Your Saving Mantra

By Valma Duff

“Move, move, get out of here, you lazy dogs.”

The military cadets rose from the sandstone floor, holding belt-less trousers in their clenched fists. Shirts without buttons drooped from aching shoulders. Blindfolded, they shuffled across the cave, stubbed feet on jutting stones, and slipped in stagnant water holes, all the time prodded forward by guards’ batons. Smells of animal droppings and decay mixed with odours from unwashed bodies and human excreta.

“Squat there before I kick you down. Arms behind backs,” Manacles snapped onto wrists. Stunned, exhausted, seething, the cadets choked on futile rage. “Lick your lips if they’re dry. We’re not servants.” Guards replied to the thirsty men. Bowls of cold porridge were placed on the ground in front of them, faces pushed into mush. “Sloppy pig, you’ve dribbled like a baby. Didn’t your mother teach you manners? Is she a slut?” All the time there was the poke-poke of gun barrels into necks, groins and armpits. Sometimes food came after four hours, sometimes after eight and sometimes only one hour passed. A dull glow from the single lamp made it impossible to tell day from night.  

“Why are you squatting there? Sit down.” Unbalanced; their prisoners fell back onto the sand. Earpieces were fitted, and iPods attached to upper arms with Velcro. When switched on, shrieks, whistles, crashing cymbals and demented screams, violated controlled thought.

Francis Sanderson was last to be interrogated alone in the adjoining cavern.  They removed his blindfold and manacles. He saw his best friend Greg Callaghan emerge as he entered. Greg’s face seemed covered in gritty powder like a seasoned chicken before going in the oven. I suppose we all look like that, he thought. At last he was able to look straight at his tormentors, who smelled of shampoo and shaving cream. They moved around exchanging places often. All were dressed in grey loose trousers, long shirts and sandals. Faces hid behind balaclavas; black turbans completed the effect. Francis’ stomach shrivelled like a deflated balloon when the glaring spotlight shone in his face. Sitting there dirty, weary, with trousers falling round his legs, he was more a scarecrow, than a defender of his country. What did the instructor say in those training sessions on capture? Keep repeating your name, rank and serial number in a low, dull monotone. It is your saving mantra. It’s a good thing he’d stayed alert that day. Defiance or pleading would spur them on. When they shoved him back among the others his head pounded out questions. How could we have been stupid enough to be taken like this? Are they security forces? Military police?  How did they know we were here?  

When he regained consciousness, his world seemed unreal. Had he dreamt about another place governed by brutish, calculating cowards? Muscles gone to pulp and aching bones told him the truth of his dilemma. He began to retrace events. 

When they jumped over the desert on their final scheduled manoeuvre, he was sixth out of the plane. It was a good jump on a clear day, east of Port Hedland and south of Nookanbah; he could pick his spot. He pulled the parachute out to land on a well-used track, judging it to have reliable water holes, soaks and, maybe game. On the way down, he saw smoke rising, in the north and northeast over Aboriginal land. They’ll know we’re here but will keep their distance. Orders were clear. Travel alone and assemble at Gregory Lake within seven days. It was like a holiday, being away from Colonel Regler’s glare, the college, world news, the system, although he did miss the dogs. The way they whimpered and rippled their coats in sheer joy when taken out of the kennels, their wide toothy smiles and dribbly tongues, restored faith on the toughest days.

“Sanderson, do you think you can escape through dreams? Get up, stand straight.” A baton whacked between his shoulders, forcing them back. “Move along,” the guard bellowed, pushing him forward. “Kneel there. No. On the baton, not near it.” Fiery pain shot through Francis’ knees. His back arched in protest, his thighs quivered. Circles within circles of spinning light flashed through his mind. His stomach emptied its miserable contents. If humiliation is the goal, they’ve won this round, he thought, snapping his teeth together, grinding them hard.

“You are a filthy dog, Sanderson, a stinking animal. You might as well tell us everything. No one will know. You are going to die here. This is the end for you.” Voices came from far behind, close near his shoulder, to the left, to the right. Sand on his knees ground against the baton and into his skin. He crumpled into a senseless heap, and woke in a puddle of water. A new oversized pair of jeans minus zip and buttons lay across his body. All team members were present, hanging on, hoping for a rescue team to appear. Search parties must be on the way.

He remembered sand grinding into his knees, and drifted into another reverie. In the desert, sand got into pockets, shoes, socks, hats, eyes and food just like here, but it was different out there. The exercise had been free of complications. They moved with ease across that giant, flat, campsite decorated with bunches of Spinifex.   Shrubs sheltered snakes and goannas, as well as producing bush fruits that squirted  juices into hot mouths when bitten. The nights sparkled, and Francis used the stars in the same way as the three wise kings once had. With a compass, and respect for basic rules, there was no reason to fear the desert. Flies were more irritating than sand. They maintained an unrelenting assault on eyes, nostrils and open mouths.

When Francis’ head cleared again, he felt something had changed. What was different? All the cadets were still there, lying in a hellish, awkward jumble of limbs. They were awake, listening. There it was. Girls’ laughter sounded light, and carefree.  Glasses clinked against bottles and disco music played; provocative sounds, happy sounds. Were they real? Where were the guards? Then—a muffled voice--“How are they holding up?”

“They are enduring a variety of procedures. I think they would jump at a chance to return the treatment.”

“Give them two more days. They need to be prepared for an enemy that plays dirty. It’s not the same as watching defenceless wretches decapitated on video, or seeing your relief vehicle disintegrate, and friends’ body parts fly past. It’s too comfortable in your own backyard.”

“They will never forget this stage of their training.”

“Turn the party off now and send the guards back in.

Francis whispered, ‘Greg, are you there? Is anyone awake? Did you hear that?”

The mass of limbs unfolded. Greg’s answer came in a chorus of answering whispers.

“Yes. I wish those girls were real.”

“You wouldn’t pull many in those clothes mate.”

“Did you hear the voices? Did you recognise them?”

“I want to drink from a glass like a human.”

“It was all part of the treatment. Don’t take it in.”

“I think it was Regler. He’s behind this.”

***

“Is this like, friendly fire?”

“Regler’s gone nutso this time. He knows he needs signed consent before changing orders.”

“I dreamt they brought my whole family here.”

“We’re not here forever. Did you hear two more days?”

“They know he’s burnt out. The top one per cent in politics, finance and the services, cover each other.”

“Like us.”

“Remember the last time? He almost killed us.”

“Who could forget? Planting dummy suicide bombers! I’ve still got the scars.”

“The commandant said he would deal with it. That was months ago.”

“Who gave permission to talk? Silence,” roared the guards, strutting, stamping, crashing batons against cave walls, and displacing lumps of sandstone.

Something had unsettled them. More loud and scornful than before, they raged at the prisoners.

“No more loafing. We need information about your dealings with terrorists. You will give it. Do you hear that?”

“We know you are planning an action against the government. Who did you meet in the desert?”

“Admit you are traitors.” The cadets freed from ignorance, knowing who hid behind the masks, felt new strength to resist.

New strategies, more cunning techniques, came into play.  Soft, soothing voices drifted over bowed heads, stroking their spirits. Francis used the same safe litany as before.

“Sanderson, I realise how isolated you feel. Talk about it.”

“We’ll see you get a fair trial.”

“In here you feel that you are just a face and a number. I understand your nerves must be raw. Get it off your chest. You’ll feel relieved.”

“Are you thinking about your nice safe room back at the college? You may never see it again, Sanderson.”

“Do you have a girlfriend--or two? Maybe I could call them on your behalf?”

“I can contact your family, tell them goodbye, for you.”

The interrogators’ treachery sent warning signals through Francis’ senses. He longed for a confidant. However, if he strayed from his trained response, the plug would be out and his efforts down the drain. He wanted to yell in the voice he used at football games when the umpire gave a free kick to the opposing side. Now this is Francis Sanderson. Hear me. Do you think you can replace my mother? When I’m good and ready, I’ll get you, all of you. You’re going to be spitting teeth. Instead, he clamped his teeth together, pressed his lips over them, shut his eyes and wished he could do the same with his ears. Douglas Wood came to mind, the hostage who emerged from imprisonment smiling, after forty-seven days without prescribed medications. Cheers, Douglas Wood. Also remember Nelson Mandela, Terry Waite and all the rest. Make a list.

Back in the cave, Francis stared at the roof stained by campfires, and daydreamed about desert nomads, explorers and pioneers who had sheltered here. A twitch developed in his thigh. Regler is not going to louse up our careers with his control-freak plots. The world has enough traitors without him swelling the ranks. He searched for signs of vitality in the other prisoners. Could anyone smile, encourage with a wink, raise an eyebrow that suggested the familiar devilment? He cleared his throat, wriggled his body in the sand, and inwardly cheered when someone coughed, then another touched his ankle. Signals rustled through the cave, connecting, like music notes.

 “Set up the tables near the entrance, coffee urn there, barbecue over a bit, yes there, and bring fresh bread. Place it on the coffee table.” It was Regler’s voice again.

“You men bring the dogs.”

He marched into the cave sweeping the ground with a security torch as though he suspected it to be mined. His uniform appeared to have been delivered from a laundry. Boots and belt glistened and his holstered revolver was oiled and polished. He looked like a model soldier. That is until he staggered and added whiskey fumes to the fetid air.

Familiar tempting aromas teased noses and stirred stomach juices. However, they knew they could not, would not trust this man again.

“Attention! Your course is almost at an end. There is just one more task to accomplish,” he announced. “Can you smell the food being prepared outside? You will eat well and choose your own drinks when you pass the final test. Did you hear the dogs outside?”

Hatred battled hunger. Lights, as bright as Regler’s torch, seemed to click on in torture tuned heads. Every pore in Francis’s body closed. His skin felt like dried jerky. He tried to guess what lay ahead, but thoughts raced around bumping into one another. Rebellion challenged resignation. He rolled to face the others, feeling the cool,damp sand against his skin. Someone began to whistle come sing a song of joy and peace will come my brother. Lips puckered, blowing backup through cracks and sores. Bring it on Regler. Here was another excuse to practise baton bashing on elbows, shins and knees.

“Stop! Quiet! We know you are all wind. Save it. You’ll need it.”

The colonel returned. “Remove their cuffs and get them on their feet. Walk them. They’ve been lazing about too long. They think they’re on holiday. Stir them up.”

“Up! Up! You heard. Move! Lift those feet. Pump those arms.”

Clutching trousers with one hand, Francis counted the steps aloud. Blood flowed to his toes and fingertips, pumping life through skin and inner organs. He raised his legs; mimicking other countries marching styles; found he was out of breath in minutes, head swimming, dry. Callaghan lent a shoulder to Cosgrove whose knees had buckled. Soon the line of troops slowed to a shuffle.

“Halt! Halt! Everyone sit. Hands behind backs. You’d better save yourselves. You’re not going to fake your way out of anything with play acting.”

Whiskey fumes preceded the colonel. He must be slugging it. He carried himself taut, rigid, with jaw set, his reputation for discipline and temperance dissolved in alcohol. What’s behind this? Dread settled on the cadets like dust after a sand storm.

“You enjoyed training the dogs, did you not? I have a final test for them as well.”

“Bring them in.”

Guards jogged into the cave and spread out. The German shepherds’ tension showed in leads stretched to the limit.

“Unleash the dogs.”

When the leashes were removed, the animals stayed, poised for action. Regler gave a signal. ATTACK! Unbelieving, the cadets stared at the approaching flurry of teeth, legs and bodies that hurtled toward them. The colonel watched with cold eyes, as the dogs skidded to a halt, detecting their trainers’ scent under the odours that had accumulated during captivity. Aggression transformed into ecstasy and galvanised them into a licking, yelping reunion, bouncing as though the cave floor was a trampoline.

Colonel Regler jerked his revolver out of its holster and fired a shot into the roof.

“Enough of that. I’ve seen enough. Dogs that don’t obey orders cannot remain in this man’s army. Guards, shoot them. No. I have a better idea. Cadets stand. Guards, pass them your guns. They will destroy the animals.”

Guards and cadets stared. Cadets clutching trousers with one hand accepted guns with the other.

“Guards, leash the dogs. Stand there in a straight line.”

“Cadets, here is your final test. Can you obey the most difficult orders without hesitation?” Agitation forced him to parade back and forth non-stop behind the dogs. What is he thinking? He’ll call a halt at the crucial moment.

Trousers dropped, hobbling cadets as they raised weapons. Years of army conditioning steadied their hands and focused their attention.

“Ready, Aim, Fire.”

Shots echoed through the cave, Sandstone shattered. Puffs of sand spat at bare legs. Colonel Regler and all of the dogs but one dropped to the floor.

Returning to routine was more difficult than crossing the desert solo. They would always hear his voice.