Tag: military

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.

Rabid Dogs…4

…I thought of my options. Why not join the Navy?  Why not indeed. But the military life seemed to be an anathema to my easy going ways. Yes, I was intrigued by the stories my father told me of his military life. The fun he had although he never ever parlayed his combat experiences to me or anyone else in the family. His friends, the sports, the overt camaraderie he seemed to enjoy were interesting but I always sensed that he despised the discipline, arrogance and bullshit of the Army. It was no wonder, or joke, that we never ever went camping as a family. Holed up in a tent for weeks at a time: cold, dirty miserable English weather or the heat and humidity of a European summer all the while scared out of your ever loving mind.  No, I think for me I was scared of the discipline and uncertainty of the military life. Especially the Army. All that salutin; yes sir, no sir, your shit lockers full sir etc. On top of that, the only insight I had of the Navy arose from the serious and dark images of Jack Hawkins in “The Cruel Sea;” or the fanaticism, madness of Burt Lancaster and Clark Gable in “Run Silent Run Deep;” or conversely “McHale’s Navy.” What should I do? Yes or no?

I decided to check it out as I didn’t have to commit right away. I didn’t tell a soul what I was doing.  Down I went to the recruiting centre, taking the metro then bus to an imposing but stark and sombre looking building downtown. I hesitated. Should I or shouldn’t I? Yet the unknown always appears worse than it really is. Just go for it and see what happens. It may turn out that they “DON’T WANT YOU.”

In I went, to reception. Everyone here, except us snot nosed delinquents, was in uniform of some sorts. But I didn’t really know one from the other.

“Can I help you” a uniformed man asked.

“Um ah, yes Sir. I think I, well what I mean is, I would like to or perhaps – do you have any openings for a Boatswain’s Mate?” Not cool!

The guy looked at me like the dork that I was. He chuckled somewhat, gave me a book of forms and asked me, politely but assertively, to fill them out in the “fill out the book of forms” room.

I complied. It took me about an hour to complete the application, as best I could. Of some concern was the part about a criminal record, trouble with the law etc and my mind came back to that time with Timmy and the Great Record Robbery. I felt I had better be honest here and not lie for I had seen the movie and knew what happens to guys who lie in the military – Firing Squad – just like that anti-war movie “Paths of Glory” with Kirk Douglas. “Nothing glorious in being dead” I shivered to think of it myself. Then again this was the Navy. What then? Oh damn, the gangplank, as in walk it, as in how long can you tread water? As in how far can you swim? As in keel hauling, just like Jack London’s “Sea Wolf” with Edward G Robinson and John Garfield! Cookie and the shark! Good gawd man I thought to myself, stop with the movie fantasy, this is real life.

I handed the application back to the nice man in the uniform. He shuffled them into a file folder. Oh yeah, the infamous file folder. If you want to look good in the military and not be a target for some stupid duty, like KP, you walk around looking important, and busy, with a file folder in you hands – just like Phil Silvers as the Master Sergeant con man in “Sgt Bilko.” But I digress.

“Thanks John” the recruiter said, then adding “Now I have here a battery of aptitude tests for you to take: basic math, algebra, general knowledge, things of that nature. If you would be so kind as to go over to the “take the battery of aptitude tests” room and I’ll be right with you.”

In I went into the “take the battery of aptitude tests” room and sat down. I was the only dork there. The recruiter came in and told me that these tests were time sensitive in that I had a certain amount of time to complete them. Fine I thought but somewhat nervous.

“Try not to be nervous,” he reassured me. He was a nice guy actually. But then again they are all nice guys and gals until they have you dead to right or lost to your rights, right? No left!

First math – 20 minutes, done. Then some geometry, algebra – 30 minutes, done. Then general knowledge – 30 minutes – done admiralty, er admirably. Finally history – 20 minutes, done. Whew, finished, tough go for sure.

“Okay John, thanks. You can go back to reception, or go out for a smoke, or whatever. We should have the results in about 30 minutes.”

Whew, that was tough I thought. Almost two hours of this. I was a tad drained of energy.