Little Tim, Big Tim

by Tim Roy

  Barry takes the first rotation of being awake through the daylight hours in case of enemy activity. An additional patrol task is to ensure the sleepers move into the shade as the earth rotates through the sun’s orbit from east to west as it is easy to become dehydrated when sleeping in the sun, which of course will then render you useless. I’m absolutely shagged, so am able to sleep in temperatures ranging between forty and fifty degrees. Due to exhaustion we will all sleep soundly until it’s our turn.

  My shift is at the end of the day and as the sun dips over the range that is our next destination, I wake the other lads and everybody packs up their gear.

  Andy, acting as scout, moves off, followed by Jim and then Barry. I follow Barry’s footprints into the dust. Phil is last and his responsibility for the patrol is to remove any obvious sign so that no-one can follow us. As the bull-dust swallows my knees I know that Phil will be relying on nature to achieve the insurmountable task of removing our tracks. On cue the wind picks up and now, not only having to lift our knees high into the air to achieve progress, we strain against the force of the air. The tracks before me are filled by the ground wind sucking the fine ochre dust into the empty cavities.

  For four hours we battle the elements of shifting earth and disagreeable wind. Eventually the landscape offers a change. The ground introduces the first sign of flora; clumps of spinnerphex grass intermittently spaced. Over a short distance however, the spinnerphex takes over the territory we move through. We now walk through the tight clumps, raising our knees high as the bushy heads brand us with their spears.

  The strain and the momentum are alleviated by rest stops. I would rather keep moving; to sit and rest in this environment is pointless as you pick up more spears from the spinnerphex which aggravate the skin. However, the decision from Barry to stop to avoid heat exhaustion/stroke shows the wisdom and experience of a seasoned commander, who realises that it’s better to be uncomfortable and allow the body to cool.

  The range looms before me as I finally raise my head and focus on the sandstone formation; for hours I have had to concentrate on where my feet were landing. The pack weight, water jerry weight, and the duration of the march have taken their toll; I’m in pain. I focus on locating a passage up the sandstone wall—not my responsibility, just a healthy distraction.

  The next distraction comes in the form of the twenty-litre jerry—the additional weight presses hard into my shoulder as it’s my turn to carry it again. My primary responsibility as a signaller is to carry the radio and all relevant equipment needed to successfully raise communications, which dictates that I cany more weight than anyone else. The additional strain of the jerry, with the water jerking back and forth in its confined space, has taken its toll on the energy of the others. I will carry it until someone believes they have recovered enough to relieve me of the burden. I know that this torture period will be lifted as soon as one of the others is able to assist.

  Thirty minutes have passed and I have only stumbled twice.

  As I prepare to ascend the sixty-foot feature to my front, the weight on my shoulder is lifted from behind. The sudden freedom causes my right leg to punch through the air as it is not restricted by the weight bearing down. Barry now has the burden. Although I’m still carrying sixty kilos, I find I have a spring in my step and scale the small feature with ease. Another reprieve: our cache destination is within visual range. We move to the edge of the next terrain change; savannah bushland greets our next sunrise.

  We have walked solid for twelve hours and, after the defense-ring routine and a quick feed, as my head presses into my pack that I’m using as a pillow, sleep swamps me.

  I’m woken two hours before dusk and handed a night vision scope to survey the location we’re to use as our cache site. I’m well aware that a lot of reconnaissance will be carried out; we do this to ensure our orders aren’t compromised and that we’re not walking into a trap. A box recon (four-sided reconnaissances) will be Barry’s preferred technique. All north, south, east and west quadrants will be surveyed, one at a time. When one quadrant is completed, the recon team will return to the nominated base, report to Barry and then move into another quadrant. The whole exercise will take all night.

  We rest through the remainder of the day, completely confident that we are the only ones in the vicinity—the recon presented nothing to fear. Tomorrow night the cache will be buried.

  Barry calculates that to get to our exfiltration (pick-up) site on time we must approach the cache site two hours before dark.

  I’m told to get my equipment ready and am handed a code which is to be sent when shovel-loads of dirt are patted down at the cache location.

  The whole process of burying the additional equipment that has tortured us over many kilometres takes thirty minutes. The home brew plastic barrel, which was miraculously ‘jumped’ by being strapped to Phil, is the first item to be lowered into the hole. Through it’s opening, ration packs, maps of the area including a sealed map, ammunition, knife, M16 rifle (in parts, ready to be assembled), strobe light, torch and batteries, are carefully placed. The water jerry is placed next to it and as I start to tap on the Morse key, I hear the distinct sound of soil hitting plastic containers.

  I report the secret location to SHQ. They return the received code and I give the thumbs up to Barry who finishes pacing out distances; he will be required to present a true diagrammatic map of the cache site to SHQ on our return. SHQ’s immediate action will be to send the location to Special Forces Command. For now, our job is done. All that is left is to move to the elected exfiltration (exfil) location already arranged between Barry and the pilot of the selected aircraft.

  Prior to infiltration (infil), Barry had discussed our means of exfiltration and transportation with the RAAFies. But there was no joy as they were already assigned a task for the night we required exfil. The next option was the Army.

  This means our transport option is a Plius Porter, a small plane that can hold a patrol very uncomfortably. The Plius Porter can land on a five-cent piece. The army pilots of these aircrafts are especially good—they have to be.

  It’s up to Barry to designate the landing site. This could be anything from an outback road to a desert pad or a beach. Barry has already organised to use a beach, due west of the cache location.

  We have ninety five kilometres to walk to the exfil; this will be achieved over the next three nights and by the fourth night we should arrive there.

  With the additional weight now in the ground we are all itching to get started. A full night of walking lies ahead; hardly a challenge as the enthusiasm to move bubbles everybody’s spirits. The next stage of this operation will be to walk at least forty kilometres to ensure that Barry has some time and space to organise and place an Observation Point (OP) from which to observe the beach to make sure it isn’t compromised.

  It is always expedient to cover as much distance as we can while fresh. As we set off, Phil asks me,

  ‘How much water do you have?’

  ‘Two bottles,’ I reply.

  He continues asking everybody the same question then returns to me.

  ‘Barry wants you to code a message for the water re-supply during the walk tonight.’

  ‘Will do,’ I whisper.

  There is nothing unusual about this request. I will code the message when we stop for a ten-minute rest, which we do every hour.

  ‘Ask for the technique you came up with. The one we rehearsed at Base before we infiled,’ Phil adds.

  I feel proud that I have instigated this new technique and that it’s going to be used for this operation. It’s a great idea, even if I say so myself We have rehearsed the technique a dozen times without one failure. We had an aircraft designated to us so we could practise our jumping skills and this technique, newly introduced to the Regiment.

  The concept was discussed amongst us. This is always encouraged, each of us being quite capable of intelligent input.

  We are assessed and trained to be c
apable of applying solutions to practical situations. Individuals don’t pass selection without displaying these attributes. It doesn’t matter what year you undertake selection; every patrol member is expected to offer input. During rehearsals, all members of the patrol are asked for ideas, with the commander making the final decision before anything new is adopted.

  The concept I had designed involved a twenty metre length of fire hose. Once Barry gave me the go-ahead to try the system, it was a quick trip to the nearest fire station with a request for any spare hose lying around. The Fireies were extremely helpful, and it wasn’t a problem to give us a serviceable length of fire hose that wasn’t perforated.

  We returned to the landing ground and acquired two clamps for each end of the hose. A low flying aircraft was our option to do the drop—a fly-by would not attract any attention. A helicopter hovering or landing would definitely compromise our mission and location. The test showed that we could drop a full hose from an aircraft flying-by without having to reduce speed.

  It was pleasing to see the hose full of water bouncing along the ground, landing safely. Barry, the pilots and I wanted to increase the height to see if the technique would still work. It did—after twelve drops we worked out the optimum height of one hundred and sixty feet. This height would clear all beaches, hills and knolls on approach. The drop-off operation absolutely assured success. We had rehearsed and now it was confirmed in our minds that the water re-supply would go according to plan.

  The hose filled with water and the clamps secured to the ends wouldn’t be touched until our aircrew loaded it in for our necessary water re-supply.

  It’s planned for the pilots to do the water re-supply four hours after request. At 08:00 hrs I give confirmation to Barry that water is on the way.

  It’s mandatory to retain some water prior to a re-supply, just in case it fails. It’s about midday when we hear the familiar drone of the aircraft designated for the water re-supply. Barry has communication with the aircraft via an UHF radio. They approach our location once we have given them the pre-arranged code. The ramp lowers on the caribou and two crewmen assist the water hose off the ramp.

  The hose falls through the air and hits the ground—it doesn’t bounce as it has done during rehearsals—on first impact the hose coils like a snake that has been dropped from a great height. The last nervous reaction signifies it’s dead. It lies lifeless on the ground, water pouring out of it. The desert floor quickly drinks our precious nectar. Shock freezes us momentarily; devastated, rude gestures are thrown back to the aircrew as they turn their backs on us. The aircraft climbs and disappears over the horizon.

  On inspection, the hose is not split or perforated—water is only coming out of the ends. Snapped out of our stupor, we all race to save what precious water is left in the hose.

  The wing nuts that are used to secure the clamps to the ends are loose; someone is fucking with us. We manage to salvage ten bottles of water from the hose and it’s, Tuck the army!’ This statement is bellowed in a chorus from all of us, except Barry.

  Barry just seems to take it in his stride and is trying to calm us down. We are still in an operational environment and he wants us to maintain our professionalism. Phil approaches Barry and questions him.

  Well, what the fuck are we gonna do now?’

  ‘Calm down and follow me,’ is his reply to the direct question from his 2IC.

  Phil and Barry discuss our situation. This is the first time a discussion is conducted without all members involved.

  I begin to set up our radio. I need to occupy my mind with something other than the memory of watching the first impact and watching our precious water seep into the hot desert’s sandy floor. I place Andy and Bill in protective positions. I want communication to be set up by the time Barry and Phil finish their private conversation.

  I finish the set-up and await my instructions from Barry, which will be to send the failed water re-supply code and coordinates of the location for the second attempt. I have already encoded the first half of the signal.

  I look to where Barry and Phil are hunched over a map. It’s likely they’re trying to locate a water re-supply spot. They return and instruct me to establish comms, send the fail code and request re-supply at this location. I write down the grid reference and add it to the coded message.

  Thirty minutes later I have to inform Barry that I can’t establish comms and that SHQ have not acknowledged any of my transmissions. I keep trying to establish comms all through the day at the insistence of Barry, but still no joy.

  When the sun finally sets Barry calls us all together.

  ‘We’re going to head back to the cache site, dig it up and recover the twenty-litre jerry full of water.’

  We will be walking all night again to cover the forty kilometres with only two bottles each.

  We are still fifty-five kilometres short of the ocean and now have to go back over the forty kilometres we’ve already travelled to our original start point. We finally arrive at the cache site at about 9am. Barry asks me to set up comms, as the boys slowly dig up the cache. Barry is very experienced in handling troops who are fatigued and exhausted; he has each man do ten shovel loads, and then rests them.

  After trying every type of antennae, I know that I have done my best. Three hours have passed since I began calling SHQ. I try one more solution. This call is clear, without code, a definite no-no; I disregard all the rules in the book.

  The message I send is: ‘We need water now. Patrol location: live cache site.’

  No answer. Barry is pissed off and grabs my pack that carries the radio. Throughout the evening it’s been shared between the five of us. The others have dropped their packs forty kilometres back where the re-supply had failed.

  Barry was a qualified Patrol Signaller prior to being given command of his own patrol. He returns about an hour later having tried every antenna known to man, and throws the pack down.

  ‘No fucking joy,’ he laments.

  I look around. All the patrol member’s faces display dejection. Our lips are cracked and bleeding. We are all sucking the blood from our lips to ensure no precious fluids escape our bodies.

  The jerry of water is retrieved from the cache. We have six bottles of water each. Barry puts water discipline rules in place: there is no drinking unless ordered and it’s to be only a Green army bottle (1-pint) capful each time. Hopefully, following this discipline will allow us to reach our destination which is about ninety kilometres away. We are heading for some dams that are shown on our maps. Our maps are twenty years old and we are all praying that these dams will be full of water.

  We start walking late in the afternoon. It will be ‘fuck the rules’ from now on; we will move day and night. By the time we reach the other packs we have expended two bottles each— four left go to get us to the site of the dams. The dams are five kilometres short of our designated pick-up point. We know that by the time we get there we will be 24 hours late for pick-up, which in our minds is okay. We have a ‘lost comms’ procedure which dictates our nominated time of pick-up. If we are not there, the same designated aircraft will try to pick us up exactly 24 hours later. We will be on time for the second pick-up.

  With no water left in our bottles, we are all hoping that five kilometres from the coastline will be enough for the dams not to be brackish. I spot them first. My legs have a sudden burst of energy and I run to the lip of the first dam. My heart sinks at the sight of the dam. Sure, there is water there, but it’s black and silty, and has dead animals in it. I sink to my knees and just look at this depressing sight. Then I hear one of the boys.

  ‘Let’s check this one.’

  There are four dams in a row. When I finally look up, the rest of the patrol is standing around the last dam. As I reach their location, Jim has climbed down the side of the dam, and is spitting the water out. His comment drops all our spirits.

  ‘It’s fucking salty!’

  That’s the last straw. It starts with Barry dro
pping his pack and proceeding to give it a kicking. He violently loses the plot.

  We all release the built up aggression by yelling,

  ‘Fuck the army.’

  I look to the sky, and ask ‘Why?’ Our feet are stripped of skin and we are battered and bruised. Even the plaster dressings on our feet are not protecting the damage done during the walk to the dams. Every one of us is limping and the weight we have lost is phenomenal. Our bodies are now eating the muscles away. We are in poor shape and we know it.

  Sixteen hundred hours and we still have to travel the last five kilometres to the beach to catch our designated aircraft, expecting it to pick us up at 24:00 hrs.

  The last five kilometres are the climax to the whole ordeal.

  It takes us three hours to travel the small distance. We are still carrying equipment weighing between forty and fifty kilograms with no food and no water. The struggle to finish the trek is debilitating and slow.

  When Barry flops we all do the same. By the time we get to the beach we are resting every 100 metres. We find the hardest part of the beach by driving our heels into the sand. An impression more than I centimetre means the plane will bog for certain. The length of the landing ground has to be one hundred metres long. We find the desired length and hardness.

  Precedence must be given to adapting a functional survival mode routine. Anything of clear plastic is fastened to live Tea-Tree limbs. Tea-Trees are very spindly and sparse and will not generate much moisture. The technique involves collecting evaporated moisture from the leaves. It’s a technique that will only work when the sun is up.

  I wonder why Barry has ordered this action. Weren’t we getting off this shoreline at midnight? I silently question myself. I remember what Barry has taught regarding survival situations— it’s always better to do things now, not later, as later you might be too weak to achieve a simple task. Barry, the most coherent, has correctly applied this principle. I feel fortunate that Barry is a leader who knows what’s required to maintain a sense of hope in a situation that is hastily deteriorating and may result in a fatal outcome.