Free Mercenary Mum: My Journey from Young Mother to Baghdad Bodyguard by Neryl Joyce Page A

civilians were led onto the Hercules through its rear opening. I took them to the front end of the plane and checked tickets as I made my way to the rear. The plane was crowded and there was so much going on. The first person I came to had an unauthorised ticket. As I signalled to an air defence guard to escort him off the plane, I could see that there were at least five more people nearby with fake tickets. The situation was ridiculous: I was evicting lots of people from their seats, but there were not enough military personnel to ensure that they were actually taken off the plane. The unauthorised passengers would simply walk two steps away, then sit down in a new seat, hoping I wouldn’t notice.
    One of them got down on his hands and knees and begged me not to send him off. There was nothing I could do for him. As I attempted to escort him off, he struggled against my grip. He was a small man. My size and strength (and, of course, my pain compliance hold) were enough to overpower him. I called over an air defence guard to make sure he got off. There were still plenty more tickets to be checked. Then I heard someone telling me to hurry up.
    Before I knew it, I was being told to leave the plane, as it was about to take off. I couldn’t believe it. I told the officer in charge that we’d evicted some unauthorised people, but there were still at least five on board who were not supposed to be there. It was to no avail: the pilots were on a deadline. They had to be off the tarmac.
    I was fuming, and I let the officer know it. Well, actually, that’s a fib. I told the loadie, who then told the officer, that the tickets needed to be checked prior to letting the passengers onto the aircraft. I thought my advice would be far better coming from him, than from a soldier like me. The loadie had a higher rank than mine, and also an established relationship with the officer. Two hours later we heard that a big deal had been made over the fact that nine unauthorised people had managed to make it to Malaysia. It was no surprise to me.
    The next aircraft arrived, and this time the tickets were checked before passengers were allowed onto the aircraft. There were no stowaways on this flight. However, the pilots were still exacting about their timelines. On the fourth aircraft out, I had to jump off the ramp while the plane was taxiing towards the runway. I’d been busy checking seatbelts when I felt the aircraft move: they were bloody well leaving before making sure all relevant personnel were off the craft. So I leapt off the ramp in spectacular fashion while waving all the passengers goodbye.
    Later that evening, I was standing on the tarmac with two RAAF blokes. We’d been discussing the latest flight when some Cambodian soldiers drove by. On spotting us, they slowed down, and then their vehicle stopped about 20 metres away. We had been advised that we were under no threat so we weren’t too concerned. The soldiers must have been overdosing on testosterone and a sense of self-importance, though, because one of them then pulled out a rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) launcher and pointed it right at us. The three of us stood together, completely vulnerable: out in the open, unarmed. Our closest backup was at least 200 metres away, and no one had any weapons. My ASP baton was tucked in under my shirt, but it’d be pretty bloody useless against an RPG.
    The soldier held it in our direction for only a moment before putting it down again. They drove off hurriedly, and we didn’t see them again. Did he really think he was a hard man, pointing his weapon at us? What a tosser! RPGs are notorious for discharging accidentally. I shudder to think what might have happened because some foreign soldier had been caught up in a pissing contest.
    The final aircraft arrived at about 9 p.m. that night. It was raining. There was still no electricity at the airport, and only a few of us had torches. After escorting all the remaining passengers onto the