Bunny's escape from Baghdad and his heroic return to Melbourne
Gerard Jackson
Now were was I when I left off last? That's it, I was being carted off to one of Saddam's clinks because of that cad Fergus McFiddle of the Saddam Times, aka The Sydney Morning Herald.
Well I can tell you it was a very nasty business. Talk about putting the frighteners on people. I really expected having to spend the war in a standing position with my back to the wall, a bit like the showers in boarding school.
Well, as it turned out I was the only one in the cell. And what a grotty place it was too. And talk about smelly! And the food! What food? You won't believe this but it's true. They shoved a plate of slops under the door. When I finally decided to pick it up, the old breadbasket was beginning to rebel, the plate was still there but the slops had moved.
There I was, pondering how long I could survive without grub when I heard this groaning. Well, obviously someone else didn't like the grub either, so I stuck my nose between the bars on the door to see who it was. What a sight! This poor devil was being slowly dragged along the corridor by a couple of very nasty looking thugs. His face, back and feet were drenched in blood. That gave me a shock, I can tell you. And to think I thought rugby scrums were bad.
And that's how it went for three weeks. Screaming, groaning — and even shooting. I couldn't understand a word the poor beggars were saying but somehow I didn't have to. It got so bad I couldn't sleep a wink. I can't really describe how I felt because it was indescribable, if you know what I mean.
Day and night the screaming went on. I was beginning to think that Bunny's time was coming to a close. One day I was huddled in the corner of that ghastly cell, watching my food trying to slither back under the door, when I heard even more shouting and screaming than usual, and then the sound of heavy-booted steps clomping down the corridor. "This is it, Bunny. They are finally coming to do you in," I thought.
Bunny is no coward, you know. I straightened myself up, pulled in my belt, three weeks of that place and there was a lot of belt to pull in, stuck out my chin and bravely waited. I didn't have to wait long. The door came crashing down and there they stood in the doorway. Three hulking Yankee Doodle Dandies. Well I thought I would never be so happy to see a yank.
And very nice yanks they were, too. Very polite and considerate. They helped carry me out to a waiting jeep, and all the way Iraqi prisoners were trying to kiss their hands and cling to their clothing. It was very, very touching. Bunny's not so insensitive as to not notice little things like that. After all, another three weeks there and I'd probably be licking someone's boots.
Anyhow, these terrific yanks whisked me off to the Saladin Hotel. Well I never. It was just the same in the streets. Iraqis waving, cheering, crying with joy. It must have been a bit like VE Day. What a story, I thought.
Once I got back to the hotel I staggered into the bathroom to get cleaned up. One has to try and look one's best, even in trying circumstances. What a shock when I looked in the mirror. Not only did I have a beard, I was carrying more baggage under the old mince pies than a freight train. Well I wasn't go to let that stop me. I quickly shaved, washed and then headed down to the foyer, ready to tell one and all about my heroic ordeal, and also give that rotten McFiddle a punch in the nose.
Do you know that not one journalist wanted to hear my tale? They were too busy writing stories about how the Iraqis resented the yanks and how awful things were now that Saddam was gone. I couldn't believe it. I always new reporters tended to be a lying pack of bolshies, especially the Ozz ones, but this was unbelievable.
When I suggested that we pay a visit to the clink where I was locked up with those other poor devils they refused. They said the were off to report on massive looting and the appalling damage the yanks had caused to Baghdad's hospitals. What a bunch of liars.
Well, if I couldn't get that bunch of cads to report on a bit of Saddam torture I could at least sort that bounder McFiddle out and give him a bit-of-what-for. You'll never guess? He was on his way home to Sydney to receive the Fairfax Pilger Prize for outstanding reporting. That's when the room began to rapidly spin and the lights………
When I came too I was in the back of a US Army ambulance and on my way to the airport — destination Melbourne, Australia. Well I don't care what anyone say's, especially those rotten bolshies at the Age, those Americans are damned good chaps.
Would I have plenty to say when I got back, particularly to that rotter Jackson. I'm positive he's the one who got me sent to Baghdad because I stuck up for the Club and good ol' Hugh and Ray, when we were milking, I mean helping, the shareholders increase the value of their holdings in WMC.
And wouldn't the Club be proud of Bunny now that he was veteran war correspondent who had been horribly brutalised by a deadly enemy of the West. I could see it now: Ray standing on the stage, exuding manliness, with Hugh behind him, glowing with pride as Ray humbly decorated me with a gong for defending the values of the Club above and beyond the call of duty. And why not? I mean to say, if the Club is going to give Reith, Hugh and Ray gongs surely I deserve one for personally taking on Saddam?
There was going to be a meeting shortly to decide who was going to address the H. R. Nicholls Society annual do. I figured that would be the ideal venue to modestly request that my services as a battle scarred veteran receive full recognition.
Things didn't quite turn out as they should have. I've put everything down in my diary and all will be revealed in a matter of days. Now don't you go and tell anyone what I wrote because the HRNS board of directors swore me to secrecy. And Bunny knows how to keep a secret, just ask Ray.
Bunny's Baghdad adventure and reporters on the take
Bunny Champers (Albert Bartholomew de Champion) is Brookes' correspondent at large
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