The Easy Day Was Yesterday (31 page)

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.

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 from 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.

Back in the cage I decided I needed a post-shave rest. The old man and Sanjay came into the cell for a chat. Sanjay decided to read my palm. Read away mate, as long as I don’t have to get up. His technique was to simply grab my hand and start examining it — I had little choice in the matter. I’m very sceptical about such things. My former wife convinced me to see a tarot card reader just after I left the army. This woman, dressed like someone who should have been reading a crystal ball, told me my life would settle down very soon after years of frequently changing jobs.

‘I’ve just resigned from the army after 10 years of service and the last eight years were in the same place in Perth,’ I said.

‘Oh.’

And that was the end of that. So, when Sanjay wanted to read my palm I was understandably sceptical, but decided to go through with it, if only for the entertainment value — oh yes, I was bored.

Sanjay declared that I would have a long, adventurous life. I’m forthright and will be married twice — this bloke might be onto something here: I have already been through one disastrous marriage and have entered another relationship. Then he told me I should stay away from the ocean as it is dangerous for me. That’s weird, I love the ocean; I wish he hadn’t told me that bit. I’ll be expecting to be eaten by a great white shark every time I go body surfing now. After they left I tried to sleep for an hour, but couldn’t as I was too anxious — Sallie was coming today.

By 11.00 am Sallie had yet to arrive. Maybe she was visiting others first. I didn’t mind. I’d rather she worked on everyone before coming to me if it meant I could get out of here and hold her as a free man. It would be great if she could take me home with her in the next few days.

I decided I needed to do number twos and dreaded the idea. It’s bloody disgusting and the whole prison smells like a toilet, but the squatters smell a hundred times worse, and the idea of using a bucket of water for toilet paper makes me dry retch every time. No matter how many times I do it, I manage to get shit all over the place.

At 11.20, Sanjay rushed into my cage all excited.

‘Sir, Sir, a white lady at the gate! Sir, your wife is here!’

I sat up with some interest.

‘Did you see her, Sanjay?’

‘Yyyyyyeeeess, Sir,’ he replied, barely able to contain himself as he pranced away.

Man, he has got to be gay, I thought as I watched him leave my cage.

I got dressed in my Calvins and T-shirt. My jeans were very baggy on me due to the weight I’d lost. I walked to the administration building and picked a rose on the way. I expected to see Sallie straight away, but she was having her photo taken by the guards prior to entering the prison. I periodically caught a glimpse of her and started to become emotional, but quickly controlled that feeling because my fellow prisoners, who were also excited to see a pretty white woman in the prison, had surrounded me. Manish, the prison clerk, told me to sit and be patient, but I couldn’t and responded forcefully to his repeated attempts to tell me to sit. It was unworthy of me as Manish had been good while I’d been in this shit heap, but I was overwhelmed with emotion — a combination of feeling like a dickhead for being in this predicament and wanting to see a familiar face.

The waiting lasted an eternity. I later discovered that the guards took a few more photos than they really needed to — they didn’t have the opportunity to photograph too many white women so they grabbed the moment. Finally I saw her, she looked great and in total control. She was dressed discreetly, covered from neck to wrist to ankle and was wearing a headscarf. Good girl, she knew how to travel and dress appropriately. The scarf covered her blonde hair and the loose-fitting clothes concealed her neat figure. I moved out of the way as her approach created some commotion. The guards were at the gate waiting for her and pushed people aside so they could open the gate. She entered the prison gate and looked around. She saw me and we hugged until we were told to separate by a prison guard and ushered into the Warden’s office. We spent an hour together. She had already seen the Magistrate and begged and cried for my release. She had seen Bala and, like me, immediately liked him. She had seen my lawyer, Debu- San, and confirmed the brief that he needed to drop all other cases and just work on mine. Next she planned to visit the SP (Siddiqui) and told me she would offer money for a favourable statement if necessary.

It was so good to see her that I almost ignored all the others with her — there seemed to be quite an entourage. There was the High Commission guy, Rajeesh; Ujwal, back from Kathmandu, who had escorted Sallie to Biratnagar; and Martin, one of the senior managers with my company and formerly a colonel in the Australian Army. I could see Martin through the bars wandering around just in front of the office block. He approached Loud Talker, stopped and delivered a perfectly executed salute which I knew would greatly impress and flatter Loud Talker. The Nepali SP was here as well — it was so good of him to go out of his way for me. He also told me he would go with Sallie and the entourage to see Siddiqui.

Sallie brought me a heap of supplies including vitamins, antibiotics, ear ointment, eye cream and antiseptic hand gel. She brought magazines, a skipping rope, tennis balls to throw against the prison wall like Steve McQueen in
The Great Escape
, photos of my family and of us together. The Warden needed to clear all this stuff for the prison and immediately refused to allow the skipping rope, which I could understand; everything else was permitted. The Warden told us that it was normal procedure for prisoners to be allowed only one visitor every two weeks but, given the distances and the fact that Bala had made the request, Sallie could visit every day. I thanked him profusely and then told Sallie how good the Warden had been to me. I was well and truly kissing arse which would have seen me getting the shit kicked out of me in an Australian prison. The visit was over quickly. I didn’t want her to go, but I did want her to visit these people and try to get me out of here as soon as possible. I said goodbye to Rajeesh who reminded me that I was going to court tomorrow.