Little Tim, Big Tim

by Tim Roy

  I’m told to set the radio up and establish comms with SHQ, to give the code that we are waiting for exfil. I follow orders.

  For the next three hours I keep tapping on the Morse key. I am away from the group as high ground enables me to achieve better comms. Because we are near the ocean, the radio waves will travel more easily to Swanboume, Perth, the home of the SAS Regiment.

  I’m directed to go the emergency frequency and contact Perth and also Canberra, who will both be manning the frequency twenty-four hours around the clock. Barry approaches me at 2330hrs and checks the set for serviceability. Everything is working at our end. 01:00 hrs arrives; no plane. 02:00 hrs arrives; Barry tells me to pack up and get some sleep. I start packing the set up but collapse on the spot and sleep for a solid four hours.

  Morning arrives. Andy is extremely sick and has been vomiting throughout the night. He has lost a lot of precious fluid and blood, and it appears he has a ripped stomach lining. I know we have to get comms or Andy is going to be the first one to die.

  I grab the radio set and notice that Phil and Jim are nowhere to be seen. I ask where they are. Barry produces his map and shows me a black square, a homestead on the map. It’s about fifteen kilometres away from us.

  ‘The boys left a couple of hours ago. Hopefully they will find water. Put the set down and just rest. Save your strength,’ he recommends.

  I’m absolutely shagged and just operating on what little adrenaline and endorphins I have left in my body. It’s about 1600hrs when they return. The remaining three of us can’t move, or more to the point, are completely depleted of energy and strength. Our tongues have swollen, filling our mouth cavities—a very abnormal experience.

  The boys have found water, probably equivalent to ten litres. The water was found in a life raft container that originally would’ve been attached to a HMAS patrol boat. Someone a long time ago must have found it on the beach and used it to collect water off the drain at the homestead which had been abandoned years before. How ironic; the Air Force is responsible for the neglect that has placed us in this perilous condition, and flotsam from the Navy is presenting us with a reprieve.

  The desert has taken over the homestead, but because this half container remained in the shade, it has stored precious water that has saved our lives—for the time being. Andy requires water immediately.

  Phil and Jim douse their neck scrims, usually used for camouflage, into water and administer it past our swollen tongues. We are gagging from the introduction of water into our systems.

  I sleep for a couple of hours then find Phil squeezing water into my mouth again. The swelling of my tongue is subsiding, and I can feel the fluid passing the tongue into my stomach. I ache all over from being too dehydrated, but I am alive.

  I fall asleep again, or pass out, I’m not too sure. I wake late the next morning re-hydrated. The boys have been administering fluid to me throughout the evening. After everyone recovers we have five more bottles to survive on. If we don’t get picked up soon, we will all die.

  It’s 21:00 hrs when we hear an aircraft approaching. All ears are strained listening for the hum of the engines. Free-fallers can identify most aircraft by getting to know the distinguishing sound of each particular aircraft. This one is ours. We move gingerly with our feet ripped to bits and, to identify the landing ground, light the fires for the aircraft.

  The Plius Porter plane lands safely. The pilot turns to taxi the full length of the advanced landing strip to be able to take off into the wind. We fling our packs and bodies in whilst the aircraft is rolling forward. The urgency displays the last effort required to gain safe haven. We are going home!

  There is iced water on board. Even with cracked lips stinging like hell, we are all able to slowly suck on a piece of ice. The aircraft lifts and we are leaving the desolate place where we almost perished.

  As the pilot banks his aircraft, and I recognise the location of the Tea-Trees that we laid under, too exhausted to move, an overwhelming wave of betrayal and abandonment floods over me. I know the emotion, and I know not to let it surface. I fall asleep—or pass out.

  Our next stop is at the Regiment Barracks at Swanboume. Finally, a familiar place, but the face at the door is unusual. It’s the Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM). He says to us,

  ‘Have a rough trip boys?’ No one answers him. He continues,

  The CO has put you blokes on stand-down (short leave). Get your feet fixed and get some rest. Come in next week for your next order. Barry, Phil and Tim, the duty driver will get you home.’

  The RSM is gone. No one is going to question him. Why were we left in the desert without any water?

  At home, I dump my gear, strip off and head to the shower. I must’ve passed out in the shower for I find myself on the shower floor with the water being very cold. My skin has shrivelled like a prune so I must’ve been there for some time. I try to stand and fight the pain in my feet, though it’s a better idea for me to sit back on my arse. I reach up and turn the taps off then drag myself to bed, where I stay for seventy-two hours. I wake up every now and again, but am just too exhausted to move and suddenly fall asleep again.

  After my three days of sleep and rest, I decide to eat everything in the fridge and repair my feet. The gash in my side has become septic and requires treatment and a dressing. I have pressure sores from losing so much weight, so I treat these as well and dress them.

  My selection course Instructor, Sgt. Dave Sherrick, turns up on the sixth day of my stand-down. He has my next order in his hands. As I open the door he says,

  ‘You lucky sod! They’re giving you an advanced demolition specialists course. You are to report in three days time.’

  ‘What about my patrol?’ I ask.

  He explains that my patrol has been disbanded. Jim and Andy are posted to other war role squadrons, and Phil and Barry are doing build-up training for their next tour of the Counter Terrorist team.

  Dave doesn’t ask what happened—nor should he. What happened to us will remain in the minds of those involved. It’s far better to let it slip away as you always have something else to think about which requires one-hundred percent concentration.

  My next distraction will be to study the theory of demolitions. I have limited time to absorb the new information— in three days I will be expected to know and understand the theory and application of advanced demolitions. Sgt Dave, who is about to leave, says,

  ‘Tim, remember the old saying, ‘you weren’t there, it didn’t happen Get on with the job andforget what is in your mind.’

  I do just that and prepare myself for the next stage of my career. I never work with any member of the desert/beach patrol again. I feel betrayed.

  MEMORY GAPS

  BIG TIM—SOLDIER

  After successfully completing the advanced demolition course, I am busy stripping and cleaning my weapon when the second in charge of the squadron comments to me that my hair is thinning out.

  ‘For Queen and Country Sir,’ I offer.

  The exchange that follows confuses me and I’m sure my reaction leaves him completely bewildered. He bends down and whispers into my ear,

  ‘You aren’t the only one from the beach who is losing their hair. Andy and Jim are thinning rapidly as well. Also, Barry and Phil are now sporting a grey streak on the sides of their heads.’

  He recoils when I look him in the eye and ask him,

  ‘What do you mean by ‘the beach’ sir?’ my question is an honest one.

  His eyes search mine for some explanation. My lack of memory is real. With not a word spoken he affords me sanctuary, he understands and respects the method I have chosen to continue to function.

  The attitude of, ‘I wasn’t there, it didn’t happen,’ is not created by me. It’s a phrase common to the Special Forces. Soldiers are taught how not to be controlled by stressful experiences. This phrase is a catch-cry for most, for me it’s a way of life.

  At the time, I have no evidence of the missing event, or kn
owledge of the missing gaps in my life. The only evidence that is becoming more prominent are the times when others look and react cautiously around me, as the Captain has just done.

  A true indication that I am suffering memory gaps happens when I become aware that I am on guard duty again, with no memory of being assigned the duty, if it’s a punishment, or how I got dressed and arrived in this time and space.

  Silence is golden; so I keep the bewilderment of these lost events to myself Familiarity dictates that my world is just as normal or sane as everyone else’s. But as the lost time and space begins to become more frequent, even I start to question if my behaviour and relationship to the relative reality has credence. The answer to the surfacing dilemma comes in the form of an extremely dangerous act. This time not strange looks or reactions, but fear etches on the faces of those who are witness to my mental implosion.

  Career suicide! I point a loaded weapon at someone else.

  I am training for selection for the Counter Terrorist Team and have engaged my target with two rounds. My brain hears the order to raise weapons and engage the target to my front. I about turn and raise my weapon to face the range Safety Officer. Very calmly, he orders me to engage my safety catch and move off the range towards him. I apply my safety catch and follow his order. Travelling the short distance towards him, I then can’t remember if I have applied my safety catch and keep repeating the action until I stand in front of him and present my weapon.

  ‘Tim, your weapon is on fire,’ he states.

  I look down at my weapon that he is by now holding and what I see is the complete opposite of what he has just stated. My eyes and brain show that my weapon’s safety catch is on safe. I shut my mouth as he moves the safety catch to the safe position. The fog lifts and I am back in his reality but with this, the second of two safety breaches, that’s it, the end of my career.

  From elite soldier to a glorified gardener, the highest paid lawn-mower man in Australia. There is no improvement in my mental dysfunction. I believe if there were, the hierarchy would’ve reinstated me back to operational duties. But there is no referral to a psychiatrist for assistance, either. Perhaps they don’t want me back, just ‘out’. With no help coming, I discharge from the Army and apply the fundamental policy of ‘I wasn’t there, it didn’t happen.’

  RECOVERY

  BIG TIM—SOLDIER

  I walk into the office of Professor Larry Evans (Doctor of Psychiatry). The June afternoon is bitter, and so am I. This is my second visit to Brisbane from the Whitsundays, to see the ‘Shrink.’ The first visit related to an assessment of why and how I can’t grieve the loss of mates that died on 12th of June 1996.

  Two Black Hawk helicopters collided, resulting in the death of eighteen men, fifteen of them from the SAS Regiment, my former troop, men I called friends.

  I can no longer hide from the facts and how they affect me.

  ‘It didn’t happen, I wasn’t there,’ is bullshit, but what’s harder to deal with is that I’m numb and have recognised this condition since the news of their deaths filtered through to me.

  I need help and Veteran affairs have arranged Dr Evans to assess me once again. However, this visit will be concerning treatment I suffered at the hands of the NSW police, and the fact that Veteran Affairs deny it happened. I don’t trust Veteran Affairs. It’s taken them three years to accept I need help, and having had to expose evidence to Dr Evans of a state police unit being accused of conspiracy, I tend to be quite paranoid about the direction into which I’m being coerced.

  My file is sitting on the unattended Receptionist’s desk. Inquisitive to know its contents, I commence reading.

  Patient name: Tim Roy

  Diagnoses: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)

  Acute Delusional Disorder (Persecutory type)

  Veteran Affairs accepts conditions to be service related.

  The sound of a door closing startles me; I quickly replace the file. No one enters the reception area. Instinctively, I sit down with my back to the wall to observe all angles of the room. My eyes start to dart around the room, so to arrest this malfunction I use a tactic that I discovered intuitively. I pull a folded, tattered piece of paper from my jeans, unfold it and read a poem; its ink letters are starting to fade. I whisper the words so I can hear them and hope that they will distract me from the distortion I’m diminishing into.

  ODE TO A TROOP ONE SQUADRON SASR

  Who dares wins,

  Who cares who wins?

  You have said it a thousand times,

  Never meant it,

  Just put your life on the line,

  Just another job, wheres bob?

  Your company vehicle is

  Black Hawk,

  Fly in them at night,

  Light’s out,

  Rehearsals done,

  You never baulk, on skids again,

  There is no out, go, go, go is the call,

  Shit,

  Everything is a fireball.

  Fifteen gone, never again to be on line,

  It’s our country,

  We all know that death can come when you don’t think it’s your time.

  We will miss you; from us you have left, good men, friends.

  The times we climbed, the jobs, the exercises, these are what I’ll remember,

  The Professionals.

  Courage of all the operators, dangerous, arduous, Living on the edge.

  We remember,

  Just another job, where’s bob?

  The answer is simple

  Gone, fifteen gone, real men,

  Family andfriends left behind,

  Pick up the pieces, get on with the job

  Forget what has been placed in your mind,

  Inspired by fifteen souls.

  As the last word leaves my lips I know I have lost the battle on this occasion; my mind moves into hyper-vigilant mode, rapidly absorbing visual images of the room: carpeted floor; one door; six chairs; table in centre of floor; magazines (Time and Women’s Day). No one else is in the room, if there had been, I would be observing bulges in clothing and the position of carry bags.

  The sweats are the first indicator that the nightmare which has taunted me every night, and sometimes days, for the past three years is returning.

  There is no light to my front; however I can distinguish the silhouette of the Black Hawks. Four in total and they seem to be off target to the right as I look at them. The lead helicopter is making dramatic moves to get to the drop site. Black Hawk II and Black Hawk III seem to be racing each other to the same drop site.

  ‘Fuck they have collided,’ I yell. No one is in the observation room with me to hear the devastation in my voice.

  Night turns into day as one of the Black Hawks burst into flames. The screams from my mates are clearly audible through the plate glass window. I grab the chair I was sitting on and throw it through the window. I want to help. I feel closer to my dying mates now that the window is removed.

  As the glass and the chair fall away from my view, I see the Black Hawk on fire invert and plough into the ground upside down. I grab the window squeezing hard onto the wooden frame, completely oblivious to the shards of glass that are now embedded into my hands.

  ‘No! Fuck no!’

  The reverberating scream traverses the room.

  Still squeezing the window frame, the physical pain does not register or resonate over the emotional pain that I am experiencing. The other damaged Black Hawk lands hard on its skids. The burning remains of the first Black Hawk illuminate the rescuers that have reached the upright helicopter.

  Men are dragging bodies out of the wrecks. Others have more distressing tasks; as the grab their mates, they find that only bits of them can be extracted from the wrecks. I turn away; I can’t do anymore than what is already being done.

  I sit down on the floor with my back against the wall. The screams slice through the dark night, overpowering the sound of the burning Black Hawk as metal crackles and buckl
es. Voices of the rescuers match the screams of our mates. I look down to my hands; there is still no pain, I decide that I am in shock.

  (At this point in the nightmare I always end up inside the doomed helicopters watching my mates’ final moments before they hit the ground.)

  All the operators are standing, kneeling and hanging onto the rope ready to drop.

  A flash of light, I see five strikes of the helicopter’s steel blades, each strike hitting metal andflesh; obviously the flesh loses the battle. The first strike hits the fuel tanks andfuel is pouring in on them, it then ignites, the screams are deafening.

  I’m suddenly flung back to the empty observation room where I first witnessed the disaster.

  I see someone trying to rescue someone else. The light from the fire gives me a visual image. A soldier is tugging at an injured mate. He falls backwards, pulling out what he has been struggling with, to realise he has only a set of human legs lying across his chest. The rescuer is violently ill. I sit down numb, no pain, and no tears, totally bewildered as to why I can’t express any emotion for this graphic loss.

  I’m back in the reception of Dr Evans. Beads of sweat are quickly wiped off my skin. A burp is suppressed and I swallow uncomfortably as my mouth feels full of sputum. I have to quell paranoia, another symptom within the myriad number of mental conditions ascribed to me. It has been explained that paranoia is common for people who suffer PTSD.

  The words ‘Acute Delusional Disorder’ plague my mind. Another label added to my name; credibility further stripped; something else to cope with. I reach into my daypack and retrieve a pocket dictionary. I have a vague idea of what the word delusional means; I just want to be sure that I clearly understand the newly presented label.

  Although informed, I am still unable to recognise and identify the signs and symptoms. That’s the delusion; I have no recognised skill to absorb any awareness of the deterioration that I’m now experiencing. Bitterness overwhelms me. They can train individuals and ensure we’re switched on to do what we are told, no matter the consequences, but back in the civilian world, we must adjust on our own. They don’t switch us off—a huge oversight of the military.