Well Done, Those Men Page 4

  Nostrils’ latest saying was, ‘You’ll wipe yor orse by nermbers before you leave heaor!’

  It had been drummed into us that any drill we had to learn was to be done with precision and by chanting numbers. The numbers one, two [‘tup’], and three controlled every movement. It was one, tup, three, and then back to one. This particular day we were up to rifle drill. We had to shoulder arms: at the count of ‘one’, we jerked the rifles up into our armpits; we counted ‘tup’; counted ‘three’; and then quickly removed our left arms to our sides, to the count of ‘one’ again.

  ‘As you whore, useloss prucks.’

  Confusing? It was for us, and somehow we were expected to do this as one.

  Sergeant Big Red was senior to the other corporals. He had an air of intellect about him. I’m sure this was the army’s view, anyhow. Once a week he would bellow a breathtaking statement of wisdom at us on the parade ground. His fellow trainers would narrow their eyes, lift their chins, and stare with adoration in Big Red’s direction. Nostrils’ eyes, it had been noted, actually misted up. The sergeant’s latest pearl of deep intellectual insight came when he addressed us as a platoon. Glaring directly at us, he roared, ‘What are ya, 11 Platoon?’

  ‘Shit, Sergeant!’ we screamed in a chorus-like reply.

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Three weeks, Sergeant!’ we responded proudly, since at that point we had been in recruit training for three weeks. The staff nodded in warm approval. Then Sergeant Big Red would briefly close his eyes and glow with pride. That was the consensus, anyhow. He looked tight lipped at his staff and hissed, ‘All yours, Corporals.’

  Nostrils, beaming like a beagle getting its tail scratched, happily dismissed the platoon. We seemed to have graduated as three-week-old shit … and they appeared pleased? The other thing we noticed was that Sergeant Big Red only shared his intellectual astuteness in the presence of the recruits and his corporals. Perhaps it was too deep, and went over Mr. Fairly’s (thick) head.

  Speaking of Mr. Fairly (anaemic), saluting an officer was difficult. First, they looked the same as any other Uniform. However, officers wore their rank on the epaulet (commonly called bird crap), and the other ranks or non-commissioned officers wore theirs on the sleeve. We had to salute all officers. But why should you salute someone you had no respect for? We were conforming to that well-documented Australian tradition of avoiding saluting an officer at any cost. No wonder it totally brassed off British officers in the First World War. Often, if an officer were spotted we would turn and march in another direction.

  Initially, our biggest problem was knowing whom to salute. Naturally, the army had a cynical way of reinforcing the point. Down the end of the parade ground was a tree, which was a rare sight at Puckapunyal army base. This tree was near the post office — a most important place as, already, our mail was precious to us. The bloody tree had officers’ rank nailed to the bark. This was very cunning, as every time we walked past the tree we had to salute it. Great, you felt like a dork; but to top it off they did this the day before our first visitors arrived. Three people had come up from Melbourne to see me. I told them not to go near the post office or the tree. Naturally, being true friends, the first place we headed for was the bloody tree. I snapped out a pretty good salute; I had to, as Nostrils stood nearby with a smirk on his elongated, ugly, Easter Island dial. My so-called friends broke up; they thought this was hilarious. What moron would salute a tree? They made me walk past it three times; I think they thought I was joking. It was a bad day all round, really. They didn’t wipe their feet before entering the hut; and Sam, the filthy beggar, threw cigarette butts on the ground. We had to put our butts in our pockets. Our platoon had a big emu-bob next day to pick up all the rubbish.

  Our first leave was one day away. Bewdy! In our hut, tales of impending erotic, raunchy weekends abounded. For me, still awaiting the thrills of my first sexual encounter, I considered my only real problem was that I was starting to swear endlessly. Swear words crept into every sentence I spoke, and I hoped I wouldn’t slip-up on leave. Even ‘bloody’ was frowned on where I came from, unless you were in male company.

  Would you believe, the bloody army picked this time to give us some injections, using syringes that looked as big as bike pumps. Tough blokes fainted, and others stumbled along, looking at the ceiling the entire time. Jab, jab. Mongrels, they never let up. Our shoulder muscles reacted violently. Some blokes were so sick they couldn’t go on leave. It was agony. I felt like I’d been belted on the arms with a cricket bat full of nails for twenty minutes. Like most, I had a miserable weekend free of any bodily contact. That Sunday night, blokes who had a car brought it back to camp after leave. Stew Withmash, a Pom, had an old ‘56 Ford Customline. His claim was he could only make it with a woman whilst under the stars.

  ‘It’s a sort of Liverpool tradition,’ Stew would boast. This peculiar ritual became clear on inspection of Withmash’s Ford. The laid-back seats were like a mattress, and the entire ceiling lining was torn out. It was painted black. There were stars dotted on the interior, with the odd comet zipping across the galaxy. There was only one seat, the driver’s. For a Pom, this was commendable; the bastard probably copied it off some Aussie.

  After ten weeks’ intensive training, we had completed the first stage of our National Service. My only claim to fame was I believed I had run up Tit Hill more than any other recruit. The run was a form of punishment. The hill was steep, and up and back was almost a mile. However, I loved running. I had been put into the army’s running squad, and had success with cross-country running. But I did put on a pained expression every time Nostrils sent me up the hill. Perhaps the other thing of note was that we always worked as a team. In fact, we had to work together as a platoon, or our life during training would have been even worse. The army had a simple philosophy: if you stuffed up, everyone copped it. As well, by now I had good mates, and my swearing was improving.

  We had sat in a large hall the day before our march-out parade as private soldiers. There were hundreds of us, in uniform and about to be told what the next stage of our training would involve. We were informed about the various training opportunities and what it offered us. Blokes were restless in the big hall. To be honest, it had started as a bad day. We had had a break-up party the night before, at which the army had put on free beer. It was almost obligatory that we got a skin full, as it was called.

  However, a blast from an army sergeant jolted us back to attention. Officers from each corps addressed us, and explained what choices we had and where the camps were located all over Australia. It was a very informative talk. When the time came, later in the day, I chose artillery; I wanted to be a physical training instructor. Naturally, totally ignoring this, the army sent me, and most of my platoon, to Singleton to do infantry training.

  Most of us had changed a great deal. We had survived an abusive training regime that fundamentally assumed we were sub-human, knew nothing, had no skills, and required a frightening, intensive, robotic training in the army’s ways. I always felt threatened. It could be argued that we had fewer privileges than a modern-day prisoner. There was never enough time. I was never able to relax, feel worthwhile, or competent unless with those mates within the confines of our hut. Now we all had the same level of fitness, and worked as a team, and support for each other was paramount. It took only one sharp command and we would be out the front of the hut, in the correct uniform, in seconds. I rarely thought of home. There was no time to socialise, and sleep was a precious commodity.

  Up until the day before we were due to march out from recruit training we were harshly treated. Then, suddenly, that night we were in an army hut getting drunk with our instructors. It was odd. Hesitant laughter and light bravado prevailed. It was the first indication from the army that we had made it. There were hints about those slack youth out there in civvy street; hints that we were a cut above them. There it was, our first compliment, even though it had no clarity.

  With recruit
training finished, it was time to march out, a term the army uses that suggests graduation. It was an impressive parade, with a military band and a Colonel Colin Auscopy to review the troops, along with invited guests. It was weird, but as I marched around the parade ground I couldn’t recall feeling a prouder moment in my life. We were told we looked good in uniform before the parade, and then in part of the address by the reviewing officer we were told to be proud of the uniform. We had a duty to uphold: we were now part of a tradition, and an honourable one at that. None of it made a lot of sense, but I felt swollen with pride. We were called men. Like a puppy that had been deprived of pats for a week, I lapped up the praise. I held my head high, and looked straight ahead with an air of success as I marched off the Puckapunyal parade ground — the same one we had been dropped off at after our bus trip from Melbourne over ten weeks before.

  The army turned on a splendid spectacle. I thought I had really achieved something. Maybe I had even learned something about life. But, then again, I wasn’t sure. People clapping, military music, uniforms, the red carpet, and pomp and ceremony would make anyone feel good, I guessed. Over the next two years, occasionally I would read in daily papers that the army had been chastised for swearing at and intimidating National Service recruits. Naturally, the press had an influence, and the intensity of the training was reduced. Recruits were treated like army regulars. I wonder what Nostrils, Big Ears, The Beret, Big Red, and Mr. Fairly (fruitless) thought about this.

  There were cynics in Civvy Street who argued that we had been brainwashed. At that time, I dismissed this as jealousy or maybe ignorance. The fact that I now demanded punctuality and criticised slovenly attire was just part of becoming an adult, surely?

  INFANTRY CORPS TRAINING

  3TB, SINGLETON, NSW

  WE WERE POSTED to 3TB (Third Training Battalion) at Singleton army camp in the Hunter Valley, New South Wales. Singleton had been established in 1942. Like Puckapunyal, it had new huts, canteens, a mess, and administration buildings. Now it was the new Infantry Training Battalion’s base.

  Jammed into Boosters’ VW, the four of us from our hut headed up the Hume, then took the Putty Road to Singleton. We sang and stuffed around the whole way. This freedom was a new phenomenon: the army trusted us to find our own way to 3TB, and we were given a full day to drive to our destination. At the training camp’s entrance were two statues of squatting lions, both at least life size. Apparently, they were the pride of the commanding officer (CO) of 3TB. We reported to the guard on duty at the gate, and were directed to our barracks. They had never been used, as we were the first National Servicemen to do infantry training at the centre. It was on land that looked like a desert. There were no trees, or lawn, or grass in the nearby paddocks — just like Puckapunyal. New soldiers from every state were standing around waiting for directions. With typical army efficiency, we were soon in our new barracks, issued gear, and given some spare time to introduce ourselves. My new platoon was designated as ‘22’. Half of the faces in my hut were new to me. After having an hour to settle in, we were called as a battalion on to the shiny new parade ground. There were hundreds of us.

  The regimental sergeant major (RSM), the highest-ranked noncommissioned officer on the base, screamed us into an orderly group. To his credit, he presented the entire battalion to Open Order March and Present Arms without the aid of a microphone or a public address system. Instead, there emerged from this RSM the strangest voice I had ever heard. It was comical, and I found it difficult to keep a straight face. His voice sounded like a formula one racing car tearing down the main straight at Le Mans. It was high pitched and penetrating: something to be admired in the army. With us lined up, all standing in our companies and at attention, he turned and saluted the CO.

  The RSM then handed over the parade to the senior officer, the commanding officer, which was the normal protocol. This distinguished-looking soldier stepped onto the podium. With a very cultured accent he told us, over a PA system, that we were the Lion Battalion, and to give him three hearty roars. The response was hilarious. How does one roar like a lion? There were a few hisses, an odd scowl, a lot of purrs, and some full-blown alley-cat howls. The RSM scowled at our effort and smirks. You could see him slotting that away in his memory; we would regret this frivolity later.

  The CO continued with further rallying one-liners of teamwork, courage, and something or other. By now, most of us had tuned out. What he did was set up the future for pranks that lasted our entire time at 3TB.

  The next morning, the striking gold lions at the entrance had changed to green. Not guilty, your honour. But the culprits did come from our company. Well done, those men!

  Later that same day, there was another battalion parade and yet a further pep talk from the CO. He didn’t quite get to ‘My fellow Australians’ and ‘God bless Australia’, but he came close. Then came heartier roars, followed by a grilling from the RSM about our lack of discipline and the prospect of our balls being roasted for supper.

  Those poor bloody lions. They ended up like chameleons. Purple, it was felt, was their best colour. The culprits were never caught. Like most blokes did, I bought the painters a beer.

  The infantry training was totally different from recruit training at Puckapunyal. The intensity was there, but we were well treated and it was relevant. We were introduced to a variety of weapons, including the M60 machine gun, which was a beautiful weapon. I say this as I was from a farm where I’d had a 22 rifle, a 410 shotgun, and a 303. I had used them all on the farm, and the 303 had a kick like a mule when fired. But the new M60 was a robust, powerful gun with little if no recoil.

  We did little drill. There was a lot of emphasis on target practice, keeping fit, and marching in full gear for long periods. Gradually we were introduced to new weaponry. The rocket launcher was OK, but grenade throwing was what was commonly called a ball-tearer. Every grunt (infantry soldier) that went through Singleton had a story about his first grenade exercise. First, there was the noise. Multiply the loudest claps of thunder you’d ever heard by three, and that would be somewhere near a grenade blast. With that in mind, anyone who tells you it was good fun is bragging. We had to throw the grenade from a trench in which the instructor and a grunt had to crouch. The rest of us would be further around in a dugout that was covered in sandbags. The instructions were:

  ‘Hold the grenade, pull the pin, let go the clasp, count to two, call “grenade”, throw the grenade at the target, duck, three, four, boom.’

  ‘Next.’

  When the grenade exploded, the bunker shuddered, dust and fine grit fell down on us, and it felt like we had been bombed, whatever that felt like. A grenade is only the size of a medium potato. After you pull the pin and release the clasp, it takes four-and-a-bit seconds to explode. In a real combat situation, this allows time for the thrower to take cover and warn his mates, and let them hit the deck.

  We were all jammed in the bunker awaiting a call. Grafter, with the surname of Arthur, was the first. His throw was a panic reaction. This was unusual, as Grafter was a pretty cool customer; mind you, he was from Tasmania. The grenade landed just outside the trench. Boom! Crunch! We all stared at one another with disbelief. Worried looks filled the bunker before we realised no one had been hurt. Grafter returned to the bunker. He was pale, but he had a look that worried us even more. He was not a happy chappy. I was grateful my surname was Heard; everything in the army was done alphabetically, and I had about six blokes in front of me. Next it was Bumper’s turn. His grenade didn’t go off. Poor bugger: he thought the Corporal would make him retrieve it. But what followed was an elaborate procedure to blow up the dud grenade, handled with professional ease by our instructor.

  After a couple more throws, it was my turn. It was a long walk the whole ten yards around the corner of the trench. Helmet on, grenade in right hand — or, should I say, shaking right hand — I waited for instructions. Rip, I pulled the pin and, whoosh; I reckon I threw the bloody thing fifty yards. It couldn’t
have been that far, but the blokes in the dugout said it must have been a fair way, as there was no dust or shudder in the bunker. I was glad it was over. What a lethal weapon. I would sooner have gone to the dentist than repeat that! During training at Singleton, I heard stories of blokes who pulled the pin and dropped the grenade at their feet. Fortunately, there was time in such cases to zip around the corner of the trench. Then there were others who had trouble pulling out the pin and got into a panic, and the instructor had to take over. The most common mistake, as you can imagine, was throwing the grenade with the pin still in.

  Perhaps the biggest difference from recruit training to infantry or corps training was within the hut. We had a lot more freedom. Although we spent a lot of time out on the rifle range or in the bush, if we returned to camp we would usually knock off about 4.00pm, shower, and be in our own time. This own time included sport, and we were expected to participate. Then, usually by five, we would be back in our hut. Loud radios blared pop music. Johnny O’Keefe … The Delltones … The Mammas and Pappas … Dusty Springfield: ‘You don’t have to say you love me’ … ‘Black is Black … I want ma baby back’. This type of music was new to me. Where I’d grown up, it was all ABC radio with Russ Tyson, and Blue Hills if you managed to get a good reception. Most houses at home had high antennas, and the music was usually Bing Crosby, Benny Goodman, and the Glenn Miller Band. However, I quickly warmed to the ‘Hit parade’ and groovy music.

  The atmosphere in our hut was great. Almost straight away, we all got on. It was fun to sit around, yak, and listen to their stories and backgrounds. I was different from most, as I felt like I had grown up in another world before the army. Most of them were definitely sixties’ swingers. There was a short fella at the end of the hut we called Beebop. He appeared to walk around in a dream, chanting ‘Beebop-a-lula’ or ‘dubbee dubbee doo’. Then, when he spoke, his conversations started with ‘Hey man …’ and finished with ‘Cool’. His musical tastes were different from the rest in the hut. He had brought his own record player and put on his own cool music. During this, he would constantly spin, click his thumbs and fingers, and hum to Cat Stevens or Bob Dylan. His frustrated hut mates would call out, ‘For crikes sake, shud up, Beebop, ya wanker.’ He ignored them. Then his fellow grunts would finally yell, ‘Turn that shit awf.’ Beebop, who had recently turned to the intellectual wing of the hippy movement, told them, ‘Jam it, ya morons. Learn to love one another.’