Kōkiri ki mua – Charge Forward!
Each field backpack weighs a bulky twenty-five kilos. That’s twenty-five kilos of:
–tent shelter complete with poles
–bedding in the form of a paper-thin mat and a barely warm sleeping bag
–basic hand tools to dig dirt and cut wood
–spare rations for near-death emergencies, and
–extra, extra water because …
According to my artillery section commander, ‘Water is the currency that purchases your survival.’
I thought this was an introductory field exercise, not an extreme outdoor-survival activity of how to torture a recruit.
My webbing weighs a lead-heavy eight kilos, and contained in its various pouches are full magazines of blank ammunition, more bottles of liquid survival-currency, my rifle-cleaning kit and packets of precious peanut M&Ms, which remind me that Forrest Gump got the box of chocolates thing wrong because if life were a box of chocolates, then what a hard life it would be – being in a box of not knowing ‘what you’re goin’ to get’.
Be a packet of peanut M&Ms, I say, because regardless of what colour M&M you get, you know you’re guaranteed a treat that’ll have the same euphoric taste as the last one you savoured.
Adding to the survival burden my back has to haul is the rifle that I have to carry, which weighs 6.5 kilos. So altogether, I’m carrying over half of my body weight in this unforgiving, cold, tussock-covered area of desert terrain, eating nothing but dehydrated food out of twenty-four-hour ration packs and desperate for a shower – to not only feel clean again but also to feel human again.
No wonder people get so skinny after basic training.
But I want to go home. I’ve had enough of this bollocks carry-on. It’s our last day in the field, and I’m starving, moody, sleep deprived and the farthest from my grandparents and little sister I’ve ever been.
Tears start welling up like hot bubbles in my eyes as I sit in my hoochie tent, oiling the barrel of my rifle, which I’ve affectionately named Bam-Bam. Only minutes beforehand, our section sergeant, Sergeant Salt, made us leopard crawl at full speed up a steep hill because all twelve members of my section went against our second-in-command’s orders.
Every time I landed (fully prone and outstretched on my frontal body), my lips tasted the dusty sand and stones, and the harsh rocks poked at my body, sometimes hitting my bones, sometimes hitting my pride.
I have very little pride in myself now, especially since most of it has been lost with the weight that no longer shows in my comfort-waist jiggles or my bubble-bum wobbles, so the care factor I have for life in general right now is not rating very high at all.
Uncoordinated burpees would best describe what our entire section of recruits was doing whenever Sergeant Salt would order us to, ‘UP! Doooooown! Up! Doooooown!’ and we would obediently leap up from the ground before collapsing back down to do more leopard crawling. And if that wasn’t punishment enough, his endearing commands ordered us to sprint and complete more rounds of his up-down game – for a further ten minutes. Ten minutes that felt like a further ten lifetimes.
Ohh … the perfect execution for torture, I thought. It got to a point where none of us was sprinting any more; some of the boys tripped over and were helped up by others. I looked at the other girls bawling their eyes out.
I ran back for my mate, KK, who was at the very back of the section and locked my arm around her elbow, dragging her further up into the group.
‘Lift your weapon up,’ I puffed.
‘Err,’ she whimpered. Her body was a lifeless mould of moaning bones and melanin.
‘Just lift your weapon up will you? Hurry up, man! Before he sees you and thrashes us some more!’
‘I can’t, Windsor, I can’t,’ KK cried, with tears streaming down her face. ‘Just leave me here. I don’t want to do this any more.’
‘Nah, hurry up! Just keep going.’
‘Windsor, I can’t. I’m dyyyying. I’m dyyying.’
‘We’re all dying; just keep going and don’t stop.’
‘But it hurts. My body can’t take it any more.’
‘Just shuffle your feet, will you!’
‘I can’t, Windsor. I can’t.’
‘JUST TRY, DAMMIT! TRY!’
‘Ohh,’ KK whimpered.
And all I wanted to do was to cry because her pain was starting to pain me. Sergeant Salt was trying to break her, and he was succeeding because she wanted out. She wanted out of this body-breaking twelve-week interview process. But I couldn’t bear to let her go or see her fail; I wanted her to stay with me to the bitter end.
I slung my rifle over my shoulder and reached into my webbing as adrenaline surged in my bicep. As we shuffled, I pulled my water bottle from one of the webbing pouches, opening the lid as quickly as I could.
‘Skull,’ I said to her. ‘And give me your rifle so one of us has an active weapon available.’
She grabbed the water bottle and drank it like she’d never drunk water before. I knew that after that drink, I’d only have one more bottle left to sustain me until the field exercise finished, but I knew if worst came to worst, someone would allow me a sip of their water to get me by, so I let her go for gold.
Shoving the water bottle back into my hand, KK grabbed her rifle from me and wiped her eyes, smudging the cam paint into them, making her wince and cut the air with her arms in frustration. Screaming in anger, she looked at me while I was closing my webbing pouch then took a deep breath in. Looking at the rest of the section ahead of us, she grunted and picked up her shuffle to a full-on run. I let her race ahead of me while I looked around for Sergeant Salt, who happened to be looking in our direction. I was furious with him for hammering us so much; did he have to be such a prick?
I sidestepped some of the boys in front of me and went to the left flank of the section where I knew Sergeant Salt wouldn’t see me but where I could still hear his thunderous voice and feel his preying, burning eyes.
‘DOOOOOOOOOWN!’ Sergeant Salt roared.
And like a pack of green dominoes, we all fell forward onto the rocky terrain and started leopard crawling – again.
‘Sarge wants us outside his hoochie tent in three minutes.’
‘What for?’ I asked.
‘Who cares, just be there in three minutes. That’s all I was told to tell everyone,’ the runner replied.
He disappeared to pass on the message to the next soldier, so I threw on my webbing and headed to Sarge’s hoochie tent. Everyone looked stuffed and over it; you could tell we were ready to go home. Sergeant Salt appeared, looking fresher than ever, ready to best us again.
‘Looks like we had a great day today, team! Well, I know I did,’ he chaffed. ‘Suffice to say, we have now completed the field phase of this exercise.’
An electric buzz fizzled through my body, filling me with relief. We all looked like we’d exhaled in relieved unison, grateful to hear what Sarge had just told us.
Taking a bite of his apple, he continued, ‘So, from here, you will pack up and square away your spaces and be ready to rock on out in fifteen minutes. I want this place looking immaculate, looking like the day God said “Let there be land” – I want this place looking fresh. I want tussock looking like tussock, and the turf looking like the year 251 BC. If this doesn’t happen, we’ll play my up-down game again, you know, the one we played about an hour ago.’
Hell, I hate that game already.
‘Following that, we have an eight-kilometre pack-march back into camp that we will complete in under an hour, so you better have your skates on. The reason it needs to be completed that fast is because you will only have twelve hours after that to shower, eat a meal in the mess, reorganise your pack, wash and dry your clothes and sleep for however long you can on a proper mattress. After the twelfth hour, you will be on standby for the Longest Day. Who here knows what the Longest Day is?’
We all looked at each other, dumbfounded.
‘The Longest Day will be the worst day of your life. It’s on this day that you will not sleep for the entire twenty-four hours, and you will conduct different activities in the near-depleted state you are in now. We are being kind to you by giving you time to have some proper food and rest, but in a tactical situation, you may not have that luxury. Lucky for you, you’re on basic training. If you think the last eight days were hard, wait until you do the Longest Day; you’ll be wishing you could play my up-down game for half an hour instead of the twenty-four hours’ worth of tasks you’ll be doing. Trust me people, the interview process for the Green Machine family is not easy, but you will survive it if you work together as a team. Help each other out, work together, wash together, eat together and then sleep together. I don’t want to see anyone going to sleep before anyone else, and if I catch you, I will personally punish you myself – do you understand me?’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ we all replied.
‘Good, now get lost and do what you have to do. The worst part is yet to come.’
The Longest Day came and went like the longest run Forrest Gump ran. It was physically crippling, it played tricks with my mind, and it went on forever. But I kept going – just like Forrest kept on runnin’.
And now here we are with the stones under our feet crunching like dry cornflakes in the bottom of a cereal bowl. In front of me, KK’s forest-green beret has a speck of white fluff on it, a distracting pimple that blocks out the dreary hospital-grey sky.
By shifting my eyes ever so slightly to the left, my peripheral vision captures the sight of thirty other soldiers, perfectly erect, lined up in three ranks – with arms swinging shoulder height from front to rear – marching to the cadence of Sergeant Salt’s ‘Ett, aight, arrrrt!’ His last command to turn to the left, a basic movement that requires us to swivel on the balls of our right feet and left heels, arms rigid and glued to the sides of our body in Siamese fashion, ends with our right feet being raised forty-five degrees then driven into the ground so hard and so loud that we were told the devil would ring Noise Control to tell us to keep the marching down.
Stillness is our best friend for five to ten seconds though, and it is in our best interest to remain like statues until we are verbally puppetted to dance Sarge’s cornflakes dance again. Stillness is our best friend because we are allowed to just breathe – and rest – even if just for a small while.
Oh, how I love the stillness in this moment.
‘By the right! Quick! MARCH!’ Sergeant Salt barked.
‘ONE!’ we all yelled in immaculate chorus, stepping off onto our left feet, our right arms swinging forward to the right shoulder of the person in front of us, our perfect little fists clenched to prohibit any kinking in the elbows.
‘Lift your heads up everyone! Straighten your backs and focus forward, thinking of nothing else but the sound of my voice. All you need is my voice, team. All you need is my voice. Ett, aight, arrrrt!’
The tsunami-sound of his booming voice washed over every crevice in our ears, and he manoeuvred us with his eyes into a perfect formation of brilliant, regimented walking. My body is tense, and the beat of my heart is causing a rupture in my chest. I know what’s coming.
‘Punch it in and stand perfectly still,’ he commanded. ‘James VC Platoon, Platoon – HALT!’
‘ONE – TWO!’ we all respond, driving our right feet into the ground again. Yes, I can understand why the devil is upset with us.
‘James VC Platoon will advance.’ Sergeant Salt yells, ‘Riiiight – TURN!’
‘ONE! LEFT, RIGHT, TWO,’ we reply, swivelling to the right – and this time – crashing our left feet into the stony tar dance floor.
‘It gives me great pleasure, to present this drill cane today to the person who has shown exemplary skills and demonstrated the ethos and values of our army over the past twelve weeks of this basic training,’ Sergeant Salt yells. ‘Named Te Rākau or The Rod because of the authority it gives the receiver to take responsibility for his fellow comrades and to guide and lead them in achieving the objective of their task, this drill cane recognises the effort of the recipient over the last twelve weeks of basic training.
‘Today, tradition has been broken as the recipient is the first female to receive this award, and this soldier’s voice will be the first to cry out the drill commands ending today’s march-out. So without further ado, I would like to call forward X-ray, one-zero-one-two-eight-two-six Private W Windsor of the Logistics Regiment to receive this award.’
I know it’s only a dress rehearsal, but I’m nervous as hell. I shoot my left leg to the rear, driving my right foot beside it. Completing a right turn to perfection, I march towards Sergeant Salt and halt square in front of him, looking slightly above his beret, and not into his eyes. Even after twelve weeks and getting this far, I know I still haven’t earned the right to look him in the eye, and I don’t even want to test the boundaries of wanting to try either. March-out is still two days away, and I know if I do just one thing wrong, he could still fail me and prevent me from marching out.
‘Yeah, all right,’ he says in a sarcastic tone, ‘you can bugger off now. You’re not getting any celebration song from me.’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ I say in respectful acknowledgement.
‘Yeah, and don’t stuff up the drill commands either, Windsor. You know the rules: stuff up my drill commands and I’ll screw you over.’
‘Yes, Sergeant’ I respond nervously. No pressure – right?
‘Yeah well, way you go, Miss.’
I motion my arms as if I were receiving Te Rākau and place it securely under my left armpit. Completing an about-turn in perfect precision, my game face squares on, and I view my new-made family of the past twelve weeks with a look of seriousness and strength. I am in a position not only to lead them but to look after them and keep our family uplifted. After all, out of the 113 of us who are left, I was chosen by our superiors to do this task, so I want to do my fellow recruits proud.
‘Working under my word of command,’ I yell in my loud drill voice, ‘Private Kimping– FALL OUT! And proceed into the Marker’s position.’
My army sister KK couldn’t have been a better choice for Marker after all that she’d been through. Out of everyone, she had earned the right to take my place and fill the Marker spot as she’d hung in there through the most intense baptism of fire anyone could’ve gone through, and no one was more proud of her than me.
Taking the Head position of James VC Platoon, my next command followed.
‘James VC Platoon will turn to the left in threes. Leeeeft – TURN!’
‘ONE! LEFT, RIGHT, TWO!’ they all cried.
‘By the right, quick! March!’
‘ONE!’ the air screamed.
‘Ett, aight, ett, aight, ett, aight, arrrrt!’
The inner lava in my core was starting to build up because I knew ‘it’ was coming. As the recipient of Te Rākau, now was the time to let everyone know what we were made of. All the feet were the same. Left, right, left, right. I was timing it to start on the left foot … left, right, left, right, left …
‘AAAAAH KŌKIRI KŌKIRI!’ I cry in my loudest haka voice.
‘Hiiiiiiii Haaaaaaa!’ the platoon cried.
‘Aaaaaaah KŌKIRI KŌKIRI!’ (Charge! Charge!)
‘Hiiiiiii haaaaaaa!’
‘Kōkiri ki mua!’ (Charge forward!)
‘Hii! Hiii! Haaaa.’
‘Aaaah Kōkiri ki mua!’ (Charge forward!)
‘Hiii! Hiiii! Haaaa!’
‘Te Ope Tauā!’ (The War Party!)
‘Kōkiri ki mua!’
‘Te Ope Tauā!’ (The War Party)
‘Hiiii! Hiii! Haaaaa.’
‘Ett, aight, arrrt,’ I end.
Our war chant on the march is the most unique of its kind in the world. Combining our country’s native heritage with the culture of our new Green Machine family is what sets us apart from any other military force in the world. We’re the only army to receive and farewell our soldiers with a haka, but to leave our basic training with a war chant on the march is the most symbolic thing we could do together as a family. It’s a sign of us leaving all that was old to head together as a solid unit into life as serving soldiers of our country. Kōkiri ki mua – charge forward!
‘Punch it in, stand perfectly still … James VC Platoon, PLATOON! – HALT!’
‘ONE!’ my brothers and sisters yell.
And like the dust settling after a fire fight on an overseas mission, so too did the dust on the parade ground settle after we chanted our haka on the march. The eerie silence, the unified breathing in and out, and the churning swirls of our destinies ready to carry us to our respective bases – we all felt the power of our waka-tauā – our war canoe.
Ahh … the stillness …