Timor in 2008 was pretty safe by any standards. The deployed peacekeeping forces were focussed on training and maintaining their own capabilities and skills as much as they were worried about any lingering security issues. The militias who had wrought violence and death following the 1999 independence referendum were long gone. The destructive forces and fires from 2006 that had resulted from the nascent Timorese Government struggling to build functional institutions, while not fully extinguished, were but the gentlest of embers.

And so we trained.

As the Battalion Plans Officer most of the early part of my deployment had been confined to a demountable office block at Camp Phoenix in the centre of Dili. I toiled away on orders and plans for approval by the Operations Officer and Commanding Officer prior to their distribution out to the Rifle Companies that were dispersed throughout the country. The occasional visit to other bases was a welcome distraction from the office routine.

Our biggest risk day-on-day was a vehicle accident, followed by the potential for an injury or other non-combat incident during a patrol in a remote part of the country. To assist the Rifle Companies with such an occurrence, the Commanding Officer established a Critical Incident Support Team (CIST: pron cyst…yeah kinda gross) to rapidly respond by helicopter or vehicle. The CIST was a combination of Reconnaissance Platoon soldiers with advanced medical, roping and communications skills, Military Police (MPs)  to investigate criminal or accidents scenes, and a command element. Given the complexity of the tasks and likely requirement to liaise with local Timorese security elements or local leaders it was decided to have a Captain in charge of the CIST. For a number of reasons, including that if something serious happened I didn’t have anything else to do, I got the gig as the first CIST Commander.

And so on a warm October day I found myself flying along the north coast of Timor as part of a mission rehearsal exercise. This was one of the first tests of the concept and we were reacting to a simulated vehicle accident just outside the town of Baucau. Our local security element, Delta Company, had staged the scene with some vehicles and soldiers role-playing victims and our job was to deploy, coordinate with the (pretend) local security forces and enable the Military Police elements to investigate. For this exercise we were using a smaller element of the CIST consisting of just two MPs, myself and my signaller, a recon soldier named Steve.

The flight out and insertion went smoothly and we soon had the scene secured. The MPs were doing their best job of investigating the scene, putting up tape and taking photos much to the amusement of some of the local kids who seemed to appear out of nowhere whenever Aussie soldiers were present.

Job complete, we boarded our Black Hawk for the 20 minute flight back to the Dili “HPOD” or Helicopter Point of Departure – we are nothing if not imaginative with our names in the military!

As we lifted off and headed west the sun was setting through the clouds. Unusually, I decided not to wear the headphones that enabled me to communicate with the crew. This was in part as I wanted to try and get some sleep after a late night, but mostly because the inane chatter of the pilots had annoyed me on the flight in. I tugged on the shirt of the crew chief closest to me and pointed out I didn’t have headphones on, and he responded with a thumbs up. He got me.

I settled in and looked out of the window as we lifted off and began the journey home. Timor is a beautiful country, and the north coast is a mix of winding coastal roads hugging jungle covered peaks that burst from the ocean, and the flatter river plains where villages and fields are cut out of the latana, palm trees and dense scrub. Occasionally the sides of the steeper mountains were scarred with bright orange and brown gashes that marked landslides brought on by the monsoonal rains. This was my second deployment to Timor and I still marvelled at the beauty of the countryside – it’s contrast to the flat and desert scrub of our Darwin home was immense.

I had barely closed my eyes when there was a loud bang and the helicopter violently shuddered and swung it’s tail out to the right, quickly corrected by the pilots. I sat upright and fumbled for my headphones. Both crew chiefs were leaning out of their windows over their mounted machine guns looking up and down the length of the helicopter. We were now swaying side to side which was unsettling to say the least. I still hadn’t quite been able to secure my headphones which had shot away from me with the first violent movement when the crewie turned around and shouted “STRAP IN” with his hands mimicking tightening our shoulder straps “WE’RE GOING DOWN!” With that message communicated, he returned to his more pressing duties. I turned to Steve who was seated next to me and in his typically understated fashion simply shouted over the noise “Awesome.”

I finally got my headphones on and listened in as the Black Hawk crew quickly and professionally passed information amongst themselves and attempted to deal with whatever issue was at hand. From what I could gather – because this was a conversation I had no role in and they certainly didn’t need my questions – the ‘bang’ we had heard originated in one of engines just above us. Multiple alarms were on and the crew seemed to think they were dealing with an engine fire and failure or worse. We were pretty much halfway between Dili and Bacau with no major population centres nearby. And of course, as we lost power and started losing altitude, the beautiful mountain ridges that had so entranced me were starting to look a lot more like death traps trying to rip us from the sky. Spying some steeped fields below us, the pilots deftly manoeuvred the stricken aircraft towards them, selected a landing point and with a pretty decent bump but nothing bone-shattering, got us onto the ground as quickly as they could.

Our collective relief was short lived as the crew chiefs wrenched the doors open and pointed “OUT! OUT! OUT!”. All of the CIST members quickly decamped from our respective sides and moved to a notionally safe distance. The helicopter crew had remained in their aircraft and were rapidly turning everything off. In short time they had done that and exited themselves.

Excitement over, I took stock of our situation in the rapidly darkening evening through the night vision goggles I had in my webbing. The Black Hawk had landed neatly in the middle of a tiered field with a shin high dirt wall around it, one of many nearby. What might have been an early stage rice or sweet potato crop had been tamped down by the downdraft from the rotors from our rapid landing. To my untrained eye, there didn’t appear to be any smoke or damage to the Black Hawk but that might have been on the other side. So now what? There were local houses (shacks) a short distance from us but the Timorese people were either absent or hadn’t heard our sudden arrival.

The CIST and helicopter crew came together at the front of the aircraft. As the ranking officer – well, the same rank as the pilots but a year’s seniority – it was up to me to retain a calm sense of decorum and control at such times: “What the FUCK was that?” I asked, maybe short of the decorum and control aspect of things.

“Engine fire warnings came on. We’re not sure exactly what the issue is but we had to get it down quickly.” Said one of the pilots. A sound enough approach by any measure.

“Okay. Did we get comms out to 0A (pron: Zero Alpha; our main Headquarters) about what was happening?” I asked.

“No time” came the reply

“So we have just disappeared – literally – off their radar?” I inquired.

“Yeah probably.” Said the pilot. Luckily we had a pretty good solution for such occasions: as well as the aircraft radios – which clearly we couldn’t use if having the engines on might spark a fire again – and the CIST radio – which Steve had been quick thinking enough to grab when we disembarked – each helicopter was equipped with a satellite phone. Bulky, too heavy and too insecure to carry around for ground troops, they were nonetheless great for emergencies of this type.

“Right. Let’s crack out the satphone and call it in before the ponies get too startled.” I said. There was a slight pause and then a cough from one of the crew chiefs.

“What?” I asked. The pilots sheepishly looked at each other and the second one said “We don’t have a satphone with us.”

“What?” Control and decorum were slipping again.

“We don’t have a sat phone. We took it out yesterday as it was taking up room and we hadn’t used it.”

Incredulous I looked at the MP nearest me who shrugged – about as useful as they had been all tour – and then to Steve who was looking away in disgust and muttering a quiet string of invectives at the ground.

“So we don’t have a satphone, no one knows where we are and we can’t fly the helicopter home?”

“Correct Sir.” Said a ‘crewie’.

“Idiots.” I stated harshly. No one argued. “Steve, get that radio going mate and see if we can raise anyone. If not, you and I are going for a walk up that little hill.” The little hill I was referring to was the one that had blocked our passage to Dili and, now that we were on the ground, I saw it was not so little, decently steep and covered in trees, vines and bushes of all sorts.

Being a smart operator, Steve was already on the job of getting his radio antenna up and the radio sorted. He walked away from the group and tried to raise 0A, then a number of other units across different numerous frequencies all to no avail. We were stuck in a valley surrounded by hills and mountains which, combined with other atmospherics, was resulting in our signal not getting through. Steve cycled through the callsigns for a few more minutes before looking up and shaking his head “No joy Boss.” he said.

I called everyone back in and ran through the plan I had sketched out in my notebook as Steve had worked the radio. “Rightio team, this is what we are going to do. Priority is to establish comms with 0A and let them know we are okay but require assistance. Black Hawk crew – I need you to tell me what we need to get this thing flying or get us out of here. Preferably both. Also just confirm for me that there is no way we can switch this thing on and get the radios to work?”

“I don’t think so. We can try but the whole aircraft might be U/S.” Said one of the pilots.

“Right here are our coordinates” I said and handed the pilot a piece of paper that I had copied our position onto from my handheld GPS. “If you do get it going and get through this is where we are.”

“MPs?”

“Sir?”

“Stay still, don’t move, don’t touch anything. Everyone – If we aren’t back in a couple of hours start lighting signal fires and thinking of other ways we might draw attention to ourselves. I’d prefer not to burn the countryside down though if we can avoid it. We aren’t tactical so if you hear anything that sounds like a vehicle or aircraft get the white lights out and wave them around.  Steve – you’re with me mate, let’s get going.”

With a sigh I turned towards the hill and started walking, silently cursing out pilots, helicopters and radios in that order. Well, mostly silently. The hill was as steep as I’d feared it would be and the darkness of the jungle quickly enveloped us. With almost every step we were snagged, tripped, caught and cut as our torches struggled to penetrate the foliage and light a path; night visions goggles would have been equally useless given the lack of ambient light. At one point a branch that had caught on my shoulder flicked back violently and caught Steve across the chin. To his credit, and despite the fact he was probably sick of officers fucking his day up, he had the good grace to accept my hasty apology.

After a solid 45 minute slog we broke out onto a bare ridgeline that led up towards a much taller peak to the south. I was contemplating if we needed to make the effort to keep climbing and establish comms as Steve caught up to me. Out to the west we had a clear view into the distance – maybe this would be enough to reach Dili or someone else? I turned to Steve and asked for his thoughts. He gave a quick glance to the peak of the mountain and quickly came to the same conclusion I had “Yeah, let’s see if we can raise them from here.”

Given the rough path we had climbed Steve had chosen not to leave the antenna up lest it get caught up in the bushes and vines. We quickly erected the “10 foot” antenna and he got to work cycling through call signs and frequencies. As he did so a voice floated up from the valley below “Hey are you guys there yet?” What the fuck. . . sonnsof. . .? Oh yeah, they can’t see us and don’t have a radio.

“Yes. Firm on the ridge. Trying to get comms.” The distance between us made shouting hard to understand and it took a couple of attempts before the message was clear. Then came another request.

“Ask for F R. . . . .” came from the valley. The voice faded into the Timor night on the back of a gust of wind.

“What?”

“Forward Rep. . . . . “ and the voice was gone again. Being an ingenious fellow, I had an idea: Shout out radio like instructions like those that were often used when communications were difficult.

“Say words twice! Say words twice!” – that should be recognised easily enough.

“What?” from the valley.

“FUCKING SPELL IT OUT MATE!” Control and decorum Dave, control and decorum.

“F. . . . . . R. . . . .T” finally, the message reached the top. Now I just had to figure what they meant. . . F. . . . R. . . . .T? FRT? FRT? Click.Forward Repair Team. That made perfect sense.

Steve was still trying all available options. He was about to break out the antenna lightweight – essentially a long flexible antenna that is thrown by a guideline and plumbob over an overhanging branch – when a faint voice crackled into the night. “Bounty 04* (pron: Bounty Zero Four), Bounty 04 this is 0A come in, over.” Steve let out a faint sight of relief and gave me the handset.

“0A, this is S35 (pron: Seirra Three Five), passenger on Bounty 04, over.”

“S35, have you broken but readable. Say status.” The clipped and curt message covered an urgent sense of care: Where are you? Do you need help? What happened? Is anyone hurt?

“0A, this callsign and all Bounty 04 callsigns are safe and secure, repeat, safe and secure.. . . . Bounty 04 suffered an engine failure and we have landed at grid. . prepare to copy. . . grid. . . “ and I read out the coordinates.**

Then the key bit of information “Send Foxtrot Romeo Tango, over.”

A bit of a pause then 0A double checked our location and requirements. Over a series of messages we confirmed that Steve and I would remain in location until the FRT – ironically deploying in a Black Hawk – reached the location of the stricken aircraft and then we would make our way back down the hill.

The pause in the mild drama allowed time to take stock of our situation and location. I took out my night vision goggles once more and looked around. Without the jungle canopy enveloping us the goggles showed a stunning array of stars far beyond those visible to the naked eye. The gentle breeze rose and fell in gusts, alternately carrying and hiding the sounds of the valleys around us. It was peaceful in a way that few people are lucky enough to know. After surveying the stars I turned to the west and picked up a low laying flashing light in the far distance. The regular strobe of the light gave truth to the fact that it was the inbound FRT and our lift home. Soon we could hear the distant thumping of the rotor blades and the voices of the crew over the radio as they sought to nail down our location.

The ‘rescue’ Black Hawk soon reached us and circled our busted aircraft below. With white light blaring they selected an equally fraught landing location and set their own helicopter down. The rotors slowed and another message confirmed they still had comms with 0A. That was our cue to break our own radio down and make our way down the hill.

That journey down was as painful as the one up and just as slow. The latana caught and held us, the thorns scratched and at one stage Steve, now leading, accidentally got his revenge when a branch flicked off him and across my mouth. He was equally apologetic.

As we struggled down a tough stretch about halfway down a voice reached out from the vicinity of the helicopters “Can you blokes hurry up?” We both froze, Steve responded first “Say again?” with a degree of incredulity that cannot be conveyed even almost 20 years later.

“Can you hurry up? The other callsign is ready to lift everyone out that it can!”

I heard my voice before I could stop it: “MOTHERFU. . . . . .” Control and decorum Dave, control and decorum. . . . . . . . .

Epilogue.

An hour or so later we were back at Camp Phoenix having been dropped with the CIST members at the HPOD and then transported via Land Rover back to our ‘home’. I decided to go upstairs to the Operations Room and thank them for their support and to be honest, hopefully get a bit of a pat on the back for a crisis well managed – which was kind of the point of the CIST. Was I expecting confetti and celebratory music?. . . Yes, yes I was.

But. . .crickets. Like pretty much literal crickets because the only people present were the night staff of two and the crickets and cicadas outside the windows chirping away. “Hey Sir.” Said the young Lieutenant on watch “Anything happen tonight?” I should have twigged I was being set up by the muffled smirk on her face but didn’t.

“Nah.” I huffed “All good.”

I walked back towards my hut I shared with the Operations Captain, Coops. Unusually, there was absolutely no one else around. It was dead quiet. . .suspiciously quiet and I finally caught on. Coops, the bugger, had made sure there was no one around for any sort of welcome as a prank. And he had got me good.

I reached our hut and went inside. Coops was hunkered down in the dark and I thought I heard a faint snigger as I walked in. “Fucker” I said into the darkness. I reached the mozzie net that covered my mattress. A handwritten note was attached to the outside “Glad you’re safe.” it read.

“Thanks brother.”

*A guess at the callsigns, it’s been 23 years after all and I don’t have this in my diary.

** My notes are not clear enough to give an accurate position or anything close to it.