Mercenary Mum: My Journey from Young Mother to Baghdad Bodyguard (7 page)

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 nappies 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.

I’d escape the rigid training institution and return home to my son. I didn’t want Kane to forget who I was. Each night I bathed him, fed him and put him to sleep. As I lay with him to settle him down, I’d often fall asleep from exhaustion, not waking until my alarm went off at four in the morning.

I wanted to spend every spare minute I had with my family, and homework always came last. My alarm was set so I could work on my assignments before Kane woke up. At four in the morning it is hard to focus on the weapon characteristics of an Abrams tank as compared to those of a Leopard tank. No wonder I was struggling through tactics lessons.

Eighteen months later I graduated from the college. My parents had moved back to Newcastle, New South Wales, so they were now living close enough to come to my March Out parade. In July 2001, my father looked on proudly as I received my commissioned rank of lieutenant at our graduation ceremony. To top things off, I was placed ninth on the Queen’s Medal ranking for my performance during the whole course. Not bad for a mum, eh?

My relationship with Bruce had been put under considerable strain during my time at RMC, but at last things would go back to normal. After a lot of discussion, we thought it best that I join the medical corps as an administration officer up in Brisbane. It would be a job that allowed for a more stable family life.

In August I attended medical and logistical training in Wagga Wagga, while Bruce organised our move to Brisbane. The plan was that his mum would accompany him on the long drive north, and then I would fly up to meet up him once my course had finished. We’d bought a second-hand SS Commodore just before I left for training, and Bruce was eager to give it a good run. We had been allocated an army house in Brisbane to live in, but couldn’t move in straightaway because we had to wait for our furniture to arrive from Canberra. Hotel accommodation was arranged for us to stay in until it arrived.

I couldn’t get off the plane at Brisbane fast enough, expecting to see their happy faces at the gate. But Kane’s cheery face was all I got. I hugged and kissed him and held him in my arms. He was two and a half years old by now and fantastically adorable. I went to hug and kiss Bruce too, but he was standoffish – distant and quiet. His mother wasn’t with him; apparently she was off visiting a friend for the night. I knew something was up. On the drive home, the only conversation I had was with Kane.

I’d been away on the course for just over a month, and during that time Father’s Day had come and gone. When we had settled into the hotel room, I gave Bruce the gifts I’d purchased, including a card from Kane and me. He quietly opened the presents, before putting them aside. Kane moved off into his bedroom to play with his toys, and that’s when Bruce finally opened up: “I’m leaving. I don’t love you anymore.” I sat in shocked silence.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. We had bought a family car the month before. We had looked forward to a better future together. What the hell was going on? “I know things were tough while I was studying, but things are going to be better now. I’ll have normal working hours now. I’ll be Kane’s main carer now. We can focus on
us
now. We are supposed to be getting married,” I said. But Bruce just sat there, stony-faced. I kept asking him, “Why? Why are you going?”

All he would say was that he didn’t love me anymore. And that fucking hurt. He was being completely honest with me, but that was no consolation. I wanted to know why he no longer loved me. What had I done wrong? I argued that we should work on our problems first before just giving up – we should try for Kane’s sake, if nothing else. But Bruce would only say, “I can’t make myself love you, if I don’t feel that way.”

I knew we had grown apart. Our sex life had changed dramatically during my training, and my long hours and weeks away from home did us no favours either. I thought Bruce understood, though: he was a soldier too. Surely he recognised the needs of the army. During my eighteen months at RMC, I had focused most of my attention on Kane. He was a baby. He needed his mother. I thought Bruce could handle it, but I was wrong. I guess he needed me too.

Bruce had decided he needed to go his own way. He was happy with his decision. It was a big relief for him to finally come out and say it. But I was devastated – completely and utterly devastated. We were going to get married. We were going to make a new life together. It was all disappearing before my eyes. And, to top things off, I had to march into my new unit the very next morning.

I awoke the following day with a splitting headache. I didn’t want to face the world. My life was in tatters. Bruce, the man I thought I would grow old with, had dumped me. I was suddenly a single parent in a new town, and I didn’t know how I was going to handle it. Our furniture was due to arrive in a few days’ time, but now only Kane and I would be moving into the house. Bruce made arrangements to live in the soldier accommodation on base and sorted out Kane’s enrolment in day care. Everything was organised and planned from his perspective, but emotionally, I was a wreck.

And now I had to report for duty. I had to put on a mask and pretend that everything was okay. Even before Bruce dropped the bombshell, I had been nervous about my first day as a lieutenant. I’d been a soldier for eight years. Officers were smart. Officers were leaders. Officers always knew what to do. Now I was one of them.

I dropped Kane off at day care, reported for duty, did my job, and then came home. That became my life: work, look after Kane, work, sleep. Shortly after Bruce walked out of my life, I realised I didn’t want to be in medical corps. We had discussed my going back into the MP when I was at RMC, but dismissed it, as it hadn’t fitted in with our ‘family plans’. Everything had changed now. I wanted to be in the MP again. I applied for a corps transfer, knowing that it could take years to be processed.

For the next year and a half, I struggled along. Bruce was hardly ever in Brisbane as he was either deployed on operations or attending courses. He’d see Kane on the occasional weekend and talk to him on the phone, but, for the most part, it was just my son and me. I had no life outside of Kane. I wasn’t interested in going out and meeting anyone new. I wanted to concentrate on my son and make things the best I could for him. I always stayed upbeat around him. My pain was my own – just because I was hurting, didn’t mean that he should have to hurt too.