Tag: Basic Training

Rabid Dogs…10

…The majority of us passed out successfully. A few, like my friend “Hercules Mike,” didn’t make it and were sent home. The Franco’s had their own parade, separate from the rest of us. The reviewing Officer of our parade was a hero of the Korean War. That was cool. The Jamaican maan received the Ceremonial Sword for the highest achieving candidate. His Army mistress could be seen beaming, she was so proud. Each of the so called “African Corp” received awards and performance medals: for leadership, or marksmanship, military theory, drill, or fitness (running), whatever. It was all so politically obvious, so politically barf worthy. Then there were the rest of us: our nation’s military peons. No awards for us. And after the “this is the best time to be joining the military” spiel, we were all dismissed.

I learned afterward the real dirt about the international students. The Jamaican maan was a distant relative of some Jamaican big shot, who was also a World War Two veteran. The five Officers of the “African Corp” would have passed out with honours regardless. Failing or barely meeting the minimum standard, as they did, was not an option for these candidates. Doing so, officially, would have brought discredit to their nations and would have meant immediate execution on their return home.

Accordingly, to their military’s credit, their military’s philosophy and their military’s “take no prisoners” mentality, they would have been struck down like the rabid dogs that they were…

Their words, not mine.

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….