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Rabid Dogs…9

…The Africans stayed to themselves for the most part. They were extremely lazy and racist – toward us and surprisingly toward themselves. They wouldn’t respond to orders from the rest of us during the leadership tasks until such time as the leadership role passed to them. Then watch out. They ran us into the ground trying to impress the staff with their field acumen. It didn’t work though for their field acumen lacked common sense or intelligence. And there weren’t any Batmen to order around or bail them out. I remember one task in particular. The Cameroon Officer was in charge. The task was to find and rescue a paratrooper who was caught up in the bush somewhere. It was our job to find the man, render first aid as required then bring him home. A time limit of three hours had been imposed. Once the scenario began and the Cameroon Officer’s Orders Group completed, off we went at the high port. He literally had us running through the jungle; he didn’t accept advice and was adamant that his way was the only way. In spite of his incompetence we did locate the wounded paratrooper who was, for exercise purposes, entangled high up in the trees. On starting the extrication and first aid process he shunned us all away and stunned us, shamed us, by taking out his revolver and, for exercise purposes, taking aim then shooting the casualty. Good thing we only had blanks. Shocked and amazed he then told us in no uncertain terms that his country had a “take no prisoners” philosophy, especially wounded prisoners, for whom in his mind’s eye were no better than rabid dogs!

Our basic training finished late November. I finished around the middle of the pack. I did have a couple of close calls with respect to a “cease training” career review board. Christ! The Career Review Board was a military “Star Chamber” and a nice way of saying WE DON’T WANT YOU! One of which was called due to my inability to meet the standard for the 9 mm pistol. No matter that I excelled with the FN C1 rifle achieving marksman status at 1,000 yards. The Army had rules after all. Luckily I was able to convince them that being in the Navy there was no need to be able to fire a 9 mm hand gun at close range. The days of “hands to boarding” were long gone with the death of Nelson some one hundred and seventy five years previously. The Army was like that though: stubborn and strong on rules and outmoded traditions. Yet cooler heads prevailed after telling them that the only gun I would be firing would be a 3in70 anti-aircraft gun weighing in at some 20 tons.

The other incident was more traumatic and emotionally painful. Toward the end of our training the powers that be had this survey completed by all of us recruits. It was called a Peer Review Survey where each and every one of us could assess the ability, leadership potential and personality traits of each other. If one received an adverse assessment from the other cadets a Career Review Board could be convened and the candidate in question ceased training and sent home. It was up to the candidate to convince the powers that be that he or she was up to par. Under no circumstances however should any of us have put another recruit down, no matter how despicable he or she may be. The repercussions were just too serious. Unfortunately, maturity was lacking among the majority of the recruits.

This was brutal. Unfortunately I received an adverse assessment from another cadet, one out of almost 90. Of course we were never told from whom. I couldn’t believe it as I always felt I was friendly, easy going and a team player. I got through it but it was a hurtful process especially to be told that someone in the group felt that you were not up to snuff or you were an asshole, a proctologist’s apprentice perhaps. It wasn’t until years later that I found out who it was, only by happenstance, as this individual anonymously tried to have me relieved of my duties from a staff position at Headquarters due to some perceived slight on my part toward his character. He did this without my knowledge. A falsehood as it turned out but it brought me right back to the Peer Review Survey that was done some 30 years previously. Ah yes, it was him, a colleague from Basic Training. The only saving grace for me was that this individual was an alcoholic, extremely obese and cowardly to boot. I don’t know where he is today or if he is still alive but I remain steadfast in amazement at his ability to smile to your face while imparting a knife in your back.

Interestingly, after a few years, that Peer Review Survey was discontinued…

Rabid Dogs…8

…We were a mixed bag of sorts. There was the Franco Platoon, separated from the rest of us in their own little French cocoon. Heaven forbid that they should assimilate with us nasty Anglos. Then the international guys, wannabe soldiers on exchange from Cameroon, Ghana, Tanzania, and Jamaica maan. They were a site to behold but at least they were integrated with the rest of us. And, as it turned out, had political baggage that was unknown to us at the beginning of our training. The rest of us? Just a smattering cross section of adolescents and young men from all walks of life from small town or big city. There were the keeners, the know it all-ers, the busybody-ers, the brown-nosers, the I gotta be in charge at all cost-ers: all young men in their prime of life or boys away from home for the very first time. Some guys were destined for the Army. They were the ground pounders or gravel technicians; some were headed for the Air Force – wing nuts, candy asses; while a smaller number still earmarked for the Navy – the hairy bags, bollard heads and tadpoles. We were all thrown together to work together to get together through all of this together. Three months of ground pounding hell together.

There was a great deal of pride in one’s chosen element. I don’t know why because none of us had a clue what the Army, Air Force or Navy was really all about. Most of it was gleaned from some romantic notion of heroism or action or pride as witnessed in the multitude of movies produced about the Second World War. I mean for me it would have been “The Cruel Sea,” Horatio Hornblower or John Wayne’s “In Harms Way.” It was harmless fun, just innocent ribbing with naivety’s jesters. There was one guy who I got to know pretty well that had a penchant for the C130 Hercules Aircraft. He reminded me, now, although not at the time, of Forest Gump’s friend Bubba who had a thousand ways to prepare shrimp. His C130 Hercules could do anything in herculean manner: Cargo, fighter, Maritime Patrol, Command and Control, aerobatics, carrier hops, you name it and his image of a C130 could do it. We would wile away the time together on some of the route marches peppering each other with the ways and means of this legendary aircraft or coming up with novel mission statements for his Hercules. It was all good fun. Unfortunately Mike didn’t pass out. I always wondered what happened to him and his fantasy C130 Herc.

The African contingent from Cameroon, Tanzania etc was worlds apart from the rest of us. In any given task these guys had to be plodded and probed to get on with the program. They were part of the old British or French colonial school as well. On our very first morning inspection I was shocked to see that Remy, the Tanzanian, whose bed and locker were directly across from me, had nothing turned out. His bunk was a mess, clothes were in disarray, locker was open and Remy was in a sad state of repair and panic. Where’s my “Batman” he kept saying to no one in particular? I’ll kill him. Where’s my tea? Yikes. This will not end well and for him it didn’t. Culture shock for this Officer candidate.

We learned to despise these guys, especially the Jamaican maan. He was more of a Mulatto than full a blown African Jamaican. He was of average height, good looking but not really handsome. He was extremely over confident having that English aristocratic bearing, posture and arrogance with the verbal bullying and abuse that came with his kind. He treated the non commissioned staff on the base with contempt. Yet paradoxically he had a thing going on with one of the female Army Sergeants although this fact didn’t come to light with the rest of us until our passing out parade where he was awarded the ceremonial sword for achieving “Best in Class” status among us all. Best in class – Hmmm I wondered about that female sergeant and some of the other classmates. But I wasn’t all that jealous because I always thought that best in class referred to the Westminster dog show and competition. In this regard he was somewhat of a Rottweiler….

Rabid Dogs…7

…In August I was headed out west for a fourth time except this time it was by air and my destination was some small town located in the mountains about 70 miles east of that west coast city of rain. Unfortunately, the area in which I was to spend the next three months was caught up into the same rain pattern that had so much turned me off in previously trips. No matter. Free room and board, $415 bucks a month and all the haircuts one would ever want or need.

Basic training? How to describe it? Holed up with 30 of your closest friends, under one roof as part of a 90 man Company. I was in “A” Platoon, housed in a “H” Hut with communal washrooms and showers. The other 2 platoons, “B” and “C” of our Company were housed in a stark, white building called Pachena Barracks. Three platoons and you had a Company as everything here was Army oriented, which kind of sucked and ticked me off to no end being that I had joined the Navy. No matter. They said that Leadership was Leadership no matter the environment and being an Officer Candidate I would be exposed to leadership drills and test scenarios in an Army environment to ascertain whether or not I had the right stuff for this military culture. Individuality was a no no in this environment hence the communal haircuts with the requisite white walls cropped ever so thin on top, and tight at the nape.

We all had fashionable haircuts for the day, long and shoulder length. Our first haircut was a traumatic experience. It was extremely tough to watch as our locks fell like fluff on the barber’s floor, only to be swept away into that dustbin of individuality. All that work in nurturing those locks, for months, years perhaps, all for naught. I’m sure I even saw some of the lads sob with every turn of the razor. I have to admit that with all of this trauma, the Army was super organized. They had a very large “Haircutting Room” capable of handling 10 of us at a time. Ten newbie recruits sitting there in 10 chairs with 10 Army barbers. Army barbers is a term used loosely here. In reality these guys were regular Army types making a few extra bucks on the side. Peace-work they told us and we were their peace-necks.

There were the usual comments such as “Hey, just a little off the top will do” or “Thin the sides” or “Shampoo and a rinse if you don’t mind” or my personal favourite “Take care of those split ends will ya.” They, the Army barbers, had heard it all before many, many times and just smirked as they took their razors, snapped a Number 2 on to the business end and, in what appeared to be one small swoop, the locks were gone. Just like that. Shave the nape of the neck, clean around the ears and it was all done in about 2 minutes. Next! Ten more. Next! Ten more. Next! And before you could say “a little dab will do ya” it was all over. 90 raw recruits in one door with 90 raw recruits out another but in right Army haberdashery fashion! It was somewhat comical watching 90 guys milling about outside afterward streaming their fingers through the hair that wasn’t there. The feeling was somewhat akin to someone sensing a lost foot or a lost arm after surgical amputation, or so I am told. Nevertheless, the transformation was incredible. We all looked the same, particularly after the uniform fitting was complete. From cool fashionable dude to Army, military dork….

Rabid Dogs…6

…I came back for the medical in about a week’s time. This was serious stuff. A full blown medical. Every orifice looked at and probed. This was not the two minute makeover that one sees in the movies.

“Is he breathing? Yes? Approved! Next!

I was a little bit worried about my eye test as I had had a lazy eye when I was a child. It cured itself but left some visual acuity issues in my right eye. I remember my dad telling me how he got through his eye exam in the Army during the war. He held his hand over his bad eye, read the scale then returned his arm to his side. When the doctor asked him to cover his other eye he placed his hand over his bad eye a second time, read the chart and got through the exam with a 20/20 result. I tried the same thing and it worked, primarily because the doctor was focused on the chart and not the patient.

I do remember a story from a naval friend of mine about his experience with his medical on joining. It kind of reflects some of the old military schooled attitudes of the times. My friend had had a severe case of acne when he was young. It left his face hideously pockmarked – had been for all of his life. He did his joining medical only to find out that he failed. He wasn’t told why although he suspected the reason. He left, forgot about the military, and went on his way. About 6 months later he was asked to return to the recruiting centre only to be told that they made a mistake in his medical assessment and would dearly love to have him return. He did. Apparently, the doctor, on examination of my friend, felt that his pockmarked face would not look good on parade and would reflect poorly on the military ethos. He wanted to protect the “Colonel.” So he failed him. Imagine the outcry if that happened today?

Finally finished, then in for another interview. This one was all encompassing but in generalities: the process, basic training expectations, career progression, military life, its rewards and sacrifices, security, threats and on and on he went. This would be the last interview and on receipt of a successful medical examination an offer to join would be given. The candidate, me, would have a few days to think about the decision to join prior to an invite for the swearing in ceremony and “Oath of Allegiance” to Queen and Country. Where was God in all of this? Swear on the bible of course!

In a weeks time I was sworn in. I told my mother, she was thrilled. I told my friends, they thought I was nuts. I also had a few months time before I had to report for Basic Training in August. Not too sure if I liked that break as it provided too much free time to think about my decision. But it also gave me the opportunity to get into physical shape, which I did….

Rabid Dogs…5

…It was almost lunch time. I had been there almost 3 hours now.

Not long now they assured me. Just a final interview and then I could leave.

“Just go into that “Interview Room,” the secretary said ” and the interviewer will be in there in a second.”

I went into the “Interview Room,” sat down and waited looking at the various pictures on the wall: tanks, airplanes, soldiers, ships, a whole arsenal of military scenes, wow, impressive.

Another man in another style of uniform suddenly came in and sat down at the desk in front of me.  He put down a stack of papers on the desk’s surface.

“So young man” he began “what do you want to do?

“I wanna join the Navy.” I offered

“Okay, and what do you want to do in the Navy?” he asked

“I wanna be a Boatswain’s Mate.” I replied for I had seen the Bogart movie “Action in the North Atlantic” and I remembered him, Bogart, talking to a Boatswain’s Mate.

“Well now, that’s great, but I have your test results here and they are telling us that you have the intelligence and aptitude for the Officer’s Corp.”

Officer Corp I thought, surprised. “Yeah, but I wanna be a Boatswain’s mate cause I have seen them in the movies.” What the hell did I know about the Navy anyway. Nothing!

He laughed and said ” there’s nothing wrong with being an Officer you know. I am one myself. A Major!” And I immediately thought of the Basilian Brothers and the major pain at THAT private high school for boys.

“Okay, so what’s the difference between being an officer or a Boatswain’s mate?” I asked.

He looked at me for a bit before he answered. Then: “Well John, in the Navy, a Boatswain’s mate earns about $275 a month while an Officer makes about $415 per month.

Without blinking an eye I replied in what seemed to be a nano second “I’ll be an Officer”

We both laughed. He told me that I had passed the first phase of recruitment. My test scores were well above average, the interview process looked favourable and that I would have to come back in a few days for the medical and final interview.

Okay great, I thought and thanked him for his time and was on my way. But then I stopped and asked him, somewhat peevishly

“What about the criminal thingy?”

“Don’t worry about that” he said. “Many of us in here have done a lot worse only we never got caught. And there are probably a great many of us, generally speaking of course, that were given the proverbial options by a Judge of either going to prison or joining the Army” You know, there are a lot of military men and women who have less than grade 8 education, for whatever reason.”

“Army….Army? Prison? Judges? Grade 8 education? Whew, only the Army” I was relieved. I was joining the Navy, whoopdi doo. Safe and sound!

“Or the Navy” he added. He was telepathic this Major.