Well Done, Those Men Read online

  Nostrils snapped to attention, spun like a mechanical robot, and screamed further foreign-language insults that most of us still didn’t understand. Then, with Nostrils cursing, hissing, and muttering death threats, we were marched to an enormous building that looked like a concert hall. The mess was not what I assumed: it was where we ate, all five hundred of us. The food was good — although, over time, you never admitted it. This was sort of an army tradition we learned very quickly, which got right up the cook’s nose. We had soup, a main meal, sweets, tea, coffee, milk, and juice. It only took minutes to feed hundreds at a time. I had never seen such efficiency and organisation. During the meal we experienced our first sign of civility; some army bloke asked us if the meal was OK. Perhaps the worst was over?

  After tea, we marched back to our hut. There were blankets and toiletries on the bed. It had been a big day, and now it was late. I had been up since 4.30am, and was looking forward to an early night. I wondered if most of the blokes wanted to go home to their mum like I did.

  All of a sudden, a terrified Vic Tamower shouted, ‘Stand to!’

  It was Nostrils. We were being marched back to the Q-store to get all our gear. This time it would be fitted. About an hour later, back in the hut, we were shown how to set out our locker and make a bed. Then we were told to shower and to be bedded down by 10.00pm for lights out, with no talking. At 10.00pm a trumpet played a tune I vaguely remembered from somewhere. I was too tired to care.

  Before dawn the next morning, we were woken by more damn trumpet stuff. Then in walked Nostrils, bellowing as he walked through the hut.

  ‘Wakey wakey, honds off snaky, git out orf thort fort sack, shower, shit, shave ornd be reedy in yor PT geaor in fifteen minutes.’

  We understood that. We rushed frantically to clean ourselves up and be out the front in time. One bloke was late.

  ‘Geave me ten, you horrible fork’n little mourn,’ said Nostrils.

  Dutifully, Snoggons got down and tried to do ten push-ups. We had to count each one. Almost in tears, he managed to finish. We stood for ages in our PT gear. This was to be a familiar pattern in the army.

  ‘Wort a horreable forking soight,’ sneered Nostrils in disgust.

  Fair comment. Couldn’t blame the ugly blighter, really. There we were, lined up in polished black sandshoes, an army jumper, and the strangest shorts I have ever seen. They were a baggy Bermuda-style that was left over from the Second World War; only our snow-white calf muscles were visible under the wide-bottomed shorts. Most of us didn’t have calf muscles anyway. Ironically, the shorts would be a hit with today’s skateboarding kids.

  Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, there appeared a bouncing, leaping ball of physical fitness. His white singlet and shorts looked like they had been painted on; there were bulges everywhere. It was freezing. But this ape-like bundle of muscle didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Follow me at the double,’ grunted The Ape.

  His jaw jutted up and down in a puppet-like movement, and his long arms almost dragged on the ground, the palms facing up. We ran, falling and stumbling, to an area set out for physical training.The Ape made us sit down on the cold ground. He pranced over to a chin-up bar, jumped up, and started doing chin-ups gracefully.

  ‘You ugly shits will have me every morning for half an hour. You will run, and run some more. You will wish you had never been fuck’n born.’

  This ramble continued for five minutes. I was spellbound; not by the quality of the talk, but the feat demonstrated by this domesticated, jungle-bred ape. He had been doing chin-ups the entire time, but not a drop of sweat appeared on his baboon-like brow; only his teeth glistened. When it came to our turn to do chin-ups, over half of us couldn’t do even one. Back at the hut by 7.00am, we were herded to the mess hall for breakfast. It was a hearty meal.

  Nostrils had warned us to have our hut ready for inspection by someone important straight after breakfast. Desperately, we tried to set up our wardrobe like the one demonstrated the day before. Then, ‘Stand to,’ Vic Tamower called, with a touch more confidence. In walked Nostrils.

  ‘Listen in. Lortonont Forlay (actually, it was Lieutenant Fairly), your plortoon commonder, will be hereor for a hort inspeaction shortlay. You will staund to attention and addreass him as “Sor”. Is thort cleaor?’

  ‘Yes, Corporal,’ came the reply in unison. Finally we were getting used to his bastardised, intergalactic South African accent. Then came another ‘Stand to.’ Poor Vic shuddered as he received a dark glare for his efforts. Nostrils froze and gave a salute. He vibrated all over, his arm slapping back to his side. His steely eyes would have melted candles off a birthday cake.

  ‘Hort reedy for inspeaction, Mr. Forlay, Sor,’ barked Nostrils.

  A sneering, cold-eyed mullet then appeared. He strutted down the passage towards my locker. Mr. Fairly (important) opened the locker door, and I thought he was going to vomit. I was about to apologise when I heard him say, ‘This locker is a disgrace.’

  Mr. Fairly (unimportant) looked at me as if I had leprosy. He pulled my locker forward, and all the contents fell on the floor.

  ‘The boozer is out of bounds to this hut until further notice,’ he said, spinning on his heel, returning Nostrils’ salute. Then Mr. Fairly (annoying) started to walk out. He looked back to the hut and stared at us with cold, milky, mullet eyes, put his impish little nose in the air with disgust, then strutted out.

  ‘Well dorne thut mourn,’ said Nostrils cynically.

  Then he pointed at me and said, ‘If I wore you blorkes, I’d take thort orgly fork’n pruck out the bork and paunch the fork’n pus out off him.’

  Nostrils also turned and stormed out. I stood as if nailed to the floor. Booster, the bloke in the next bed, came over.

  ‘I’ll help you tidy this mess up, Barry,’ he said. Good bloke, Booster.

  The next days were hectic and totally confusing, with us obeying every order thrown at us with enthusiasm. That was wise, as any sign of disobedience or slackness caused immediate retributions for the whole platoon. Later in the week, a short-sighted, alcoholic barber who had the shakes and putrid breath mutilated our hair in roughly thirty seconds. Then there were dental checks, body measurements, photographs, and even more abuse. We were constantly reminded to forget everything we had ever learned, as now the army way was the only way. It was exhausting and, if nothing else, it was a delight at night to fall into bed.

  This night, after several days of recruit training, all was quiet just after 10.00pm, and only snoring would disturb a good night’s sleep. Suddenly, we were greeted with a booming order, ‘On parade, 11 Platoon.’ It was our Sergeant Big Red, the gigantic, red-headed freak with an irritating voice like a cockatoo with a public address system.

  Rushing out in our pyjamas, we formed up beside Snoggons, our ‘right marker.’ It was strange to be on the parade ground in pyjamas, but that was the rule in the hut; be in bed, with lights out, by 10.00pm. After shuffling into some sort of order on the parade ground, the stunned sergeant almost choked.

  ‘Fuck me. Did I say pyjamas? Who in their right fuck’n mind would come on parade in their fuck’n pyjamas? Back to the huts, you fuck’n morons.’

  Dutifully we rushed back to our huts and jumped into bed. By now, the foul language used by the instructors didn’t bother us. In fact, there had been a growing use of the same swearing within our hut — or, more accurately, low, mumbled swearing. No talking. That wasn’t allowed after lights out. We got away with some soft whispering most of the time.

  At precisely 10.30pm, Sergeant Big Red was at it again. ‘On parade, 11 Platoon.’ The whispers started up: ‘What the hell do we wear? Let’s all go out in greens, eh?’ We rushed out.

  ‘Fuck me, that’s slow, and who said to wear fuck’n green’s? Fuck off, the lotta ya, before I lose me temper,’ said the very angry sergeant.

  Low muttering voices confirmed my own thoughts. What was going on? Who knew? We curled up in our beds and tried to get some sleep.
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br />   11.00pm.

  ‘On parade, 11 Platoon.’

  This time, we ignored the smart alec who suggested greens, and listened to Booster. Admittedly, he was a spud farmer, but he did possess some wisdom.

  ‘Battle dress, fellows. We’re on parade like, eh?’

  ‘Yair,’ we chorused. ‘Good move, Booster.’

  Sounded good. In a flash, we were in battle dress and clambering out in pitch-black dark to the well-lit parade ground.

  ‘Fuck me drunk. Did I say battle fuck’n dress? Useless pack a’ fuck’n pricks. Fuck off.’ Sergeant Big Red was starting to get really browned off.

  At midnight, then again at 12.30pm, we were given the same order and received the same response. Some of you might ask, why didn’t we ask the sergeant what to wear? You must be kidding. From day one, we were told, ‘Don’t think. Don’t ask questions. You’re not paid to.’

  In fact, Shearer, the dopey blighter, asked if could he go to the toilet one day during training. He spent the next hour jogging around a large training ground.

  So there we were, sitting on our beds, in the dark, having watched Sergeant Big Red storm off in disgust, muttering about seeing us at five the next morning, and complaining bitterly to Jesus and other eminent beings about the inferior, sub-human new recruits he had been given to train.

  We couldn’t sleep. Instead we sat on our beds complaining. Poor Booster was most frustrated. Minutes would have made a big difference to his life. Yes, he was complaining about the time he was born.

  ‘Mum should’a pushed harder. I’m gunna tell her that when I finally get home. Just after bloody midnight I popped out. How bloody unlucky can a fella get? Twenty minutes earlier, and I wouldn’t be in this hellhole.’

  ‘Yeah,’ we chorused in a conclusive whisper. Those of us gathered that night had similar grievances about our poor mothers’ birthing skills, as we had been born in early January 1945. Being born even weeks earlier would have seen us ineligible for National Service.

  We were into our second week. Vic Tamower was in what could be best described as shellshock. Mr. Fairly (irritating) gave our hut a surprise visit. A pale-faced Vic threw a funny action you could assume was a salute.

  ‘Never salute an officer without your hat on! Report to the mess for duty after tea, you imbecile.’

  Poor Vic Tamower would have given his left leg to be moved to any bed but the one just inside the front door. Whenever we were in the hut, he spent most of his time bobbing up and down, checking out the window to enable him to be ready to perform his duty to scream ‘Stand to.’

  By now we had a whole new way of dressing, standing, addressing an officer, and reacting to orders instantly. Within the hut we would whisper frantically to each other as we tried desperately to conform to the demanding dress code and the myriad new rules. But once outside and ready for inspection, no matter how hard we tried, Mr. Fairly (ignorant) just sneered and gave us extra penalties. For the first time we were given what was called duties. On duty in the kitchen, I washed more dishes in one day than I had in my whole life. Life was hectic; there was never time for a quiet talk or socialising.

  Then, in the third week, we were allowed contact with the outside world. After queuing for ages, I made my first phone call to my girlfriend. It lasted three minutes, and I couldn’t hear much over the lurid suggestions and sexual advice from fellow members of my hut.

  Somehow, slowly, we got used to the strict routines. Each morning after breakfast we would be lined up outside the front of the hut to be checked thoroughly for correct attire. Our buttons had to line up with our flies. All buttons had to be done up. Boots, gaiters, black belts, and brass had to be polished to perfection. As we stood to attention, our thumbs had to be lined up with the seam of our trousers. Then, bending over, Corporal Nostrils would check us out from our bootlaces to our slouch hats. Our newly issued rifles were scrutinised for dust and general cleanliness. All this was carried out with a surgeon’s precision. Finally, bloody Nostrils would peer at our ears, face, and hair. With irritating regularity, the insults would start.

  ‘Did you port a blade in your razor, you horrible little orgly mourn?’

  ‘Next toime put some fork’n milk on your face and geet the fork’n cat to lick thort fork’n bum florf orf, Miffkizza.’

  Poor Lykki Miffkizza was Mediterranean, and had almost no growth on his face. There was no need for him to shave, but the army insisted we all do so.

  Not only was it frustrating learning how to dress correctly; we had to change in the shortest time possible. Naturally, we had to be neat and precise. Sometimes our sleeves had to be rolled up. This, of course, had to be done a certain way. Everything we wore had to be spotlessly clean and pressed. There was a laundry room with machines and ironing boards, and we were expected to do our own washing, starch our greens, and iron everything except our undies and socks. Some of our early efforts at starching left our clothes so stiff we could hardly fold them. When we got dressed, the last thing on would be the slouch hat, with the chinstrap polished. It had a predetermined place on your head, and the bloody chinstrap had to line up at a certain point on your bloody face.

  Consequently, every time we were called out on parade or for inspection we would be like brides preparing for a wedding. We would check each other’s attire for mistakes or incorrect dress. This was all done within seconds. All too often, the entire platoon suffered if just one recruit messed up. But worst of all were the endless hours spent after tea in our huts trying to polish brass and put black Nugget on any webbing or leather. This had to be repeated every day. We practised stripping the rifle, drill movements, and timing.

  However, the most frustrating of all chores was spit polishing. We were issued with an individual pair of boots that were for parade drill and to be worn only on special occasions. Spit polishing required black Nugget, a cloth, and hours of endless rubbing in a circular motion on the toe of the boot. Every thirty seconds or so you spat on the toe, then dipped the cloth in the Nugget, getting only the smallest amount on the cloth. Rub, rub in circles we would go, chattering quietly among ourselves like parrots in a tree. Oddly enough, over time, a pride crept into this simple chore. Some blokes had the knack of getting a brilliant shine quite quickly. Their boots would look like black enamel. You could see your own reflection in the toe. It was the only time we really socialised. Quickly, we were given nicknames. I became Turd, the bloke in the next bed to Booster. I started to enjoy the hut, just a little.

  But come hut inspection, Mr. Fairly (stupid) was impossible to please; it was never up to scratch. He was paranoid about our parade boots. Randomly, he would pick on some bloke whose boots were possibly the best in the platoon.

  ‘Booster, those boots are a disgrace. Report to the kitchen after tea for extra duties. The rest of you, up Tit Hill.’

  This was a very steep hill behind the training area. We would stop what we were doing, and jog up and back, trying not to be last. That poor blighter often had to go back up again. We hated Mr. Fairly (dumb); he seemed irrelevant to the overall training. Further, he would punish the entire platoon for pointless misdemeanours. I recall one day we had just returned from drill on the company parade ground and there he was. Like a crow pestering newly born lambs, he demanded a snap inspection of our hut for dust and general cleanliness. For once, we thought we had the system beat, as the night before we had cleaned the hut from top to bottom. Too often in the past week, we had received added duties when Mr. Fairly (ugly) found the tiniest speck of dust on top of a locker or a window ledge. We stood to attention by our beds as he peered with beady eyes. Everything he wiped with the white gloves on his hands was clean. We had the little prat. Then, in the centre cubicle, he reached up, spun the florescent light tube, and there was a thin line of dust. Umpire, that’s not fair. He didn’t scoff or smile. He sneered.

  ‘There will be no wet canteen for this lot, Corporal.’

  However, our ugly corporal was slowly becoming a touch more human. He’d
stopped giving Miffkizza a hard time, and after that hut inspection he didn’t give us the all-too-boring lecture about how slack we were. He simply told us to do a quick clean-up.

  Then, about a week later, our Nostrils showed his first sign of frustration with our platoon commander. Mr. Fairly (dim-witted) was standing outside our lines with a cold, snide look on his fox-like little face. He’d been into our rooms, collected all our spit-polished boots, and thrown them into the gravel that surrounded our hut. Hours of hard rubbing were ruined. Nothing was said. Nostrils saluted the prick, and told us to take five and have a cigarette. By now, most of us smoked; if you didn’t, you didn’t have a break. The first tiny chink in Nostrils’ armour showed. He looked at the boots and just shook his head. To us, it was obvious that even he thought Mr. Fairly (moronic) had gone too far. We were issued with new boots, and had to start the long task of spit polishing all over again.

  But it was habits I brought into the army that were the hardest to break. Standing with your arms folded would draw the response, ‘Are you fork’n pregnornt or what?’ Or, ‘Geet your honds off your cork and out of your fork’n poorkets, you pudpuller.’

  Like many of the blokes, I found it very hard to break the habit of putting my hands into my pockets, particularly as the weather started to get cold. On many occasions I had to run up Tit Hill, yet twenty minutes later my damn hands, unbeknown to me, would wander back into my pockets. Back up Tit Hill I would jog.

  You couldn’t walk anywhere. It was endless marching. Gone were the days of strolling from point A to B. If two of us were going to the post office, we had to march, in step: that was OK. But working together as a platoon was the most difficult. On the parade ground, drill highlighted this. I didn’t realise how complex it was to get a group of people to do something together, in time and in unison. After all this time, we still couldn’t HALT. There was always someone on the wrong foot. I felt sorry for those blokes who had no co-ordination and couldn’t march. They copped endless abuse.

  ‘Geet inta fork’n steep, Weedbottom, you horrible, orgly mourn,’ came the endless tirade from Nostrils. This was simply solved, as it turned out. Weedbottom and his mate Blades went over the hill or AWOL, never to be seen again.