Chapter 8

“Right…. turn…………. Downs, what the hell are you doing? Everybody halt!”

Our sergeant was most displeased. And the culprit was me. My brain was in auto pilot and we had spent days, years and lifetimes marching so it seemed. I was not made for marching. I had disengaged my brain and had assumed that the next command would have been left, then right. It had been since time immemorial. But not today. I was the in the centre at the front, as I always was in our platoon. I just kept going. My mind was filling in the gaps. His next command was “turn”. By the time my brain had put right and turn together I was three paces further away. Those on my right had turned. Those on my left had turned right and some of those directly behind had blindly followed me and were looking round quite sheepishly.

“Recruit Downs how much moron did you drink this morning? This is the second stuff up and I’ve had enough. In two and a bit weeks you, and the rest of the platoon will have to know this routine for the passing out parade. Recruit Brown will take your spot from now on. You can take Recruit Worthington’s down at the back. He will not be joining us for the remainder of training. I almost heard the silent cheers for the latter fact. I also wondered whether if I had been cashiered instead, there may have been a stronger cheer. I had done a lot of thinking since the verbal pasting I had from the captain. In fact, that was what had distracted me this morning on both occasions. Was I as bad as he had made out? Being effectively demoted may be good for my soul and ego to boot. The promotion of George to the lead would allow me to see how he worked as a leader and how the others responded to him. I won’t say that it didn’t hurt, but the walk of shame to the tail gunner position was a lot longer than I thought. No-one sneered, no-one looked me in the eye, but I felt their withering glances as sharp as knives in my back as I walked past them. I lined up without a word in my new position and forced myself to focus. And focus I did for the remainder of the afternoon.

George had a more relaxed stride. His was shorter than mine and the rest of the group soon picked up the cadence and ease of movement. They seemed to march with more passion if that was the right word and there was no over stretching, no rigidity and heavy breathing as had been when I led. It just flowed and was effortless. I didn’t see any visual cues, there were no looks of disapproval if someone made a slight mistake, just smiles as everyone pitched in to work together. They did it not for George, but because of him. Within half an hour of the change we were all in unison and we were perfect. I wished I had what he had.

My ego was bruised and battered but I’d set myself up for the fall; no-one to blame but myself. Just because I could do things, didn’t mean I had to do things; didn’t mean that others couldn’t do it and that I had to be the best. Just the knowledge that I had the capacity to do things should have been enough but hey, the army is so pumped full of testosterone that it becomes competitive and even I caught the bug. I wondered whether my father at the end of the Second World War, had finally become tired of continually putting himself at risk, ahead of others and had wanted to just walk away. Perhaps he had grown tired of the stress, the killing and stupidity of war itself. Maybe he was totally different to me and had been born with the humility that I had just been given a taste of. He was a very private man even to his family. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what he had been through. I was pretty confident that I couldn’t have done what he had done. The killing, the isolation and the constant need for vigilance as your life was on the line. I hoped I never would be tested as he was, but I trained and marched, and learnt and marched and began to see myself as part of a group and not just the leader of a group, and marched. We may not have been able to lay down accurate enfilade but we were bloody good at marching.

All the while I knew I was being observed. I mean we all were, but given my run ins I was perhaps under closer scrutiny. I received no feedback, no hints and no special treatment one way or another. I still helped others with things that they found difficult but I’d watched how George did it and mimicked his manner. Quiet advice such as, spacing hands further apart when climbing the rope, or spending more time getting in a comfortable stable position before firing your rifle gave you better accuracy, was given one on one out of earshot of others. It made a difference, I think. Perhaps they now respected me more than they feared me. My acid tongue was held in check and my penchant for demonstrating rather than subtle coaching was also kept in abeyance. By the end of our ten weeks I didn’t know whether I had achieved what the captain had demanded, but I was far more comfortable with myself and that was enough.

In the years prior to my conscription, because of the ongoing need for troops in Vietnam other nashos were trained and then offered mainly cannon fodder options as units to join. These units now still needed soldiers, but the chances of an overseas deployment were remote. Vietnam was a televised war, really the first one. The pictures were graphic, the actions not Hollywood and the blood was real. At Kapooka we were pretty much shielded from it but the occasional trips into town gave us the sense of what was going on. Newspapers carried photos and casualty figures but as one journo pointed out you were more likely to be killed driving on the road than in Vietnam. One wag in the camp countered that was that our sergeant was more likely to kill you than a Viet Cong soldier.

Passing out parade saw us done up to the nines. I couldn’t believe that Mum, Dad, Tom and especially Jean watched on. It was not as if I felt I had achieved anything. This was no four-year degree or world record event, just a few soldiers marching around in their best spit and polish. The captain had been on the look out to see if my father had turned up and soon found his mark. I felt enormously proud when my father whispered something in the captain’s ear as they shook hands. The captain looked a bit miffed and scuttled away. Later Tom said that Dad had told the captain politely but firmly to ‘fuck off’. Tom hadn’t heard Dad say those words before, but certainly enjoyed saying them himself. I smiled and looked across at Dad who had overheard our conversation. Dad shrugged his shoulders and returned my smile with an accompanying wink.

Jean on the other hand may have gotten out of the wrong side of the bed after the long trip down. Steam was venting out from her ears. Apparently my “myriad of letters” I had written to her had gone astray. She had a way with sarcasm. Not many of the others had girlfriends or girlfriends who turned up that day. I was a little embarrassed and perhaps I may have chosen to be a little more distant than I had wanted or should have been. I was frightened that she would slap me soundly across the face. Stretching tall she would have reached it. I kept my distance which just infuriated her more. To prevent World War Three beginning I introduced George to my family and Jean. He was charming to my mother and Jean and the comparison between his actions and mine made Jean see a deeper shade of red. I noticed then that she had a look that could burn asbestos. George was extremely respectful to my father and asked permission from him if he could show Tom his rifle. Tom glanced pleadingly at Dad who assented and Tom was in seventh heaven. Luckily there were no rounds in it or Tom would have had a go at anything and would have nailed the shot for sure.

I explained to all of them that George and I had been selected to go on to officers training in Sydney and wouldn’t be returning for a while to Queensland, if at all until our time was up. Jean turned on her heel and walked away, her face as dark as thunder. Perhaps I should have had more regret in my voice but I hoped they all would be pleased. Obviously one in particular was not. I think that was the straw that happened to be the last one for Jean. Her mascara had run a little when she rejoined us. Mum elbowed me suggesting that perhaps Jean would like a look around the base. I was never good at subtleties and invited everyone. We were then asked to take our guests into the mess room for a celebratory afternoon tea. Goose was not on the menu, but mine was cooked and stuffed to boot as far as Jean was concerned, I found out later.

When the hubbub died down later, I caught up with Dad alone just before they left. He told me that he was proud of me and then I thought he said, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, son.” But as he walked away, I realised he had said, “Don’t do anything that I might have done.”