The Easy Day Was Yesterday

by Paul Jordan

  Another helo came in to take the RSM and CO back to AUSMED and was to take a load of casualties as well. Jon and I loaded up the ambulance and drove back to the helipad, a distance of 300 metres. The CO and RSM arrived and we sat there talking for a few minutes when I was called on the radio to bring the patients back as they were now going out on the truck. I was starting to get pissed off with this. We had so many people involved in this now that we were slipping into the quagmire of bureaucracy. When I got back to the CCP, I was told that room had to be made on the helo to get the journalists out. Okay, now the fuse was getting short. Fuck the damn journos, let them get into the back of the truck. Jon and I were filthy. Later, we realised that this story needed to be told to the world as soon as possible, so it probably wasn’t a bad idea to get these leeches out of here quickly. But maybe it would have given them something additional to write about if they had travelled with the wounded in the trucks for a few hours.

  Just before leaving the camp, Jon and I went to have a look at a man who was trying to hide in the Zambian long drop toilet. It is a clear indication of how bad things are when you need to drop yourself three metres down into a metre of piss and shit. He must have been petrified. I guess he thought that this was the safest place to hide.

  We left the camp at around 5.00 pm and spent the night at the Bravo Company position (the same place we’d met the second CCP the night before) which was only half an hour away. It almost felt like an early knock-off. We arrived at the Bravo Company position at 5.30 pm and were allocated a room where we could spend the night. The Bravo Company Commander was a big fellow with a massive fat arse that caused him to waddle like a duck. Jon and I retrieved our packs and food from the bin above the cabin and found ourselves a spot in the room. We made some chow with the bits and pieces from the French ration packs. After that, there wasn’t much conversation happening, everyone was just happy to get some sleep.

  On Monday 24 April we went back to Kibeho. Carol’s CCP was told to stay back at the Bravo Company position which understandably upset her, and George Donalec took his CCP into Kibeho. When we arrived at Kibeho, the CCP started to set up, and we saw the RPA carrying a recoilless rifle past our position in the compound. This thing was huge and was a clear indicator that we were in for an interesting day. Jon and I went to the hospital to gather some injured when we saw the recoilless rifle on its tripod pointing at one of the buildings which was said to house armed Hutu criminals. We later confirmed that there were armed Hutus in the building. We stopped and watched as RPA soldiers busied themselves siting the rifle. There were a number of UN observers at the rifle site trying to persuade the RPA to dismantle the gun. Captain McMahon was also involved in the negotiations. He told us the RPA had given us until 12.00 noon to clear the camp because they were going to fire the rifle into the building to kill all the criminals. The building was located in the courtyard and obviously the rocket would kill a lot of other people as well as destroying the building.

  Jon and I moved back to the CCP. They were setting up in the same place as the day before, but I told them to pack up because they and all the vehicles were in the line of fire. I thought the Zambians should have cleared the building days ago. The buildings clearly held members of the Interahamwe militia and should have been removed. The RPA was afraid to enter the courtyard for fear of being shot and was using the recoilless rifle as a weak way of clearing the building.

  Meanwhile, back at the Zambian compound, the Zambians pulled out two men who had been trying to hide in the shit pit all night. They were quite a sight. They had shit up to their ears, and toilet paper on their heads. What could Jon and I do but laugh — poor buggers.

  The Zambian Company Commander wanted to sweep through and force the IDPS out with the Australians alongside to assist, but we had to get permission from AUSMED Headquarters and, because everyone wanted to be in charge, we were 10 minutes late in helping the Zambians, which was embarrassing. The infantry spread out and Lieutenant Tilbrook tasked Jon and me to watch for snipers in the buildings. The infantry started to clear the rooms where the wounded were housed. The wounded were the only ones to be evacuated because the other IDPs had been told by the Interahamwe that, if they went with the white people, they would be killed when they reached their destination, and they thought it better to die where they were. We all tried to talk them into coming with us, but to no avail. We were all bloody frustrated that we couldn’t do anything for them because we couldn’t communicate our intentions clearly. The Interahamwe had themselves a human shield of frightened-for their-lives IDPs.

  At this stage about 20 reporters showed up to record what was happening. They were basically a pain in the arse. We’d be running towards the trucks with a kid slung over each shoulder and a fool photographer would step in front to slow you down so he could get his photo. We started to get aggressive towards them and, if they got in the way, we’d push, shoulder charge or kick them out of the way. In retrospect I realise the importance of their presence in reporting this so all the world would know about this barbaric massacre, but at the time we just trying to get as many kids out as quickly as we could.

  ‘Gun!’ Jon screamed for all to hear. A Hutu pointed an AK47 at us and he, in return, had ten weapons pointed at him. He quickly dropped his weapon and hid in the building. All the IDPs in the courtyard hit the deck screaming, which didn’t help our cause in persuading them that we were the good guys. I don’t know how the others felt, but I was tempted to shoot that bastard. I wanted someone to pay for what had happened here. I wanted to feel some revenge. These Interahamwe militants were just as responsible for the Kibeho massacre as the RPA soldiers. The militants had hacked their people with machetes and shot them with their AK47s and now ensured their protective shield remained around them. On two occasions we saw IDPs jumping down from the roof with weapons in their hands, but they weren’t being pointed at us any more. Why the fuck didn’t we just go in and kill them all? Jon and I with a couple of infantry lads could have quietly sorted this drama without too much fuss, and then gone back to the task at hand — saving lives. Fuck the UN and their rules of engagement!

  The IDPs handed us a lot of children, but they wouldn’t come themselves. I suppose they thought we would spare the children a horrible white-person death. I managed to convince a group of very frightened ladies to leave the camp, and I agreed to walk with them to a waiting UN truck. As I walked them slowly through the remaining people towards the trucks, another IDP approached them and convinced them that I was taking them away to be killed. I pushed this guy away, but he was persistent, so I punched him in the side of his head. Unfortunately, this confirmed for the ladies that I wasn’t the nice guy I was trying to pretend to be. The once saved turned around and went back into the courtyard. It was so frustrating. I just stood there in despair when two children ran to me, held my hands, and I walked them out to the Red Cross trucks. This gave me some hope in what seemed to be a hopeless situation. Others were standing around and listening to someone read from the Bible, or they were reading the Bible themselves. The only possession most IDPs still retained was an old Bible. Their faith was incredible, but then again what else did they have but some hope there might be a better life after their imminent death? How could this be? What greater being would ever allow people to be treated this badly? This was beyond inhuman and I can’t find a word to depict such indiscriminate, sadistic horror. Where was God in all this? I’ve seen thousands of people executed, butchered, mutilated and all said, ‘Please God, don’t.’ But God never intervened.

  At some stage before the deadline, I got a bottle of water and jumped into the back of the truck that held the IDPs who wanted to leave the camp. I passed the water around and nearly caused a riot. I had to get violent with some of the adults so the children could have a drink first. These people had not been given water for two days and had been drinking from water collected in tarps or off the ground. For food, some still had a little grain; others were digging non-digested corn f
rom shit lying all over the place. They washed the corn in the muddy water on the ground and re-ate it. That’s hunger! That’s how desperate these souls were. I found more water and they drank their fill.

  I took a group of infantry and we went to the hospital to see if any IDPs had gone there. We found two very pregnant women, some children and two injured men — one of whom could not walk. We found an old stretcher and the infantry stretchered the man out. I got the women walking and, even though they were having a lot of trouble, they made it out. The other injured man had been lying down for so long he had trouble getting up. I didn’t have the manpower to carry him, so I indicated that he had to walk. He pleaded with me with his eyes and hand gestures, but I just shrugged and we walked away. As I walked out the door, I turned and saw the old guy struggle to get to his feet and begin shuffling after us. He saw me looking on and smiled, so we waited until he caught up with us and together we all made our way to the trucks.

  The deadline to fire the recoilless rifle was getting close, so Captain McMahon told me to tell everyone to stay in the courtyard and within sight. He wanted everyone visible for a quick evacuation if necessary. However, the deadline came and went with the UN observers persuading the RPA not to fire the recoilless rifle.

  By now it was almost 1.00 pm, so Jon and I went to prepare the ambo for the trip back to Kigali. Our time in Kibeho was almost complete. The replacement crew was on its way and was only half an hour from Kibeho. To be honest, I was shattered. I’d had enough, but the job wasn’t finished yet. I never really understood how badly run the UN was. It is a dysfunctional organisation with no power. It’s directed by the Security Council, a group of old politicians from various countries who have no idea what really happens to defenceless people all over the world every day — the same defenceless people the UN is supposed to protect and help, but doesn’t. The UN didn’t help in Cambodia and the killing fields and last year they sat on their hands while almost a million people were murdered and wouldn’t give us the power to defend the people in this massacre; it’s a useless machine that’s nothing more than a waste of money.

  At1.30 pm Dominic, George, Shane, and Col arrived at Kibeho wide-eyed and ready to get their hands dirty. Jon and I showed them around and explained what had occurred. I was glad the entire evac crew had made it to Kibeho. The experience would be good for them, as it had been for Jon and me. Jon and I took a walk down to the documentation point to see how George, Kath and the new CCP were getting on. They had a lot of kids with them and appeared to be assisting the Red Cross. They had a few patients, but nothing serious. We said our goodbyes and, under command of Lieutenant Tilbrook, we rotated out of the camp. Lieutenant Tilbrook and his two infantry sections were relieved by Lieutenant White and his two infantry sections. There was a lot of resentment at leaving the camp because the job was incomplete, but we knew when we deployed to Kibeho that, if required, we’d be replaced on Monday, and so we were. Clearly, the command element of AUSMED wanted to get everyone through Kibeho to experience another side to their Rwandan deployment. Having said this, we certainly didn’t want to give Kibeho over to someone else. She was ours; we’d been through so much together, nobody could possibly know her like we did.

  We estimated that 4000 people had been killed over the weekend, probably — no, certainly — more; we didn’t count all those shot in the re-entrants. There was very little we could have done about that, but had we not been there to witness the massacre, then I believe the RPA would have continued with the killing until all the IDPs were dead. The RPA Major had a job to do in clearing the camp and killing them all probably seemed like the easiest way of completing the job. It must be remembered that, while the predominantly Tutsi RPA did kill thousands of people, 12 months before, the Hutus had killed almost a million Tutsi civilians. Today the Butare stadium had become an emergency treatment area full of Hutus, while 12 months previously, the same stadium had been full of terrified Tutsis. Maybe the RPA thought it was payback time. Who knows, and who are we to question this? Our job was to clean up the mess. It’s the UN Security Council’s job to question this, but they have no voice and this will eventually be forgotten.

  As we drove back to Kigali, with Jon driving and Carol in the back getting some well-earned rest, I reflected on what had happened to us. Where had the time gone? From Friday afternoon until now seemed like a blur. All of a sudden we were out of Kibeho and going home. I could only imagine how this would be reported to the world. Jon and I decided to record everything that had happened during our six days in Kibeho so we could send something home to the Regiment. We wanted them to have a clear picture of what had transpired. I pulled out my army notebook and started writing immediately. If I forgot something, Jon reminded me. ‘Don’t forget this; don’t forget that,’ he kept saying. The days seemed to blend together; it took both of us and Carol to place everything in order. After three hours, we had enough to type up when we got the chance back at the hospital — then it was time for some biscuits and pâté. Obviously we could only report what had happened to us and those nearest to us. So much had happened to each of the 32 people deployed — but that’s their story.

  Many people will ask why we didn’t stop the killings. To them I say that there were 32 of us and a battalion’s worth of RPA soldiers. We were good, but not that good. Had we shot an RPA soldier, the RPA would have eventually killed all of us, and then had a go at those still in Kigali. Believe me when I say that we all wanted to take action, and many times the RPA tempted us, hoping that one of us would shoot so they had an excuse to shoot back at us. We had to restrain ourselves to preserve our own lives and the lives of those around us. It was a decision easily made at the time, but one we will all live with for the rest of our lives.

  The 22nd of April 1995 will be a day that none of the original 32 people deployed to Kibeho will ever forget. We saw things that most people will never see, and should never see. We witnessed the brutal deaths of more than 4000 people, but continued to protect the medics so they could save those they could without faltering. The relationship established by those 32 members is one that will last a long time, and one that could not be explained to anyone and certainly not in this chapter.

  Many of those Kibeho Originals continue to suffer from the horrible memories of the massacre. These are professional warriors who left part of themselves in that camp that will remain there forever. Terry Pickard was one of those warriors. Terry penned an excellent account of Kibeho and the effect on him of the whole incident. Terry’s account is much more about what the group was doing, whereas my words centre on my own little world — what was happening around me. Terry’s problems are similar to many. In his book, he observes that I survived Kibeho because I was in the SAS. I would argue that it’s the other way around. I was in the SAS because I had the ability to survive Kibeho. That ability comes from a challenging upbringing, a strong influence from my mother and her survival genetics and superlative training at Campbell Barracks.

  21.

  NIGHTMARE DAY FOURTEEN

  I snapped out of that memory and asked Sanjay if I could borrow his razor. Sanjay’s face lit up as he replied, ‘Yyyeeeesss, Sir.’ But he insisted on shaving me, so he and the old man prepared things in front of my cage. Sanjay had a very old razor just like the one I was issued in the army. The safety razor blade sits on top of the handle and a top piece is screwed into place. Sanjay lathered my face perfectly then started. Oh fuck, I thought, but he seemed to be doing okay. He asked me to hold the mirror, but I said I didn’t need to. I just didn’t want to see myself as a caged man — strange, I know, but I just couldn’t look at myself. But Sanjay was struggling because my whiskers were now ten days long, so he removed the top piece of metal and turned the razor into a cut-throat. Oh God, here we go, this should be big. I insisted that I now take over and Sanjay reluctantly agreed, but when I mentioned that I’d never done this before, he insisted that he take over again. I let him do it and he did a great job. The only cut I got was fr
om when I insisted on doing my upper lip. Sanjay was pissed off that I had used the razor myself and really filthy with me when some blood appeared from the small shaving cut on my upper lip.

  The old man cleaned all the excess cream off my face and that was the end of that mission. It was probably one of my best shaves in years. I’ve had a smoother feel to my face though, but that was after having my face threaded in Iraq. I was on the job with Nicholas Rothwell, a great journalist from The Australian newspaper, in Baghdad and we went to the local barber shop to get an interview with some local people. I took an interest in this bizarre thing the barber was doing to this guy’s face and was invited to give it a go. I sat in the next chair and, when the barber was done with the customer, he rubbed some gel into my face. Nicholas picked up the tube and I asked what it was. ‘Lidnocaine,’ he replied in his usual articulate way.

  ‘Lignocaine, local anaesthetic?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, it seems that way.’

  ‘Oh shit, this could be big.’

  And it bloody was. The barber took two pieces of thread that looked like dental floss, and rolled them over areas of my face snaring small hair follicles, then violently pulled backwards, plucking about 200 small hairs in one go. Under my breath I was fucking screaming and wondered what the use-by date on the lignocaine was because it wasn’t working. After about five minutes Nicholas asked how it was going and, when I turned to look at him, the moisture building in my eyes was enough for him to get the idea and start laughing. But I tell you this; I didn’t need to shave again for about five days. It was the smoothest shave I have ever had, but hell will freeze over before I’ll do that again.