by Neryl Joyce
*
The next morning I was up before dawn. I met with the rest of the contingent going into Cambodia: there were medics, loadies, air defence guards, communications personnel and miscellaneous RAAF people. From the army, there was an artillery sergeant and a corporal who’d be accompanying me on the deployment. None of us could wait to get onto the aircraft.
We were standing around, checking our equipment and stores, when we were informed that our numbers had been slashed again. Now only one of us would be deploying. At this stage I had to ask why. It was explained to me that the Cambodian government thought a large-scale army operation would create panic. They wanted a small ‘footprint’: for all relevant civilians to be evacuated quietly.
So our trio was cut to a solo act. Only one person, from a detachment of forty, would be deploying to Cambodia – and that person would be me. They wanted me because of my security and policing skills, and because I was female. Civilian women and children were our primary concern. Who better to help them through the ordeal than another woman, especially one who could deal with security issues? That day, I thanked my lucky stars for being a woman.
When it was time, I stepped onto the aircraft. I was wide-awake. My senses were alert. The trip would take a couple of hours. I had to relax – calm myself down and enjoy the experience. This was an adventure.
THIRTY MINUTES TILL LANDING. I sat watching the clock, wondering how dangerous it would be on the ground. Although there seemed to be little chance of members of the local military acting aggressively towards our detachment, the Cambodian government could not guarantee our safety. We were not permitted to take our rifles into the country, as that was deemed far too antagonistic for an evacuation. I had my army-issued ASP baton concealed under my uniform, but it’d be useless in a firefight. I had complete faith in my commanders – well, perhaps not complete faith. I was beginning to understand how big a role publicity plays in operations such as this. In the end, I just accepted that the threat of weapon fire was low.
Two minutes till landing. This was it. Things were about to happen. I had no idea what I was supposed to do once the aircraft landed, but hoped someone in charge would tell me. We touched down. I couldn’t see anything as I was stuck in my seatbelt and nowhere near a window. My heart was pounding in my ears. Adrenaline was racing through my body. The rear of the aircraft opened slowly. Whatever I had expected to see, this certainly wasn’t it.
Immediately, there was the flashing of cameras. There were reporters and photographers everywhere. There must have been fifty of them, from CNN, ABC – all sorts of agencies. They came scurrying up to the aircraft like mice, pointing microphones, asking questions and shoving cameras in my face.
Fortunately, I was no one of any importance. I knew nothing; I said nothing. I scanned the area after getting off the aircraft. Phnom Penh airport was a train wreck. It had come under heavy fire during the coup, and there were rubble and rubbish littering the severely damaged buildings. There was limited security on the tarmac, as evidenced by the media scrum that now surrounded the aircraft, and no one on the ground who was visibly in command or control. Locals stood around gawking at the hoopla. There was no one around to send them on their way.
I looked around to see what everyone else was doing: loadies were tending to their duties; the air defence guards were trying to clear the tarmac to create a safe environment for the aircraft; other personnel were gathering their equipment. I stood there like a stunned mullet. I had not been given any chain of command to follow. It wasn’t clear who, if anyone, I should report to, as I was the only army soldier on the deployment. I knew I had to follow the rank structure within the detachment, but there was no one around to give me specific orders.
It was extremely unsettling: it meant having to find my own place in this operation. I was used to having my orders given to me. In the MPs, I was a lance corporal – at the bottom of the food chain. In this situation, I was the only link in the food chain. It was scary, but also very exciting.
After helping to unload the essential stores from the aircraft, I left for our base – if you could call it that. In fact, it was just a room in the airport. The windows had been blown out and there were glass and detritus everywhere. I looked around the room and checked all the adjoining doors to see if they could open. None did. Good, only one point of entry to be concerned with. I saw a group of air defence guards huddled in a circle. I walked over to investigate and heard their commander issuing them a set of orders. I listened in as they were assigned duties around the area. When the orders had been given, I introduced myself to the platoon commander. Together we were able to sort out a list of duties that I could perform in conjunction with his team.
I would be assisting the evacuees to board the aircraft at departure time. I would deal with any distressed civilians and other security issues as they arose. I was happy with that, but there would only be six flights leaving that day. That meant there would also be long periods of non-action in between. We’d have to ensure that the evacuees kept calm while they waited to be flown out.
First things first, though. As a chick in the army, one of my priorities when deploying is always to locate a toilet. Men tend to forget about issues like that, as it’s so easy for them to find a wall and just go for it.
I walked out of our base area and into another part of the airport. Pilfering and wanton destruction had left the airport in pretty bad shape. But the toilets were close by. Yes! My happiness soon turned sour. There was no power at the airport, so the toilet area was completely dark. I turned on my torch to make sure the ablutions block was empty. There was no bloody way I was going to walk on my own into a dark toilet in an unstable country.
The toilets were empty of people, but full of faeces. It was everywhere. The floor was covered in crap, piss and toilet paper. I gagged as I walked straight out of there and back to the base area. What the hell was I going to do? I was busting! No one else in the detachment really cared about my situation; it was the least of their problems. It was times like this I felt jealous of men.
I grabbed some toilet paper from my ration pack and walked back to the toilets. I’d just have to squat. I held my breath for as long as I could, and then breathed through my mouth so that I couldn’t smell the foul stench. I found a relatively unspoilt patch of ground and did my thing. I walked out of the toilet, relieved. I smiled wickedly to myself when I saw two female nurses walk into our base. They didn’t know what they were in for.
We were given approximate times for the RAAF aircraft to land and then transport the evacuees out of the country. I went to get a heads-up from the loadies on what their procedures were for getting civilians onto the aircraft and into their seats. They didn’t know how things were going to run, but said they’d let me know if they heard anything. No one had any concept of what would happen. This was going to be interesting. I couldn’t visualise how we could meet all the security requirements while loading these passengers on board.
Eventually, I was able to get some information from a RAAF officer. He told me that all the passengers would be brought out onto the tarmac, and it would be my job to guide them onto the plane. After getting them into their seats and showing them how to put their seatbelts on, I was then to check passengers’ tickets. It was better than not having a plan at all, I supposed, but I wondered whether someone should check the evacuees’ tickets before allowing them onto the military aircraft. I aired my concerns but was told that time was of the essence. The pilots did not want to be sitting on the tarmac for very long. They wanted to land, load up and then take off very quickly: a ‘turn and burn’ operation.
Our first load of passengers was almost due. Would they be scared? Would they act irrationally? I had just had to expect a little bit of everything. There was no known immediate danger to them; we were here to help. This was what the defence force was all about – helping our people. I was where I was supposed to be: here on the front line, giving my all.
A HUGE NUMBER
of people waited out on the tarmac: only some of them were the civilians we’d been brought in to evacuate. It was nearing noon and the airport was already crowded. I hoped the approved passengers were carrying their tickets, otherwise it would be impossible to distinguish the authorised evacuees from the would-be stowaways. The officer in charge showed me the type of ticket the approved passengers had to produce once on board.
Checking the tickets after the passengers were on the plane had sounded okay in theory, but, as I’d suspected, it worked like crap. There’s a reason tickets are checked prior to people getting on an aircraft. The civilians were led onto the Hercules through its rear opening. I took them to the front end of the plane and checked tickets as I made my way to the rear. The plane was crowded and there was so much going on. The first person I came to had an unauthorised ticket. As I signalled to an air defence guard to escort him off the plane, I could see that there were at least five more people nearby with fake tickets. The situation was ridiculous: I was evicting lots of people from their seats, but there were not enough military personnel to ensure that they were actually taken off the plane. The unauthorised passengers would simply walk two steps away, then sit down in a new seat, hoping I wouldn’t notice.
One of them got down on his hands and knees and begged me not to send him off. There was nothing I could do for him. As I attempted to escort him off, he struggled against my grip. He was a small man. My size and strength (and, of course, my pain compliance hold) were enough to overpower him. I called over an air defence guard to make sure he got off. There were still plenty more tickets to be checked. Then I heard someone telling me to hurry up.
Before I knew it, I was being told to leave the plane, as it was about to take off. I couldn’t believe it. I told the officer in charge that we’d evicted some unauthorised people, but there were still at least five on board who were not supposed to be there. It was to no avail: the pilots were on a deadline. They had to be off the tarmac.
I was fuming, and I let the officer know it. Well, actually, that’s a fib. I told the loadie, who then told the officer, that the tickets needed to be checked prior to letting the passengers onto the aircraft. I thought my advice would be far better coming from him, than from a soldier like me. The loadie had a higher rank than mine, and also an established relationship with the officer. Two hours later we heard that a big deal had been made over the fact that nine unauthorised people had managed to make it to Malaysia. It was no surprise to me.
The next aircraft arrived, and this time the tickets were checked before passengers were allowed onto the aircraft. There were no stowaways on this flight. However, the pilots were still exacting about their timelines. On the fourth aircraft out, I had to jump off the ramp while the plane was taxiing towards the runway. I’d been busy checking seatbelts when I felt the aircraft move: they were bloody well leaving before making sure all relevant personnel were off the craft. So I leapt off the ramp in spectacular fashion while waving all the passengers goodbye.
Later that evening, I was standing on the tarmac with two RAAF blokes. We’d been discussing the latest flight when some Cambodian soldiers drove by. On spotting us, they slowed down, and then their vehicle stopped about 20 metres away. We had been advised that we were under no threat so we weren’t too concerned. The soldiers must have been overdosing on testosterone and a sense of self-importance, though, because one of them then pulled out a rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) launcher and pointed it right at us. The three of us stood together, completely vulnerable: out in the open, unarmed. Our closest backup was at least 200 metres away, and no one had any weapons. My ASP baton was tucked in under my shirt, but it’d be pretty bloody useless against an RPG.
The soldier held it in our direction for only a moment before putting it down again. They drove off hurriedly, and we didn’t see them again. Did he really think he was a hard man, pointing his weapon at us? What a tosser! RPGs are notorious for discharging accidentally. I shudder to think what might have happened because some foreign soldier had been caught up in a pissing contest.
The final aircraft arrived at about 9 p.m. that night. It was raining. There was still no electricity at the airport, and only a few of us had torches. After escorting all the remaining passengers onto the aircraft and settling them in, I found my seat and sank into it. As we took off, the aircraft began to fill with smoke. Something was up. I looked around the cabin, but no one else seemed too worried. The smoke eventually dissipated. Hmm, I might have to enquire about that once we land.
We arrived in Malaysia late that night. I was released from duty shortly after landing, as I wasn’t needed for anything else that night. I returned to my quarters, pulled out my sleeping-bag, and crashed.
I woke feeling the sun on my face. It was a lovely morning. After brekkie, my day was filled with briefing commanders, intelligence officers and other members of the detachment on what had occurred in Cambodia. I was told that the white smoke I’d seen on the aircraft was in fact the result of the pilot’s releasing flares. The pilot believed that a foreign force had targeted the aircraft and that there was a missile lock on the Hercules. He engaged the anti-missile defence system to release flares, and some residual smoke had entered the aircraft. It wasn’t known whether the C-130 had truly been a target or if the pilot was just a little jumpy and acted prematurely. Whatever the explanation, it was going to make my story more interesting.
Later on, after a few beers, I started regaling the others with my glory stories. Instead of my jumping off the RAAF aircraft as it slowly started to roll, the story changed to my commando-rolling off the aircraft as it was lifting off into the air. The story about the tough guy pointing his RPG at us changed to a maniacal super-villain trying to take us prisoner and threatening to blow our brains out. And then there was my great escape on the last flight out of the country: the Cambodians were trying to shoot us down and the pilots were forced to release anti-missile flares so we could escape. All very exciting (and untrue), but what’s a war story without a little gloss?
BRUCE AND I EVENTUALLY got engaged and, in due course, I became pregnant. I was also selected to undertake officer training at the Royal Military College (RMC) in Canberra. Things were going great, both professionally and personally.
Bruce and I eagerly awaited the arrival of our baby. I was amazed and fascinated at what was going on inside me. I was creating life: a new little person who would come into the world. I couldn’t wait to be a mum; Bruce couldn’t wait to be a dad. We were going to be the perfect little family.
As the months went by, I no longer fitted into my camouflage army uniform and had to start wearing a maternity dress. I’d expected my stomach to grow, but I was shocked to find it wasn’t my only body part that changed. Suddenly I had a huge arse. My ankles swelled up, my face ballooned and ugly stretch marks appeared on my stomach.
I maintained a good fitness program throughout most of my pregnancy, but eventually I had to let it go. I couldn’t walk even the short distance between my desk and the office printer without having to take a detour to the toilet. But as soon as I felt my son move inside me, I knew it was all worth it. What was a little discomfort compared to getting to hold a little baby boy in my arms?
I worked right up until I went into labour. Bruce and I had just finished decorating the nursery. I collapsed into bed, and lay there for about ten minutes before I suddenly felt myself gushing liquid. My waters had broken! Straightaway, Bruce and I left for the hospital. Eight hours later our son was born.
Kane – ‘son of the warrior’. I was a warrior. Bruce was a warrior. The name was perfect for our son, my gorgeous little boy. I really took to motherhood. Having watched my mother breastfeed Naomi, I was completely comfortable with nursing my son. It was an intimate and special thing we shared: an experience that is hard to put into words. In the hospital bed, I held my baby in my arms, kissed him gingerly on the check and welcomed him into the world.
After that, life became a whirlwind. There were napp
ies to be washed, feedings at all hours and limited sleep. But it was glorious. It was fulfilling and rewarding, and most of all it was just great fun. My maternity leave was all too short. I took extra leave without pay. That’s when things started to get tough financially. We weren’t lacking in anything, but I couldn’t waste money on clothes and shoes anymore. We had to think of the future.
With great reluctance, I returned to work once my leave was up. It took a while to settle in again. It helped that I set myself a few goals. Determined to get my figure and my fitness back, I embarked on a rigorous training and diet regimen. I had 20 kilograms to lose and a fitness test to pass. With Bruce and my decision to move to Canberra so I could commence my officer training, I had a lot of work to do.
I worked my arse off – literally and metaphorically. I managed to lose the weight, but it was no easy feat. Chicken Twisties and Cadbury chocolate were my weaknesses. My fitness improved, and soon I was at an acceptable level. I was still no marathon runner (or sprinter, as it happened), but I met the required physical standards and that was what mattered.
At the start of the new millennium, we moved to Canberra so that I could study to become an army officer. I didn’t want to give up this chance to become an officer or give up being a mum. Somehow I juggled the two roles. Kane was ten months old when I started at RMC. I weaned him off breastfeeding a week before I started training, and Bruce took over his care during the day. Officer training was intense. It was definitely one of the most challenging times of my life: it was tactics, drill, PT, tactics, field exercises, tactics, defence writing and tactics. The days were long, and the nights longer. By day I was a staff cadet at training college, and by night I was a mum.