No Angry Shots ...
WHY the army?
The answer really is multi-faceted.
My family has a service background, with my grandfather, mother and father all serving in the Army and Navy. My grandfather, who I never met was a veteran of World War 2 fighting in desert warfare for the 2/3rd Australian Infantry Battalion awarded a Military Medal at Bardia. Normally, that would be a straightforward reason to follow the historical lineage into the Army.
It wasn't.
Dad captained a Patrol Boat in 72, the HMAS Barricade. One school holiday I was jettisoned into the crew for a run up to Thursday Island. The first day we spent doing Search and Rescue for a dinghy off the coast, which was promptly found before dusk. The next eight days were spent with me fighting sea sickness on a boat where it was easy to appreciate the phrase – the ocean was angry that day my friend. That trip put paid to my desire to be a Marine Biologist.
I had a couple good days, the views were beautiful as we headed north, and then returned before Thursday Island due to losing a day the first day. But overall, the trip was not a great advocacy for the Navy. What I didn’t appreciate until years later was that it was the roughest trip they had ever done and most of the crew were crook as well.
Was that the reason I joined the Army? I don’t think so.
Basic Training
Extracted from No Angry Shots, introducing Basic Training
Hair
The recruits who had been at Kapooka for days more than us showed us how to assemble our webbing. I was not the smallest guy, but my webbing belt did 3 laps of my waist.
And we were allowed to get into our greens. And lace our boots. And learn to fold our shirt sleeves at four finger folds. And set up our locker.
And then in our new uniforms with recruit fashioned bush hats we marched awkwardly to the Barber. I had a shortish haircut, but the number 1 still cut to the bone.
Lippy. All the NCOs and platoon staff gathered around the barber's chair. It was Lippy's turn. Lippy had hair down to his waist. And the barber said are you ready - as the blade cut through his beautiful locks and left a racing stripe down the middle of his head. By this time the NCOs were howling with laughter. And then a cross thatch. And a side skull line above the ear. Lippy looked like a poodle no one wanted. And then it was done. Lippy was asked if he wanted to keep the 8kg of hair they removed and he crossed his chest and bravely stood up, his sobs heard in Charlie Company, 600m away.
The NCOs thought that was the best thing they had ever seen.
But more was to come. Our next lesson was how to shave, with the beautifully marketed safety razor. Corporal Tom Law taught me to shave. He was good at drill, good ironer, highly effective NCO. But I'm not sure if he owned shares in paper towels, but hell we went through some as we all got to try our newly learnt skill of army shaving.
I did well, only 3 cuts and 6 stitches. You'll get used to it Wyatt; he said as I was given my third blood transfusion. After our shaving lesson the Showers and Latrines (SALs) were hosed down like an abattoir.
They taught us to iron. To comb our hair with a little brush and no fucking hair. And polish our boots. And spit polish our boots. Nothing was expected of us. How to make our beds. Fold sheets the Army way.
After Shaving Lesson Introduction, we went off to our first drill lesson. Wearing more field dressings and paper towels than had been used throughout the Vietnam war. Some would require Shaving lesson remediation training. And every pay day we were issued 3 more blades.
In week 5 after Leave, we progressed to Advanced shaving. Using razors we bought back from stand down.
Day 2 ended at 2200. After 47 HALLWAY 11s. And Lippy being the butt of every NCO joke.
But I was well on the way to being a hardened Aussie digger. I just needed to learn how to gently peel the paper towel off my throat and face without triggering another bloodbath.
Night Corporal.
Gas Training
Yes, I know, all diggers appreciate its Nuclear Biological and Chemical (NBC) Training, not Gas Training.
Getting lessons, putting on respirators, putting in filters. Hoping they worked.
Now if you haven’t been gassed by CS Gas, consider yourself on the right side of the ledger of commonsense.
From National Institute of Health: The eye is the most sensitive organ in riot control because CS causes epiphora, blepharospasm, a burning sensation, and visual problems. Coughing, increased mucous secretion, severe headaches, dizziness, dyspnoea, tightness of the chest, difficulty breathing, skin reactions, and excessive salivation are common. The onset of symptoms occurs within 20 to 60 seconds, and if the exposed individual is placed in fresh air these findings generally cease in 10 to 30 minutes.
To the scientists who researched and identified these symptoms, I confirm your findings. I confirmed them at Kapooka as a Recruit, and again at 1 RAR as a deployable digger. Eyes screaming – confirmed, long unwanted Snot trails – confirmed, coughing violently – confirmed, chest tightening – confirmed, desire to remain in the vicinity setting Zero – confirmed.
We’re Army recruits, once was not enough, I’d like two more please Sir. Back we go. Mask on, mask off ... Name, Regimental number, Rank. Cough, splutter, stinging eyes, snot. Mask on. And if you weren't affected or held your breath, a quick gut punch to inhale a gallon of CS.
The final run was entering with our mask off. Stand still until told to Mask On. Then go through the correct process of placing the respirator on. If you didn't - your mask was ripped off and thrown next to the burner. One recruit required to crawl towards the burner fully exposed, clawing for their respirator.
But let me be clear, Joe aka Mister Number 96 in 84 days did NOT go through the gas chamber. I didn’t see Joe Hasham with snot streaming from every orifice and arms outstretched praying for a cyclone to appear and clear our eyes. We did. We’d all have voted for you to get a Logie for that performance Joe.
In Germany in 84, I'm in Munster with the First Battalion Light Infantry. And Tommy’s would buy CS and spray it through the lines as a lark.