Foreword:
All countries have their Special Forces. The harsh truth is ‘All work outside international law if it's deemed necessary.’ Torture and unlawful killing is oft part-and-parcel of the job.
Below the surface of this cesspool of intrigue, lays a denser soup of covert groups and operatives. At the bottom is a layer of impenetrable 'silt' comprised of personnel specialising in carrying out tasks other departments cannot be privy to - COD's (Cover-ups, and 'Disposals'): Blowjobs, (Killings), are their speciality.
Some are controlled by leaders with their country's welfare at heart. Most are controlled by unscrupulous Industrial Moguls, consumed by the pursuit of money and power, some by religious fanatics. Typically - as with the CIA - drugs and illegal arms deals often provide secret finances.
‘Blowjobs’ tells how I descended into this cesspool of intrigue, and relates a few samples of the operations carried out. Few will believe it - truth is so often stranger than fiction. Official Secrets Acts ensure it can only ever be published as fiction anyway.
(Another extract from “Blowjobs”)
Our training was both physical and mental. The severity of the physical side would put in the shade the present day training schedules of Special Forces. British SAS are the best trained of modern Forces - and always have been. Prospective COPs were put through SAS training as a way of sorting the wheat from the chaff. Only those passing the course with flying colours were considered for further training as Covert Operators. That further training was really tough!
US Marines, SBS, SAS, etc. are trained with the intent of the finished product being a mentally, and physically fit person, able to perform as part of a highly skilled unit. The intent is not to break applicants. Sure, they are pushed hard. However, a high proportion makes it through. (It is just as important not to break a good man, as it is to suss out men of lesser stature.) Any 'rejects' are returned to serve in less demanding units.
Conversely, our training was based on really pushing us to the limit. It was geared to produce individuals that did virtually all of their work in hostile territory, acting alone, often in extremes of heat or cold. Men able to survive on icy mountain, desert, or tropical jungle; Individuals feeling as equally at home in the White House as a Burmese brothel. (I still think there is a slight difference!)
We were expendable in training and in the field. Unlike Marines, or SAS, we couldn’t call up air strikes or other help if we were in the mire. And nobody would admit to owning us if we were exposed or captured. We had no electronic 'James Bond's' gadgets to help us. No night vision binoculars or GPS aids. We found our way by, the stars, or a homemade compass, and survived by our wits Of the very few that moved up from initial SAS training, up to sixty per cent failed on the mental tests alone. They were not returned to any unit - they 'disappeared' in the jungle night. A few of us did make it, and once ‘in the field’ were thankful our training had been so hard and thorough.
Of paramount importance was that we were au fete with methods used to extract information if captured. Standard physical and mental torture was easy to imagine. It was the less familiar methods, incorporating drug use, and electronic apparatus that our instructors concentrated on: We had to endure time in gas chambers, and had to experience the effects of various drugs, and learn how to combat them.
The family of hypnotic drugs used, I found a ‘piece of cake’ to combat. Some of the hallucinogenics were harder to resist. One used by Russian Military Intelligence (K207) was a real stinker. My own experience of that particular drug follows:
It was hot as hell in Southern Borneo. Humidity was at saturation level. Mosquitoes bred by the billion trillion. They attacked constantly like swarms of angry bees. After lunch I sat on the single chair in my tent, daydreaming of childhood. What disturbed me, I was not sure, but I noticed a large fly among the mosquitoes on my left wrist, and went to swipe it. My right hand failed to respond. I tried again – without success.
‘Sh---t’, was my first thought, ‘I’ve had a bloody stroke. My right side’s paralysed.’ I tried wiggling my right toes – nothing… my brain clicked into overdrive: If I was found like that, it meant certain death. My body would be part of the decaying jungle undergrowth within hours. My only chance of survival was to fade into the jungle of my own volition, and survive as best I could. Already I was calculating what I could take with me - the essential must-haves.
From trying to swipe the fly to mentally organising my escape took at most five seconds. Only as I started putting my hasty plan into practice, did I realise it was not a common stroke – only my eyes, and head would move – everything else was numb.
My first thoughts were ones of considerable relief: I knew survival against a search party with their skills, would have been testing if I were fully fit. Being paralysed down one side would kick the odds well in their favour. I had not been overjoyed at the proposition. However, being totally numb from the neck down (many think I’m just that from the neck up!) was quite an exhilarating feeling.
Knowing I was of no further use to them, I would become a ‘blowjob’. That could be painful – and my only known allergy is to pain! However, being paralysed, I now reasoned I could ask them to stick a knife in my heart – and I wouldn’t feel a thing. (Every cloud has a silver lining!)
I returned to watching the fly… it started to bite into my flesh. Not satisfied with that, it started burrowing its way in. A minute later it was working its way under my flesh, a couple of inches from the entry point. It was fascinating watching at first – then the pain began.
Sweat trickled down my face in rivulets. Another fly started to work on my cheek. Then another on my arm, more arrived to start drilling into my body and limbs. As each fly made ingress, it brought back feeling to the spot it occupied – and with it the pain. However, I still could not move a muscle. The agony of tickling sweat was agony enough - without the rest!
Each was laying a batch of eggs within me. I sat helpless, worse followed… the heat of my body speeded up the incubation, in minutes the eggs started to move, expand, and hatch out. Soon my body was a seething mass of writhing black bulges, all trying to burrow out. It seemed every inch of my body was raw, bloody, and on fire. With eyes blurred over, I waited for death…
I couldn’t make the words out at first, then they registered in some part of my pain-engulfed brain…
“Repeat your rank, name, number… repeat your rank, name number… repeat…” Nine tenths of me was resigned to death in a world of blurred orange, all-consuming pain. The one tenth of hazy consciousness prepared to reply mechanically.
The first thing you memorise following enlistment is your service number: It becomes second nature to reel it off at the least prompt. In my state of semi-consciousness, the information should have escaped my lips without hesitation. That it didn’t is part of why I am what I am.
Somewhere, in some corner recess of my mind, my aversion to authority surfaced. Through the pain, I thought 'The sod can get stuffed…' The voice continued its repeating demand. I marshalled my senses, concentrating on the voice to the exclusion of all else.
The voice was female. Realisation dawned, It was ‘Titless Wonder’, our camp psychologist. (So called, because the Japs on Wake Island had captured her. Apart from other indignities she suffered under interrogation, her captors had removed both her breasts). How she’d survived for four months, then made her escape, and survived alone for eleven months on the Island before ‘John Wayne’ re-captured the place - is a story she never told.
She'd ended up employed in an English hospital. It was there she'd been recruited by 'Mister Brown', and shipped to Borneo as Camp Medical Expert. She was the most dedicated, sadistic man-hater I ever met. Her job was to try to mentally break every prospective new Special Operator. Her success rate was reputedly better than sixty percent. Those she did break were ‘spirited away’. Where to, we never asked…
The words changed, became confidently soothing. “Let me help you. I can see you are in pain. Someone drugged you… that Russian stuff we never test you with… let me give you the antidote... it’s not your fault… I just need your rank name, and number. Let me take your arm, you will be fine in a moment Sir. Just relax, you are not to blame… what did you say your name was…?”
Through the pain, her voice was so comforting. Relief at the knowledge that I was the victim of a powerful hallucinatory drug – and not a mass of pulsating, paralysed flesh - did nothing to ease the pain, but so relaxed me mentally; I almost drifted into a euphoric stupor. Knowing I would not be held responsible meant I could continue what I'd set out to accomplish: prove I had what it takes.
She broke in on the pleasing thoughts: “That’s fine, Sir. A tiny prick, and you will be fine… what was the number again?”
My eyes opened sufficiently to see she was lent over me holding a syringe. In the back of my mind I figured she must have been a good looker in her youth. In the forefront, brain-cogs worked furiously: asking and answering my own questions like a crazed quizmaster. ‘What is in the syringe? How does she know I’ve been given K207? If she wants my NRN, why has she no notebook? I had the answers almost before the questions were posed. She was the guilty one. She was not going to break me.
Holding her gaze through glazed eye-slits, my lips started forming words. Sensing me responding she asked - “That’s right Sir, just repeat your number. Better make sure I copied it correctly.”
As she spoke, I flexed my toes, arms, stomach, imperceptibly. Their reaction was reassuring. I slowly voiced “Two – one - four - BITCH.” The last word, I snarled at her as I dealt her a right index and second finger-knuckles lethal blow. It drove her backwards to the earth floor. As in training, I landed with my right knee on her ribcage, collapsing it. She died instantly.
Pausing warily, a knife from neck sheaths in each hand I listened. Outside, One and Three exchanged jocularities. From the sounds, they were tossing a baseball between them.
Replacing the knives, and leaning through the tent flap I called out, “One, Three (we never used names), I got a problem. I was taking a kip. Titless, musta disturbed me, I planted one on her. Is Nine about?” (Nine was the senior instructor.)
Three doubled off to get Nine. One asked, “You kill her?” I shrugged, “I need a shower.” Grabbing a towel, I left them to it. I never saw her again. I wager nobody ever found her body.
Following that night’s manoeuvre, Nine asked, “So what happened with Doc?”
“Guess I was having a bad dream, and she touched me. You know me, ‘act first, and...'"
He studied the ground, “They’re loaning us a shrink from Singapore. A Chinky.” After a pause he added; “You had K207 in your soup. What was it like?”
I shrugged “Not bad. I prefer plain mushroom myself…”
War is an evil thing breeding evil people. Ensuring peace is little better. I often I think of her and think life is fair in that it is unfair to everybody. Two certainties: Drugs are for mugs. Show me a user – and you show me a loser.
Wicked! Evil! Whatever you may think, remember: It is largely because of operators like me that you enjoy relative freedom today. And just think how many innocent American, Iraqis and others' lives would have been saved if Sadaam Hussein had been the subject of a ‘blowjob’?'
Fanon: I wrote my autobiography in two parts: "Ride The Donkey" (Birth to eighteen) and "Blowjob" (Life as a COP). The title 'Blowjob' is the term used if the assignment was to 'take out' a particular enemy. (It's also a term for 'whistle-blowing.') They are written as 'FACTION' (Fact/Fiction), to protect innocents and honour 'Official Secrets Acts." Both are raw truth and shocking. "Blowjob" reveals the true violence perpetrated by 'Special Forces' of several Countries. They include explicit sexual and torture incidents and assassination, so are not suitable for other than a very adult readership. Read more about Fanon's amazing life along with his interview for LSS.
