81, M/453

  Made in Portugal. The M/453 was copied by the Portuguese from the Italian SB-81, and is a plastic-cased minimum metal anti-tank blast mine dating from the early 1980s. Even though the initial design is old the basic working design of hasn’t changed over the years so they still remain very effective. This mine in particular uses an air pressure based fuse, which gives it protection against it going off prematurely by overpressure from any blast caused by an artillery piece or another tank’s main gun as well as anything detonating on the ground around it. It can therefore be regarded as a blast resistant mine. When a tank or heavy vehicle runs over them a huge directed blast blows the tracks off the tank and fires a plug of molten steel up through the hull resulting in molten scabs of steel showering the inside of the hull, killing everyone and often detonating any ammunition it comes into contact with. They cause fires inside the hull itself so if anyone is wounded or remains unconscious from the blast they are normally killed by the fire. This 230 millimetre mine weighs 3.3 kilograms and contains 2.2 kilograms of explosive content.

  I was lying in my hospital bed when three men dressed in suits came into my room and closed the door behind them. They introduced themselves as representatives of an American federal agency. I was passed a copy of an Official Secrets document I had signed when I was back at Fort Bliss during my training. I was told that I was not to discuss anything further with anyone other than them in the future. I was read a document stating that I was being taken into their custody to be transported immediately to an American hospital in Germany and that one of the men would be with me the whole way. I didn’t know what to say. All of a sudden I had gone from being totally relaxed and unstressed to being back in someone else’s control.

  Less than two minutes later a medical team came into my room and lifted me onto another trolley bed. I was wheeled through the hospital out into an open area where a Blackhawk helicopter with a large red cross in a white circle painted on its side was warming up its engines. I was loaded into the chopper and one of the men in suits got in behind me. The IVs that I was connected to were hooked onto a rack above my stretcher and a member of the chopper crew slammed the door closed at my feet as we lifted into the sky.

  During the flight the dude in the suit just looked at me and every once in a while peeked out through the window at whatever was below us. At one stage I lifted my arm and put my hand out to him as if to shake his. To my surprise he actually did shake my hand, but when I told him my name he kept quiet and simply nodded. Once! I thought to myself, How bloody stereotypical are these people? Like something straight out of a movie. An hour or so later we landed at Al Asad Airbase. I recognised it from my past trips to the area clearing unexploded ordnance. Again I was wheeled into a hospital area but this time it was an American field hospital completely constructed of inflatable tents.

  Something must have recently happened. There were people everywhere being treated for injuries of one type or another. The ward was packed with beds no more than a metre apart. Even though they were busy the medical team here were incredible. They were constantly coming over to me and asking if I was okay regardless of the huge amount of patients they had. To be honest, I felt guilty, as almost every person in there seemed to be in far worse condition than I was.

  Eventually a doctor and a medic came over to me and gave me an injection for my pain and redressed my wounds. The doctor told the suit beside me that I was to be flown to Germany in the next two or three hours. Typically he simply nodded, once.

  I will never forget the professionalism that was evident in that hospital. I actually witnessed two separate people having treatment to massive open head injuries. Apparently all of the operating theatres were full and the triage team had placed these guys down the list because their injuries were so bad that they weren’t expected to live. Therefore other patients with a chance of survival who needed immediate surgery took precedence over them.

  These medics and doctors were unbelievable. I saw one nurse assisting a surgeon while she was wearing a ballet dancer’s tutu over her cams and under her surgery gown. Every once in a while a pink frilly piece would poke out the back. She was also wearing a silver plastic tiara on top of her head scarf and mask. When a surgeon was operating on one of the head injuries someone walked past and patted him on the back, unbeknownst to him sticking onto his back an A4 piece of paper with ‘This wasn’t in the brochure’ written across it in bold black permanent ink.

  Although these people were witnessing the worst a war zone could ever throw in their faces, and despite the constant pressure placed on them 24 hours a day, they somehow found a way to keep themselves sane. I will never forget them and could never praise them enough. I hope these horrific memories never catch up with them in the future. A few hours later I was loaded onto a C17; basically a bloody huge aircraft that can actually fit a complete Hercules C130 with its wings removed inside its massive fuselage. My stretcher was lifted up and locked into a frame running down the side of the fuselage. I estimated there must have been at least 200 of us loaded into the belly of this beast on stretchers alone and at least the same number walking on, including my babysitter in the suit.

  While we were airborne another medical team looked after us. I was given some more pain relief and had my IV drip replaced. I was still connected to a series of machines that were fitted to a frame attached to my stretcher above my legs. Every once in a while a medic came over and had a look at the readings and noted them down. Soon after I received the injection for my pain I dropped off to sleep and didn’t wake up until we were landin
g.

  28

  Landstuhl Military Hospital, Germany

  Guided Missile Surface-to-Surface SM-39 (EXOCET)

  Made in France. During the Iraq–Iran war, on 17 May 1987, an Iraqi fighter jet fired Exocet missiles at the American Frigate the USS Stark. Thirty-seven United States Navy personnel were killed and twenty-one others were wounded. Considering the US was supplying other ammunition to Iraq at the time to be used against the Iranians and that they’d ‘loaned’ Iraq $5 billion dollars to go towards their war effort against Iran they probably weren’t happy to be shot at themselves and never got their money back. Many Exocets found after the US invasion were still in the original packing cases in as-new condition. How do countries like Iraq get their hands on such hi-tech weapons like this? And why would the French sell a weapon like this to Iraq?

  When the plane had finally come to a stop and turned off its engines the rear ramp opened and we were unloaded through the huge tail opening and onto buses. I remember how these buses were exactly the same as the ones used on the MASH series. Our stretchers were hooked onto the sides of the buses and as soon as we were loaded we all left the airport in a large convoy out onto the open German highway. We had US Military Police and local German Police escort vehicles with lights and sirens all the way. My babysitter was never far from me and kept an ear open every time anyone came near me. When we arrived at the hospital bells rang out and people came from everywhere. It seemed as if everyone who worked at the place regardless of their position wanted to be a part of helping to get the wounded off the buses. It was as if it was an honour to assist in some way. Anyone who didn’t actually have hands on a stretcher was standing at attention and saluting.

  It was a heartwarming moment to say the least. These people, way over in Germany, thousands of miles from Iraq, showed each and every person coming off that bus that they had pride in what they had done and recognised the price they had paid.

  Then it all ended. Some wanker with two other wankers close behind him, all dressed in the same style of suits, came up to the orderlies who placed my stretcher onto a trolley, shoved there ID in their faces and told them to bring me and follow them. It was just the way they did it that pissed me off. It was as if they had some sort of paranoid nobility thing happening and no-one was as important as they were. I looked up at the orderlies and said out loud, ‘Men in black’! Each of them had a little chuckle and smiled back at me.

  I was taken into a single room and the medical orderlies lifted me from my trolley across onto a hospital-style bed. One of them hooked up all of my gadgets and IVs while the other filled a water jug for me. All of the time my three shadows watched me from near the door. As soon as the medics left, the bloke who was obviously in charge of the dickhead squad walked to my bed and reminded me that I was not to discuss anything other than my injuries with anyone. I was told that a man would be placed outside my door 24/7 and that I was not permitted to have any visitors or phone calls.

  That was it! I went right off the fucking handle and called them everything I could think of. I had just lived through complete hell. I had no idea how long it was since the day we were shot to pieces and taken hostage and now it seemed like I was being placed under arrest and treated like shit by the very same people I thought would be my saviours.

  I demanded to see someone from the Australian Embassy. They just looked at me with total blank dumbfuck faces as if nothing I had just said meant anything to them and simply walked out, closing the door behind them.

  A few hours later with no-one but the odd US Military nurse coming and going through my room, a small group of people all dressed in black suits came into the room. I could see them walking up the corridor through a small louvred window. The goons standing outside my door must have recognised them because when these guys got a few metres from the door they acted like typical subordinates and stood to attention, opened the door and greeted each of them individually as ‘Sir’!

  When the entourage was all in the door the goons outside closed it and stood blocking everyone out, including the medical staff. There must have been eight or nine people crammed at the foot of my bed. One of them, I suppose he was in charge simply because he was the only one who spoke the whole time, introduced himself as Bob. No surname, just Bob. He told me that he and the others represented an American intelligence organisation, but he didn’t say which one.

  He then began to rave on that he was personally instructed by Lieutenant General Ricardo Sanchez himself to pass on his regards and how he believed it was only my cunning, ingenuity and steadfast resolve (whatever that was supposed to mean) that enabled me to emerge alive from what must have been a horrendous series of events. I was completely dumbfounded; I didn’t know what to say. If it was an Aussie group greeting me it would simply have been ‘Well done, mate’ and pats on the back.

  Bob then explained to me that many people had been looking for me since the day I had been captured and that they believed someone from inside the Iraqi Military intelligence organisation assisting the US forces in the investigation was assisting my captors. This was an obvious attempt to place the blame of not being able to find me on someone else.

  He explained that over the next few days some of these men accompanying him would be in to ask me a series of questions in order to assist them in finding out who was responsible for my capture. I smiled and said, ‘Well, there are a few of them under a bloody big pile of bricks in Baghdad down by the river.’ I managed to get a very short-lived smile out of him and the others.

  He then introduced me to a man standing in the back of the room as Norm. Norm was going to contact the Australian Embassy and arrange a visit by a representative. Bob again congratulated me and they all walked out the door, blindly following the leader.

  That night I was given a heap of sedatives and slept like the dead. Apparently the nurses came in every once in a while to conduct their obs and I just kept on snoring.

  After breakfast the next day, three uniformed air force investigators, one of them an elderly woman with a Major rank on her shoulder flashes, and two others with more stripes than a zebra, spent a few brief hours with me until an Aussie lieutenant colonel was escorted into my room by another man in a suit. You have no idea how bloody happy I was to see him. I suppose it was simply because I was so relieved to see him that most of what he said went in one ear and out the other. He’d flown in that morning from the Australian Consulate General in Frankfurt. It pisses me off now that I can’t remember his name. We spoke for hours; I gave him a basic rundown of what had happened to me and how I managed to get away. Anyway, he reassured me that everyone at home had been told that I was okay and safe in a German hospital and that the consulate would arrange my return to Australia once the doctors gave me the all-clear. I insisted on first class but settled for business. He apologised that he had to head off but assured me that he would stay in touch while I was there.

  After lunch the three investigators returned but this time they had a video recorder on a tripod and set it up at the end of my bed. They formally introduced themselves to the camera, stating my name, our location, the time and date and the reason for the interview. Fuck, I thought. I’ve done something wrong!

  For a while all of the questions they asked me were the same as they had asked before the lieutenant colonel visited, but I answered them and just went with the flow, telling them everything in as much detail as I could. I started with what happened at the initial attack on our convoy, brushing the thought of my mate Tripod from my mind and how I was going to face his mum when I got back to Australia, and worked on from there. For hours and hours we went on and on. They continually stopped me and asked for more detail on whatever I was telling them at the time. I realised they were just being good at their job and getting as much info out of me as they could. They especially concentrated on descriptions of the individual Iraqis I came across and as much detail as I could remember about the locations.

  They wrote down everything regard
less of the fact that it was all being recorded. They were especially interested in the different methods I had been transported from place to place and the English-speaking bastards who were involved.

  We talked well into the afternoon and only got a few days into my capture. I was starting to feel like crap so they relented and told me they would return the next day.

  That night I received a few bunches of flowers from friends and relatives from home as well as a basket from the Aussie ambassador himself. I have got to admit, I’m not a flower sort of a bloke, but getting them was as if someone had come into my room and taken away all of my stress and anxiety. Those flowers basically proved to me that it was finally all over.

  Different pairs of suited goons were still permanently standing outside my door. I tried to get them to come into my room so I could ask if I could call home, but they pretended not to hear me. At one stage one of the nurses commented that I must be very important to have a permanent protection party assigned to me. I tried to quietly explain to her that they were there so I couldn’t receive any unauthorised visitors or phone calls. While she was changing my dressings and cleaning the infections she quietly told me when her back was to the door that everyone working on the ward was ordered not to discuss anything with me and that under no circumstances were they allowed to give me a phone or internet connection. She pretended to drop a pair of plastic pair of tweezers from a tray onto the floor and as she rose from picking them up whispered, ‘What did you do?’