by Neryl Joyce
Then came the incident that prompted me to act. Joe’s ex-girlfriend, Carla, was dating one of his close dope friends, Jake. They were at our house, once again smoking. Carla was five months pregnant. Although she was a regular dope smoker, she’d cut down quite a bit since finding out she was going to have a baby.
At some stage during the night, Jake and Carla got into a fight. Then Jake started hitting Carla. I told Joe to stop his friend. I was concerned for both Carla and her unborn child. I could tell Joe was uncomfortable, but he simply said that he could not interfere with what his “bro” was doing. It was “none of his business”. Carla fell to the ground and curled up, trying to protect her stomach. Jake then kicked her. I felt sick. I couldn’t stand by and let this happen. Jake was a big man with a fierce temper, but I didn’t care.
I shielded Carla’s body with mine. I felt Jake’s foot connect with my back. I groaned. It was at this point that Joe finally intervened. Things calmed down, and Jake left. Carla was crying and thanking me all at once. I told her she needed to go to a doctor to get herself and her baby checked out. She assured me she would but that she really wanted to see Jake. I couldn’t believe that she was considering going back home to him. He’d just abused her. But several minutes later she left to find him.
I was shell-shocked. Joe had stood by and watched his mate beat up his ex-girlfriend. He had only reacted because I’d literally thrown myself into the fight. How could I love a man who could witness that and do nothing?
The drugs had changed Joe completely. He used to be a fun, sporty guy. Now he was someone with no motivation or self-respect. All he cared about was getting his dole money and spending it on drugs. All of his mates were the same. They bludged off the dole, bludged off each other and their loved ones, and their plans didn’t extend beyond smoking weed until they passed out on the floor. I realised that Joe would never change.
I was trying to be a good person, sticking by Joe through the rough times, but this was ridiculous. I was working at Woolies, failing uni, doing my army service and supporting Joe and his drug problem. Two years had gone by and I was a shadow of the person I once was. I was going nowhere.
I decided to make some changes. Joe returned home late one night after smoking and drinking at Jake’s place. He looked at me and could tell that something was up. He asked me what was going on. I told him that I was going to become a career soldier and join the army full time. He looked at me in horror, as though he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
Now it was Joe’s turn to beg: he implored me not to join. He pleaded with me to keep on working at the Woolies’ check-outs. I told him that I wasn’t leaving him: he’d be coming with me. I explained that this was our chance to start over, to get away from the dope scene and the bad crowd in Cairns. But he wasn’t happy. He was afraid that I would leave him once I joined the army full time. I tried to reassure him that it wouldn’t happen, but I knew deep down that he was right. Perhaps that was why I was so determined. I knew that spending time in the army would give me back my dignity and self-respect. I knew that if I worked hard and interacted with good, loyal friends that I would regain the strength to dump this loser and get on with my life.
And then I realised I didn’t even need to wait till then. I was finally strong enough to tell Joe that I thought he was a useless, drug-smoking, dole-bludging waster who should be deported. I told him that even though he thought of himself as some kind of Maori warrior, boasting about his fights and cunning tactics, in reality he did nothing but disrespect his culture and the people he loved.
Two years of my life had been wasted on a good-for-nothing druggie. And as much as I blamed him for his addiction, I blamed myself, too, for not having left him sooner. I found myself thinking about Carla, who stayed with Jake after he beat her up. Joe might not have physically abused me, but it was emotional abuse. How could I have let him lower my confidence so much that I wasn’t able to leave him? Was I afraid that no one else would love me, that I wasn’t good enough? Was I a victim of ‘treat them mean, keep them keen’? Or maybe I just foolishly believed I could save him from himself.
Whatever the reason, I was finally able to break free of his hold. I was going to make a fresh start. No more worrying about drugs. No more loser boyfriend. No more financial worries. No more university. No more of the old life. The real me was busting out. I felt like a butterfly finally escaping the confines of a cocoon. Freedom at last!
MY LIFE WAS back on track. The army accepted my application to transfer to full-time service; however, I was required to attend the MP basic course again. I thought it was a waste of time, as I’d already completed all the reserve components of the course, but if I had to do it again, so be it. In the end, I just considered it a good way of cementing everything I knew.
I was excited and motivated, keen to do well in the course and to enjoy myself at the same time. The MP course was to be conducted down in Sydney over three months, with the first part devoted to participants getting their military driver’s licences. I already had my licence so I went along as a helper and general dogsbody. I was happy to be there; I felt confident that I had made the right decision about what to do with my life.
What happened next was the very last thing I’d been looking for. I literally fell for Bruce. I was using a payphone on base to call my mum. When I’d finished talking, I stepped out onto the pavement and nearly ran into this guy who was waiting to use the phone. Because I’d stopped so abruptly and then misjudged the step down out of the booth, I tumbled over, landing ungracefully on the ground. I twisted my ankle in the process and felt like an absolute klutz. What an impression I must have made. Bruce helped me up and then took me over to the medical facility, and the rest is history.
I’d had so much stress and worry with Joe, I wasn’t sure I could go through all that again. But when it came to affairs of the heart, I was absolutely hopeless. I don’t know what it was that attracted me to Bruce the most. Was it his blue eyes and cropped blond hair? Or his exceptional sporting abilities? I think more than likely it was that he was not a drug-smoking, dole-bludging liar. Bruce was a normal guy. He did normal things like work, ring his mum, play sport and have two-way conversations. I wanted normal. I craved normal. And that is what I got.
I studied hard throughout my MP course. I wanted to prove to myself that I could concentrate on my studies while having a relationship. Well into the night, I’d be up memorising paragraphs of text, word for word. I aced all my tests and kept on the instructors’ good sides. In fact, I even started to get a little full of myself.
One of my instructors, Leo, was an incredible athlete. He was an awesome runner, boxer and rugby player. He was known as Leo the Legend. He was a great instructor with a terrific sense of humour, but his best quality was his ability to motivate others. Each day at PT he would wear this cap that had the word ‘coach’ emblazoned on it. He was proud of his cap because the rugby team he was coaching at the time had presented it to him as a gift.
One day, Leo left his cap in our dining hall. It is customary to take off your hat in an army dining hall and place it on a rack. On this particular day, he forgot to retrieve it after he’d finished eating. It was then that I hit on a plan: the cap would be held for ransom. I grabbed the hat from the hook and hid it in my bag.
When classes were over for the day, I conspired with my course mates. Together we taped a sign with the word ‘slow’ to the cap so that it read ‘slow coach’ – a swipe at Leo’s running ability. We took photos of the cap at various places around the base, and then wrote a ransom note to Leo: “We have your hat! You’re not getting it back.”
Over the duration of the course we sent photos of Leo’s hat to him. His cap went to Manly Beach; it found itself at nightclubs, pubs, restaurants and out on our final bush trip. Towards the end of the course, Leo and the other instructors came into our classroom to inform us they were going to conduct a room inspection. We all knew that what they were actually attempting was a search
-and-rescue mission for the cap. The instructors left to attend to some admin. Meanwhile, we were forbidden to leave the classroom.
As soon as the instructors left, I told everyone that the cap was sitting in plain sight on my bed. As soon as they entered my room, the game would be up. My mate Warne said he would race to my room, grab the hat and hide it. I didn’t think he’d make it in time. He grabbed my room key, sprinted off and got back thirty seconds before the instructors walked into the classroom. He’d done it!
The instructors conducted the inspection but did not find the hat. They threatened to detain us until the cap was released, unharmed. I could see a couple of my course mates were about to break down and reveal all (they would have missed out on an episode of The Simpsons or something), but the instructors ended up letting us go. The search only fed our appetite for fun. We stepped things up, sending him ever more outrageous letters and photos.
On the final day of the course, my friends and I relented. We stuck copies of all the photos we had taken onto a board, which we presented to Leo. We thanked him for his instruction and guidance during the course, and then, finally, gave him back his cap. He was touched. He put up the board in his office. We would be remembered as his favourite ever students. (Okay, I made up that last bit, but I’m sure he had a soft spot for us in the end.) I had got so much out of the MP course and, to top things off, I was named the student of merit.
I was surprised but happy. I’d studied really hard and done well on all my tests. I’d gone from being a Woolies check-out chick with a deadshit boyfriend to being my course’s top student, with a promising future and a normal relationship.
In addition, I had been given my posting order: Townsville. I was ecstatic. Not only did it mean that Bruce and I would be working near to each other, but also I’d have the opportunity to join the rapidly deployable force. I loved the idea of deploying at short notice to unstable countries. It didn’t particularly worry me that I was the only woman in the MP platoon. In fact, it would come to work in my favour.
IT BEGAN WITH a knock on my door. I’d just finished getting dressed in my PT kit and was about to head off to work on my trusty pushbike. I opened the door to see Butts, a colleague who also lived in the dormitory. He told me he’d just received a phone call from the platoon commander. I didn’t own a mobile phone at the time, so the platoon commander had rung Butts to pass on a message to me ASAP: I was to report to 4 Field Regiment (4 Fd Regt) in fifteen minutes’ time.
Whoa! What was going on? Butts had a car and told me he’d give me a lift there. I quickly changed into my uniform and jumped in his car. He drove through the 4 Fd Regt gates and dropped me off in front of the main building. I got quite a few curious stares from unit members; my bright-red beret made it difficult for me to blend into the surrounds. Luckily, I wasn’t there for long before more MPs turned up. The second-in-command of my section, Corporal Murphy, and another section member, Corporal Monroe, entered, making us a party of three. They had also been told to report to 4 Fd Regt, and did not know what was going on either.
Murphy went into the headquarters and motioned for us to follow him. We sat down at a table inside a briefing room. Within a few minutes, the room was filled with various artillery commanders. We were then told to prepare ourselves for immediate deployment to Cambodia: we were going to assist with evacuating Australians and some foreign nationals from the country.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I was excited to say the least. I had only been in the unit a little more than a month, and now I’d be deploying on a real operation. I didn’t have a clue what was going on in Cambodia. I’m not sure I could have even pointed to it on a map. Geography had never been my strong suit.
After the briefing, the three of us returned to our unit and immediately began sorting through our field equipment and personal issues. Our operation was deemed secret so we were only allowed to inform our families that something was going on and that we were required to deploy somewhere at short notice. I rang Mum to let her know I was going away, but that I couldn’t tell her anything about it. I told her to watch TV and put two and two together. I then rang Bruce to let him know the same.
At 9 a.m. that same morning we had to return to 4 Fd Regt with all our kit. We were then issued additional equipment: Kevlar helmets, body armour, ration packs and so on. By then, I had listened to a few radio reports. The Cambodian Second Prime Minister, Hun Sen, had launched a coup against the First Prime Minister, Prince Norodom Ranariddh. The country had subsequently fallen into chaos. We were to be part of the team sent in to help evacuate approved civilians.
This was the reason I’d joined the army. I wanted to help people. I wanted to do something for my country. I was going to be part of something that counted for more than just meeting a Woolworths ‘key performance indicator’, like grocery-scanning speed or whatever. This was history. I was going to play a role in it.
The day wore on. There were more briefings, intelligence reports, equipment issues and a lot of waiting around. At lunchtime, I met more of the artillery detachment we would be deploying with: there were about forty soldiers all up. I knew that my job would mainly comprise looking after security issues such as searching people before they got onto the military aircraft and access control of our command base. I hadn’t received any formal training on evacuation procedures, and there was no doctrine available about these kinds of operations (or at least none that was made available to me), so I began to pump Murphy for information. What kind of procedures did we follow before allowing civilians onto our aircraft? What was our screening process? How thorough were our searches? What did we do with dangerous or unstable evacuees? What were our rules of engagement?
Murphy did his best to answer my questions but seemed to think I was asking too many. It might sound corny and maybe even ridiculous, but I just wanted to do as professional a job as possible for my corps and my country. I’d gone from having a dead-end job and a lazy boyfriend to a life that involved rescuing people from possible harm. I wanted to be as well prepared as I could.
By mid afternoon, we had deployed to the Amberley RAAF base to await our flight to the base in Butterworth, Malaysia, where we’d run the operation. It was there that the stories of previous failed deployments began to surface. Corporal Monroe recounted how he’d sat at the very same airport, waiting to deploy to PNG for an operation. They’d been sitting on the tarmac, waiting to get on the aircraft, when the deployment was stopped.
I hoped and prayed that this would not happen to us. While we waited, we were given briefings as new information came to hand. At this stage, all forty-odd of us would be deploying to Cambodia to conduct a full-scale service-protected evacuation.
At eight o’clock that night we were still sitting on the tarmac. The C-130 plane scheduled to fly us to Darwin kept being delayed. It was driving me nuts. I just wanted to get on the plane and go. I curled up next to my webbing and tried to get some sleep. I’d only closed my eyes for a few minutes when we were suddenly hustled awake. The Hercules aircraft was about to land.
It was 2 a.m. by the time we arrived in Darwin. We were hurried out of the aircraft and taken to the transit lines for the rest of the night. Murphy and Monroe were still sceptical about our actually getting out of the country, but I remained positive. I gathered up my equipment and headed to our accommodation. They were small rooms, but they were air-conditioned. I slept like a baby.
At 6 a.m. everyone was up for breakfast. We were scheduled to depart for Malaysia at 10 a.m. I feasted on pancakes, Coco Pops and strong coffee – I didn’t know when my next decent meal would be. Feeling full and slightly sickened by what I’d eaten, I headed back to my room to pack up my kit. It was there I heard that only twenty personnel from the army contingent would now be going to Cambodia to assist with the evacuation. The rest would remain in Malaysia to help with the processing of the evacuees. Murphy told me that he and I would be the only MPs going to Cambodia.
Ten o’clock came and went
. Our kit was put on and taken off the aircraft until the RAAF loadmasters (‘loadies’) were happy with the weight displacement on the aircraft. At about 1 p.m. the media turned up and their cameras started rolling. Operation VISTA had finally been announced to the Australian public.
The commanders dealt with the media while the rest of us boarded the aircraft. Things were getting exciting again. We were finally on our way. God, it felt good. I savoured the feeling and walked onto the plane with my head held high.
Now, a Hercules aircraft is not like your conventional Qantas jet. There are no comfortable seats, the lighting is limited, and the toilet is hidden only by a flimsy curtain. Everyone sits squashed up together on cargo-netting seats, wearing hearing protection because of the engine noise. That didn’t stop me from sleeping the full nine hours it took to get to Malaysia. As soon as we were permitted to remove our seatbelts, I found a vacant bit of real estate and crashed out.
By the time we arrived at Butterworth it was 10 p.m., but the night was not over. There were still intelligence briefings to be given, official passports to be issued and deployment administration to complete. We were also told the news that the detachment would be downsized again. Now only three army personnel would actually deploy to Cambodia the following morning. I didn’t know why they kept decreasing the number, but I didn’t care too much at the time: I was one of the three selected to go ‘into country’.
Although I didn’t understand what was happening, I was in no position to air my concerns. I was only a lance corporal. This was a RAAF-led operation and the boss was a wing commander. I just accepted that he was my superior and knew what he was doing. That’s how it goes in the defence force. Still, I couldn’t comprehend how three army personnel were going to screen, search and contain all the evacuees.