RECRUIT TRAINING, PUCKAPUNYAL 1966

THE MAIL BUS from Swifts Creek to Bairnsdale was a slow, winding trip. I only had a small bag with a few things in it. Those were the instructions. As the first person called up from our district, I had no idea what to expect or what lay ahead. If I had, I might never have hopped onto the bus. I was going to spend the night in a hotel in Bairnsdale and catch the early-morning train to Melbourne the next day.

There were five of us at the station at Bairnsdale the following morning, and our instructions were brief: report to the CSM at Spencer Street Station. Nobody explained that this referred to the company sergeant major.

What was a CSM, we wondered? City stationmaster? Catholics’ Special Mass? Coffee, scones, and a muffin? We decided we would just follow the crowd when we got there. The train picked up new recruits all the way down. On arrival in Melbourne, an army bloke greeted us, walking very stiffly. His uniform was so starched it squeaked. A couple in our much larger group muttered to each other.

‘Looks like a green emu.’

‘Looks like he’s just cacked his daks.’

Grinning, we were herded towards a gate where scant details were checked and we were asked how we were feeling. Later, I was told that this was actually another medical. Two olive-green army buses were waiting outside the station. The third intake of National Servicemen stepped aboard. By now, some of them were becoming a bit boisterous — the result, no doubt, of the beers they were consuming rather than having taken offence at the way they were being treated. So far, every request by the army was prefaced by ‘please’, ‘could you’, and ‘would you mind’. The new recruits were having a good time generally. As the buses drove through Melbourne, they stuck their heads out of the windows, and wolf whistles along with primitive mating howls greeted any attractive girl who was within earshot. ‘Getyagearoff’ and similar suggestive proposals were screamed and chanted from windows. This youthful bravado was new to me. The language was crude, and I became an observer. The squeaky army blokes just sat quietly up the front. They seemed to condone this behaviour.

Halfway to Puckapunyal army base, the buses pulled over at a service station for lunch and a pee stop. The recruits, contrary to instructions from the starched soldiers, dawdled back onto the buses with their fists full of food and drink. By the time we had reached Puckapunyal, about two hours north of Melbourne, the bus was full of noise, rubbish, and booming egos. Even a little singing was taking place.

The drive into the army camp was impressive. A long avenue of trees with a neat and trimmed lawn made it look like you were entering a cemetery. Everything was clean, freshly painted, and orderly. It was quiet. Several buildings appeared on the left, including the hospital. Nothing was out of place, apart from two busloads of new army recruits perhaps. The buses stopped at a brick building that was located in front of a large parade ground. There were about ten soldiers gathered on the ground, and they looked big and ugly. Their instructions for us to get off the bus were blunt and crude, but had little impact. Blokes just sauntered off. An attempt was made to line us up in three ranks, but this, too, was pretty hopeless. Then a square-jawed, mean-looking, six-foot-six-inch part animal, in a green uniform and wearing a beret, called out to one of the blokes.

‘Hey, you — yes, you — you ugly six foot of sewer sludge. Get your arse over here … now!’

Silence fell immediately.

The six foot of sewer sludge had been one of the chief instigators of mischief on the bus. He strolled warily over to The Beret, turned back to the mob, and winked. The Beret snarled, bared his gigantic teeth and then, with his face a full six inches from the mischief-maker, bellowed in a voice that could have been heard half a mile away.

‘What’s your name, boy?’

‘Crackbottle,’ said the boy, leaning backwards and somewhat startled.

‘I can’t hear ya, boy!’ barked The Beret, getting angry.

‘Crackbottle,’ shouted the boy.

‘You got balls, boy?’ sneered The Beret.

‘Yes, sir,’ said the boy.

‘Call me sir again and I’ll eat ya fuck’n balls for breakfast … slowly,’ said The Beret, now very red in the face. He was shaking with anger. I was worried that he might thump the boy.

‘Whatsya full name, boy?’ spat The Beret, his nose three inches from the boy’s face.

‘Kenneth Crackbottle!’ yelled the boy, who was now attempting to stand at attention and still leaning back at a precarious angle. He looked like a dead body in a coffin that was standing up, rested against a wall. His wide grins and loud-mouthed behaviour had disappeared. He had a stupid stare on his face. It was from fear, not alcohol.

‘We gotta girl called Ken Crackbottle, Sergeant,’ said The Beret, turning to another monster in a green uniform who had muscles on his ear lobes.

‘Yes, Corporal,’ said Sergeant Big Ears, then added, ‘Crackbottle, your number is 3788324, you are in D Company, 11 Platoon, hut 22, bed 6. Move, you fuck’n moron.’ The sergeant’s gigantic mouth was stretched open wide. It would have held two cricket balls.

‘March, Crackbottle,’ snarled The Beret.

Poor Kenneth Crackbottle strutted off in haste, not having a clue what was going on or where he was going. He looked like a circus clown, his arms swinging too high, his knees coming halfway up his chest. It looked funny, but no one laughed.

‘Double up, ya dopey prick, Crackbottle,’ shouted another well-muscled Uniform with a neck like a Hereford bull. Consequently, Crackbottle started to run across the parade ground. Suddenly a booming, dignified voice came over the public address system.

‘Get that horrible man off my parade ground.’

Poor Kenneth Crackbottle: he had a look of bewildered terror on his face. He copped abuse no matter which direction he headed in.

Meanwhile, The Beret and Big Ears were calling others up. By the time it came to me, there were 25 bodies running everywhere. I stopped, and politely asked a Uniform where I had to go.

‘You’ve been told. Now fuck off,’ he replied.

Amid this confusion, a familiar voice reverberated from the public address system.

‘Come back, you morons, and line up beside the buses … now!’

It was Sergeant Big Ears. We formed a much better three-ranks and stood in complete silence, very still and alert. There was no more bravado; we were like a frightened bunch of kids. The Beret stood very erect and spoke clearly, efficiently, and very loudly.

‘I will call your name. You will step forward and receive a card with your details and directions. You will move quickly and quietly to your hut, and stand beside your bed.’

He paused, eyeing us,

‘Any man caught talking, and I will have his fuck’n guts for garters.’

When my name was finally called, I found my hut and bed in about ten minutes. The huts were surrounded by screenings normally used for road building; there was no sign of grass anywhere. There appeared to be dozens of these buildings uniformly laid out. All of them were immaculately clean, fresh, and sterile. Each hut held sixteen blokes. It was divided into four rooms, with no doors except for a front and back. Each cubicle or room had four beds and four wardrobes. Everything was new and bland. I found my bed and sat on the mattress. The hut quickly filled, and no one spoke. We didn’t even introduce ourselves to each other.

Suddenly, the front door opened. In walked yet another green monster. He had a head like an Easter Island statue, with huge nostrils and a South African accent. He stopped at the bloke in the front right bed, just inside the door.

‘Every toime some warn form the Ormy walks in this door you shout stund to! Is thort cleaor?’ he shouted at this bloke, whose name was Vic Tamower.

‘Yes sir, ah Mr, ah Captain … your h…?’ stuttered Vic, saluting, bowing, and almost throwing a curtsey.

‘Thar wrist off you lesson in, I arm a corporeal, your fork’n corporeal. You borstards or recruits are the lowest form of liofe on this fork’n orth, you or not Ormy, is thort cleaor?’ No response. Then, at our stunned silence, Nostrils added, ‘I corn’t hear you, gorls. Is thort cleaor?’

‘Yes, Corporal,’ was the meek reply from those few who understood this alien misfit.

‘Did oy heaor a frorg jorst fort? Corn’t heaor yor, gorls.’

‘Yes, Corporal,’ we shouted.

‘Grarb wart civvy geaor you’ve gort and line orp on the porth out the fork’n frornt. Move!’ he demanded as he strutted outside, past poor Vic Tamower, who threw him another salute and then ducked, half-expecting a back-hander.

What was civvy gear? What damn language was this ox muttering? No one was game enough to ask Corporal Nostrils. So we whispered amongst ourselves and then decided it was the possessions we had brought onto the bus. Nostrils heard the whispers, and his ugly, elongated head reappeared back in the doorway. Vic Tamower nearly fainted, and forgot to say ‘stand to’.

‘The next pruck (he always said pruck) I heaor whisporing I will tear out his tong, roll it orp, and shove it fair orp his leaft fork’n norstril,’ sneered Corporal Nostrils. I think he meant that.

Outside, we stood like contorted statues. Some were very stiff and upright; others held their chins up like it was time for an Adam’s apple inspection. We had formed a single line. Nostrils took a deep breath and bellowed: ‘Form the leaft, nermber.’

Silence. Someone must have looked at our ugly corporal with pleading eyes.

‘Don’t lork at me. Lork at the frornt, you fork’n horrible little mourn. From the leaft nermber, you dorm prucks!’ he said, eyes glaring, nostrils flaring.

‘One … two … three … four …’ we started to catch on until the last person said ‘sixteen.’

‘That was fork’n horpeless. Let’s troy it agoin shall we, gorls?’ said Nostrils.

Ten minutes later, we had it perfect. From the left, the numbers shot out of our mouths like rapid fire. Pleased, or at least without a snarl, he asked us to turn right. Strange, it appeared half of us didn’t know our right from our left hand. After several explosions of, ‘Fork me dronk and fork me dead,’ somehow we turned right and were marched to the Q-store (quartermaster’s store). Our civvies were handed in, and we were issued with a set of greens, undies, socks, and boots. We changed on the spot to make sure the boots fitted; nothing else mattered. We were marched back to our hut, with Nostrils making strange loud noises like the mating call of a South African glebe duck.

‘Ep, ep, ep, orp, ep. Dorn’t lork down, gorls. Keep in steep.’

At the hut, we were told to fall out. We turned in all directions, bumping into each other and really upsetting Nostrils.

‘As you whore, you dorm prucks.’

Then, about ten minutes later, with Nostrils screaming, ranting, and bellowing the foulest language I’d ever heard, we were proficient at ‘falling out’.

Already our hut was like a little safe house. But no sooner had we gotten inside and started our first hesitant conversations than another strange, high-pitched voice bellowed, ‘On parade, 11 Platoon!’

This came from a red-headed freak, much taller than any monsters we’d seen that day. Yes, they were getting taller. He had a head like a giant strawberry, with pinched eyes and a very wide mouth. After much abuse and shouting, we formed up as a platoon.

‘I’m your platoon sergeant,’ said Sergeant Big Red. ‘When I say jump, you say how high. When I say shit, you say where.’

If this was the depth of intellect demanded by the army, I was content. Big Red was easy to understand.

‘Get these girls to the mess, Corporal,’ he added.

Nostrils snapped to attention, spun like a mechanical robot, and screamed further foreign-language insults that most of us still didn’t understand. Then, with Nostrils cursing, hissing, and muttering death threats, we were marched to an enormous building that looked like a concert hall. The mess was not what I assumed: it was where we ate, all five hundred of us. The food was good — although, over time, you never admitted it. This was sort of an army tradition we learned very quickly, which got right up the cook’s nose. We had soup, a main meal, sweets, tea, coffee, milk, and juice. It only took minutes to feed hundreds at a time. I had never seen such efficiency and organisation. During the meal we experienced our first sign of civility; some army bloke asked us if the meal was OK. Perhaps the worst was over?

After tea, we marched back to our hut. There were blankets and toiletries on the bed. It had been a big day, and now it was late. I had been up since 4.30am, and was looking forward to an early night. I wondered if most of the blokes wanted to go home to their mum like I did.

All of a sudden, a terrified Vic Tamower shouted, ‘Stand to!’

It was Nostrils. We were being marched back to the Q-store to get all our gear. This time it would be fitted. About an hour later, back in the hut, we were shown how to set out our locker and make a bed. Then we were told to shower and to be bedded down by 10.00pm for lights out, with no talking. At 10.00pm a trumpet played a tune I vaguely remembered from somewhere. I was too tired to care.

Before dawn the next morning, we were woken by more damn trumpet stuff. Then in walked Nostrils, bellowing as he walked through the hut.

‘Wakey wakey, honds off snaky, git out orf thort fort sack, shower, shit, shave ornd be reedy in yor PT geaor in fifteen minutes.’

We understood that. We rushed frantically to clean ourselves up and be out the front in time. One bloke was late.

‘Geave me ten, you horrible fork’n little mourn,’ said Nostrils.

Dutifully, Snoggons got down and tried to do ten push-ups. We had to count each one. Almost in tears, he managed to finish. We stood for ages in our PT gear. This was to be a familiar pattern in the army.

‘Wort a horreable forking soight,’ sneered Nostrils in disgust.

Fair comment. Couldn’t blame the ugly blighter, really. There we were, lined up in polished black sandshoes, an army jumper, and the strangest shorts I have ever seen. They were a baggy Bermuda-style that was left over from the Second World War; only our snow-white calf muscles were visible under the wide-bottomed shorts. Most of us didn’t have calf muscles anyway. Ironically, the shorts would be a hit with today’s skateboarding kids.

Then, suddenly, out of nowhere, there appeared a bouncing, leaping ball of physical fitness. His white singlet and shorts looked like they had been painted on; there were bulges everywhere. It was freezing. But this ape-like bundle of muscle didn’t seem to notice.

‘Follow me at the double,’ grunted The Ape.

His jaw jutted up and down in a puppet-like movement, and his long arms almost dragged on the ground, the palms facing up. We ran, falling and stumbling, to an area set out for physical training. The Ape made us sit down on the cold ground. He pranced over to a chin-up bar, jumped up, and started doing chin-ups gracefully.

‘You ugly shits will have me every morning for half an hour. You will run, and run some more. You will wish you had never been fuck’n born.’

This ramble continued for five minutes. I was spellbound; not by the quality of the talk, but the feat demonstrated by this domesticated, jungle-bred ape. He had been doing chin-ups the entire time, but not a drop of sweat appeared on his baboon-like brow; only his teeth glistened. When it came to our turn to do chin-ups, over half of us couldn’t do even one. Back at the hut by 7.00am, we were herded to the mess hall for breakfast. It was a hearty meal.

Nostrils had warned us to have our hut ready for inspection by someone important straight after breakfast. Desperately, we tried to set up our wardrobe like the one demonstrated the day before. Then, ‘Stand to,’ Vic Tamower called, with a touch more confidence. In walked Nostrils.

‘Listen in. Lortonont Forlay (actually, it was Lieutenant Fairly), your plortoon commonder, will be hereor for a hort inspeaction shortlay. You will staund to attention and addreass him as “Sor”. Is thort cleaor?’

‘Yes, Corporal,’ came the reply in unison. Finally we were getting used to his bastardised, intergalactic South African accent. Then came another ‘Stand to.’ Poor Vic shuddered as he received a dark glare for his efforts. Nostrils froze and gave a salute. He vibrated all over, his arm slapping back to his side. His steely eyes would have melted candles off a birthday cake.

‘Hort reedy for inspeaction, Mr. Forlay, Sor,’ barked Nostrils.

A sneering, cold-eyed mullet then appeared. He strutted down the passage towards my locker. Mr. Fairly (important) opened the locker door, and I thought he was going to vomit. I was about to apologise when I heard him say, ‘This locker is a disgrace.’

Mr. Fairly (unimportant) looked at me as if I had leprosy. He pulled my locker forward, and all the contents fell on the floor.

‘The boozer is out of bounds to this hut until further notice,’ he said, spinning on his heel, returning Nostrils’ salute. Then Mr. Fairly (annoying) started to walk out. He looked back to the hut and stared at us with cold, milky, mullet eyes, put his impish little nose in the air with disgust, then strutted out.

‘Well dorne thut mourn,’ said Nostrils cynically.

Then he pointed at me and said, ‘If I wore you blorkes, I’d take thort orgly fork’n pruck out the bork and paunch the fork’n pus out off him.’

Nostrils also turned and stormed out. I stood as if nailed to the floor. Booster, the bloke in the next bed, came over.

‘I’ll help you tidy this mess up, Barry,’ he said. Good bloke, Booster.

The next days were hectic and totally confusing, with us obeying every order thrown at us with enthusiasm. That was wise, as any sign of disobedience or slackness caused immediate retributions for the whole platoon. Later in the week, a short-sighted, alcoholic barber who had the shakes and putrid breath mutilated our hair in roughly thirty seconds. Then there were dental checks, body measurements, photographs, and even more abuse. We were constantly reminded to forget everything we had ever learned, as now the army way was the only way. It was exhausting and, if nothing else, it was a delight at night to fall into bed.

This night, after several days of recruit training, all was quiet just after 10.00pm, and only snoring would disturb a good night’s sleep. Suddenly, we were greeted with a booming order, ‘On parade, 11 Platoon.’ It was our Sergeant Big Red, the gigantic, red-headed freak with an irritating voice like a cockatoo with a public address system.

Rushing out in our pyjamas, we formed up beside Snoggons, our ‘right marker.’ It was strange to be on the parade ground in pyjamas, but that was the rule in the hut; be in bed, with lights out, by 10.00pm. After shuffling into some sort of order on the parade ground, the stunned sergeant almost choked.

‘Fuck me. Did I say pyjamas? Who in their right fuck’n mind would come on parade in their fuck’n pyjamas? Back to the huts, you fuck’n morons.’

Dutifully we rushed back to our huts and jumped into bed. By now, the foul language used by the instructors didn’t bother us. In fact, there had been a growing use of the same swearing within our hut — or, more accurately, low, mumbled swearing. No talking. That wasn’t allowed after lights out. We got away with some soft whispering most of the time.

At precisely 10.30pm, Sergeant Big Red was at it again. ‘On parade, 11 Platoon.’ The whispers started up: ‘What the hell do we wear? Let’s all go out in greens, eh?’ We rushed out.

‘Fuck me, that’s slow, and who said to wear fuck’n green’s? Fuck off, the lotta ya, before I lose me temper,’ said the very angry sergeant.

Low muttering voices confirmed my own thoughts. What was going on? Who knew? We curled up in our beds and tried to get some sleep.

11.00pm.

‘On parade, 11 Platoon.’

This time, we ignored the smart alec who suggested greens, and listened to Booster. Admittedly, he was a spud farmer, but he did possess some wisdom.

‘Battle dress, fellows. We’re on parade like, eh?’

‘Yair,’ we chorused. ‘Good move, Booster.’

Sounded good. In a flash, we were in battle dress and clambering out in pitch-black dark to the well-lit parade ground.

‘Fuck me drunk. Did I say battle fuck’n dress? Useless pack a’ fuck’n pricks. Fuck off.’ Sergeant Big Red was starting to get really browned off.

At midnight, then again at 12.30pm, we were given the same order and received the same response. Some of you might ask, why didn’t we ask the sergeant what to wear? You must be kidding. From day one, we were told, ‘Don’t think. Don’t ask questions. You’re not paid to.’

In fact, Shearer, the dopey blighter, asked if could he go to the toilet one day during training. He spent the next hour jogging around a large training ground.

So there we were, sitting on our beds, in the dark, having watched Sergeant Big Red storm off in disgust, muttering about seeing us at five the next morning, and complaining bitterly to Jesus and other eminent beings about the inferior, sub-human new recruits he had been given to train.

We couldn’t sleep. Instead we sat on our beds complaining. Poor Booster was most frustrated. Minutes would have made a big difference to his life. Yes, he was complaining about the time he was born.

‘Mum should’a pushed harder. I’m gunna tell her that when I finally get home. Just after bloody midnight I popped out. How bloody unlucky can a fella get? Twenty minutes earlier, and I wouldn’t be in this hellhole.’

‘Yeah,’ we chorused in a conclusive whisper. Those of us gathered that night had similar grievances about our poor mothers’ birthing skills, as we had been born in early January 1945. Being born even weeks earlier would have seen us ineligible for National Service.

We were into our second week. Vic Tamower was in what could be best described as shellshock. Mr. Fairly (irritating) gave our hut a surprise visit. A pale-faced Vic threw a funny action you could assume was a salute.

‘Never salute an officer without your hat on! Report to the mess for duty after tea, you imbecile.’

Poor Vic Tamower would have given his left leg to be moved to any bed but the one just inside the front door. Whenever we were in the hut, he spent most of his time bobbing up and down, checking out the window to enable him to be ready to perform his duty to scream ‘Stand to.’

By now we had a whole new way of dressing, standing, addressing an officer, and reacting to orders instantly. Within the hut we would whisper frantically to each other as we tried desperately to conform to the demanding dress code and the myriad new rules. But once outside and ready for inspection, no matter how hard we tried, Mr. Fairly (ignorant) just sneered and gave us extra penalties. For the first time we were given what was called duties. On duty in the kitchen, I washed more dishes in one day than I had in my whole life. Life was hectic; there was never time for a quiet talk or socialising.

Then, in the third week, we were allowed contact with the outside world. After queuing for ages, I made my first phone call to my girlfriend. It lasted three minutes, and I couldn’t hear much over the lurid suggestions and sexual advice from fellow members of my hut.

Somehow, slowly, we got used to the strict routines. Each morning after breakfast we would be lined up outside the front of the hut to be checked thoroughly for correct attire. Our buttons had to line up with our flies. All buttons had to be done up. Boots, gaiters, black belts, and brass had to be polished to perfection. As we stood to attention, our thumbs had to be lined up with the seam of our trousers. Then, bending over, Corporal Nostrils would check us out from our bootlaces to our slouch hats. Our newly issued rifles were scrutinised for dust and general cleanliness. All this was carried out with a surgeon’s precision. Finally, bloody Nostrils would peer at our ears, face, and hair. With irritating regularity, the insults would start.

‘Did you port a blade in your razor, you horrible little orgly mourn?’

‘Next toime put some fork’n milk on your face and geet the fork’n cat to lick thort fork’n bum florf orf, Miffkizza.’

Poor Lykki Miffkizza was Mediterranean, and had almost no growth on his face. There was no need for him to shave, but the army insisted we all do so.

Not only was it frustrating learning how to dress correctly; we had to change in the shortest time possible. Naturally, we had to be neat and precise. Sometimes our sleeves had to be rolled up. This, of course, had to be done a certain way. Everything we wore had to be spotlessly clean and pressed. There was a laundry room with machines and ironing boards, and we were expected to do our own washing, starch our greens, and iron everything except our undies and socks. Some of our early efforts at starching left our clothes so stiff we could hardly fold them. When we got dressed, the last thing on would be the slouch hat, with the chinstrap polished. It had a predetermined place on your head, and the bloody chinstrap had to line up at a certain point on your bloody face.

Consequently, every time we were called out on parade or for inspection we would be like brides preparing for a wedding. We would check each other’s attire for mistakes or incorrect dress. This was all done within seconds. All too often, the entire platoon suffered if just one recruit messed up. But worst of all were the endless hours spent after tea in our huts trying to polish brass and put black Nugget on any webbing or leather. This had to be repeated every day. We practised stripping the rifle, drill movements, and timing.

However, the most frustrating of all chores was spit polishing. We were issued with an individual pair of boots that were for parade drill and to be worn only on special occasions. Spit polishing required black Nugget, a cloth, and hours of endless rubbing in a circular motion on the toe of the boot. Every thirty seconds or so you spat on the toe, then dipped the cloth in the Nugget, getting only the smallest amount on the cloth. Rub, rub in circles we would go, chattering quietly among ourselves like parrots in a tree. Oddly enough, over time, a pride crept into this simple chore. Some blokes had the knack of getting a brilliant shine quite quickly. Their boots would look like black enamel. You could see your own reflection in the toe. It was the only time we really socialised. Quickly, we were given nicknames. I became Turd, the bloke in the next bed to Booster. I started to enjoy the hut, just a little.

But come hut inspection, Mr. Fairly (stupid) was impossible to please; it was never up to scratch. He was paranoid about our parade boots. Randomly, he would pick on some bloke whose boots were possibly the best in the platoon.

‘Booster, those boots are a disgrace. Report to the kitchen after tea for extra duties. The rest of you, up Tit Hill.’

This was a very steep hill behind the training area. We would stop what we were doing, and jog up and back, trying not to be last. That poor blighter often had to go back up again. We hated Mr. Fairly (dumb); he seemed irrelevant to the overall training. Further, he would punish the entire platoon for pointless misdemeanours. I recall one day we had just returned from drill on the company parade ground and there he was. Like a crow pestering newly born lambs, he demanded a snap inspection of our hut for dust and general cleanliness. For once, we thought we had the system beat, as the night before we had cleaned the hut from top to bottom. Too often in the past week, we had received added duties when Mr. Fairly (ugly) found the tiniest speck of dust on top of a locker or a window ledge. We stood to attention by our beds as he peered with beady eyes. Everything he wiped with the white gloves on his hands was clean. We had the little prat. Then, in the centre cubicle, he reached up, spun the florescent light tube, and there was a thin line of dust. Umpire, that’s not fair. He didn’t scoff or smile. He sneered.

‘There will be no wet canteen for this lot, Corporal.’

However, our ugly corporal was slowly becoming a touch more human. He’d stopped giving Miffkizza a hard time, and after that hut inspection he didn’t give us the all-too-boring lecture about how slack we were. He simply told us to do a quick clean-up.

Then, about a week later, our Nostrils showed his first sign of frustration with our platoon commander. Mr. Fairly (dim-witted) was standing outside our lines with a cold, snide look on his fox-like little face. He’d been into our rooms, collected all our spit-polished boots, and thrown them into the gravel that surrounded our hut. Hours of hard rubbing were ruined. Nothing was said. Nostrils saluted the prick, and told us to take five and have a cigarette. By now, most of us smoked; if you didn’t, you didn’t have a break. The first tiny chink in Nostrils’ armour showed. He looked at the boots and just shook his head. To us, it was obvious that even he thought Mr. Fairly (moronic) had gone too far. We were issued with new boots, and had to start the long task of spit polishing all over again.

But it was habits I brought into the army that were the hardest to break. Standing with your arms folded would draw the response, ‘Are you fork’n pregnornt or what?’ Or, ‘Geet your honds off your cork and out of your fork’n poorkets, you pudpuller.’

Like many of the blokes, I found it very hard to break the habit of putting my hands into my pockets, particularly as the weather started to get cold. On many occasions I had to run up Tit Hill, yet twenty minutes later my damn hands, unbeknown to me, would wander back into my pockets. Back up Tit Hill I would jog.

You couldn’t walk anywhere. It was endless marching. Gone were the days of strolling from point A to B. If two of us were going to the post office, we had to march, in step: that was OK. But working together as a platoon was the most difficult. On the parade ground, drill highlighted this. I didn’t realise how complex it was to get a group of people to do something together, in time and in unison. After all this time, we still couldn’t HALT. There was always someone on the wrong foot. I felt sorry for those blokes who had no co-ordination and couldn’t march. They copped endless abuse.

‘Geet inta fork’n steep, Weedbottom, you horrible, orgly mourn,’ came the endless tirade from Nostrils. This was simply solved, as it turned out. Weedbottom and his mate Blades went over the hill or AWOL, never to be seen again.

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?