Read Online Warrior Brothers by Keith Fennell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Keith Fennell
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start. Iâm not even certain thatboth of his eyes were open, let alone focused on where he wanted the blade to strike. He drew back and then swung with all his might. The sword slammed into the top of Lonelyâs back, missing his neck by a good six inches.
As we all cheered, Lonely toppled over and his head fell off after connecting with a table on the way down. The sword fared no better. Having been wielded more like a prehistoric club than a precision killing device, it now looked like a banana.
As the night drew to a close, we decided to clean the barracks and fix up the poor dishevelled private before heading off to bed. Beer cans and tattoos were removed from Lonelyâs body and a new uniform was found. We even ironed it in an attempt to restore some of his lost pride.
But the fact that he was headless posed a greater problem. Even if we managed to stick the old one back on, it was missing most of its nose. Luckily, a replacement head was found in the store. We convinced each other and ourselves that the unitâs members wouldnât notice the difference. The shoulder-length blonde hair and definite female features wouldnât matter too much. Lonely, supporting his/her new head, was returned to the back of the store and we all agreed to admit to nothing.
The following evening the army reserve unit was having a formal event in the dining area. We didnât take much notice as the tables were readied for the festivities, but a more dangerous question started floating around the gathering: âDoes anyone know where Private Lonely is?â A few of us who were still feeling quite seedy from the previous night looked at each other and raised our eyebrows, committed to our denial of any knowledge.
Fearing that their mascot had gone AWOL, a search was conducted. Before long, and to our relief, we heard hysterical laughs when Lonely was found sporting his new female head. One of the reservists said that their platoon sergeant, who had recently gone overseas, had probably taken the head toget some photos of Lonely on his travels. This sounded plausible. It looked like we were in the clear. After all, surely a troop of SAS soldiers wouldnât do such a thing. But after several hoursâ investigation, the web around us was tightening. The company sergeant-major approached one of the boys and asked if we knew where Private Lonelyâs head was. Always cool under pressure, he responded quickly: âWhoâs Private Lonely?â
There was now no going back. Lonelyâs head, which was hidden in one of our bags, was definitely returning to Perth with us. We were as thick as thieves, and operational deployments would only strengthen this bond.
Even when our squadron was deployed to East Timor, the wait for real action still wasnât over. We were sent out in smaller operations to raid militia-occupied villages, tasks which more often than not turned out to be fruitless and frustrating exercises. We later learned that one of our raids had been announced on ABC Radio the day before we went in. And then things changed.
Our squadron raided a village 138 kilometres south-west of Dili. There were several small skirmishes, and then an SAS convoy escorting over 100 militiamen to the West Timor border was ambushed. In the ensuing firefight two SAS soldiers were shot, one through the neck and the other through the wrist and leg.
In a true display of style, the operator who was shot through the neck stayed upright and checked his own wounds before firing off a full magazine from his weapon. This man was one of the more senior soldiers I had completed selection with and had been a great support to me during training. We saw a picture in the paper of him being stretchered into the rear of a medical transport aircraft while casually holding his own IV drip bag. This made us laugh. He had very nearly had his head blown off and yet was still holding his own IV like it was just another medical training
As we all cheered, Lonely toppled over and his head fell off after connecting with a table on the way down. The sword fared no better. Having been wielded more like a prehistoric club than a precision killing device, it now looked like a banana.
As the night drew to a close, we decided to clean the barracks and fix up the poor dishevelled private before heading off to bed. Beer cans and tattoos were removed from Lonelyâs body and a new uniform was found. We even ironed it in an attempt to restore some of his lost pride.
But the fact that he was headless posed a greater problem. Even if we managed to stick the old one back on, it was missing most of its nose. Luckily, a replacement head was found in the store. We convinced each other and ourselves that the unitâs members wouldnât notice the difference. The shoulder-length blonde hair and definite female features wouldnât matter too much. Lonely, supporting his/her new head, was returned to the back of the store and we all agreed to admit to nothing.
The following evening the army reserve unit was having a formal event in the dining area. We didnât take much notice as the tables were readied for the festivities, but a more dangerous question started floating around the gathering: âDoes anyone know where Private Lonely is?â A few of us who were still feeling quite seedy from the previous night looked at each other and raised our eyebrows, committed to our denial of any knowledge.
Fearing that their mascot had gone AWOL, a search was conducted. Before long, and to our relief, we heard hysterical laughs when Lonely was found sporting his new female head. One of the reservists said that their platoon sergeant, who had recently gone overseas, had probably taken the head toget some photos of Lonely on his travels. This sounded plausible. It looked like we were in the clear. After all, surely a troop of SAS soldiers wouldnât do such a thing. But after several hoursâ investigation, the web around us was tightening. The company sergeant-major approached one of the boys and asked if we knew where Private Lonelyâs head was. Always cool under pressure, he responded quickly: âWhoâs Private Lonely?â
There was now no going back. Lonelyâs head, which was hidden in one of our bags, was definitely returning to Perth with us. We were as thick as thieves, and operational deployments would only strengthen this bond.
Even when our squadron was deployed to East Timor, the wait for real action still wasnât over. We were sent out in smaller operations to raid militia-occupied villages, tasks which more often than not turned out to be fruitless and frustrating exercises. We later learned that one of our raids had been announced on ABC Radio the day before we went in. And then things changed.
Our squadron raided a village 138 kilometres south-west of Dili. There were several small skirmishes, and then an SAS convoy escorting over 100 militiamen to the West Timor border was ambushed. In the ensuing firefight two SAS soldiers were shot, one through the neck and the other through the wrist and leg.
In a true display of style, the operator who was shot through the neck stayed upright and checked his own wounds before firing off a full magazine from his weapon. This man was one of the more senior soldiers I had completed selection with and had been a great support to me during training. We saw a picture in the paper of him being stretchered into the rear of a medical transport aircraft while casually holding his own IV drip bag. This made us laugh. He had very nearly had his head blown off and yet was still holding his own IV like it was just another medical training
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