In Good Company Page 3
Soon we met the real sadists in the army: the physical training instructors. These specimens of man belonged to the artillery corps, were usually short in stature, large in muscular development and extremely well coordinated. All they did all day was put recruits through physical training lessons, take recruits on runs and lurk around the gym and swimming pool in their green track suits and red-banded white singlets. There was no such animal as a fat physical training instructor. To a man they were hated by the recruits. They taught callisthenics, gymnastics, rope climbing and endurance marching and running. They were beasts, so precise in the manner in which they executed their exercises it was sickening. It didn’t matter how fit you may have been individually, you were always just finishing an exercise when you were given another one. The physical training instructors arranged to keep your work rate high by always ordering you to do your exercises over time periods. So instead of being asked to do 10 push ups, which for the fit guy was not many, they would demand that you did push ups for the next 30 seconds. I was extremely fit when I marched into 2nd Recruit Training Battalion, but I was always knackered at the end of a physical training period.
About ten days after we arrived at Puckapunyal the intake was marched down to the area theatre, to be briefed on officer training. All I knew about officers was what my father had told me before I was drafted. His advice to me was that if someone offered you the chance to become an officer to take it because the pay was higher and the food was better in the officers’ mess.
Once all the intake was seated in the theatre an officer stood up and told the audience that the army needed national servicemen to serve as officers. Each year they needed about 250 men to graduate as second lieutenants from the Officer Training Unit (OTU) at Scheyville (pronounced ‘sky-ville’) near Windsor in New South Wales. The course was six months long and was a compressed version of the twelve month Officer Cadet School course at Portsea in Victoria.
After this introduction a short film was shown, called ‘The National Service Officer’. It was memorable for the fact that everyone in the movie had incredibly short hair and were all smiling. As it turned out this documentary was nothing short of propaganda. Even Goebbels would have been proud of it.
Once the film was finished we were then told what the entrance requirements to OTU Scheyville were. Applicants had to have their high school Leaving Certificate or the equivalent. Those who were eligible had to do a basic psychology test. If you were still in the running you had a further but more comprehensive medical examination, and then had to attend a selection board.
The psychological tests I attended were followed by an interview with an army psychologist, a captain, who was there to determine why you wanted to become an officer. The room was full of candidates who were tossing up how to answer the obvious question while waiting to be interviewed. Some were opting for expressions of national pride and duty; while others were considering saying something about the desire to lead and command. I considered some of these options myself but when the captain asked me why I wanted to become an officer I told him it was because the pay was better and the food in the officers’ mess was pretty good.
About 300 or so guys made it to the psychological test and then the numbers dropped to about 100 for the selection board. For the selection board, ten of us reported to a hut on the other side of the area for a briefing on what would happen during the day. After an initial introduction by the board president we would have to introduce ourselves to the rest of the candidates. This would be followed by indoor written and oral exercises and finally some outdoor leadership reaction exercises.
Being an outgoing sort of a bloke I didn’t have much trouble with the ‘who I am’ talk. But when I had to get up and talk for three minutes on a topic of my own choice I found I had been snookered by the previous speaker, who had spoken on the same topic that I had selected. Consequently I had to re-arrange my lecturette and rambled on for about five minutes on the construction of moulded plywood surfboats.
The problems encountered during the outdoor exercises were quite unique. There were usually only one or two ways of solving the problems given the design of the obstacle which the group had to cross, and the limited stores available ensured that potential leaders had to push their way forward to get their message across or had to take command of the group. Being physically fit and strong I soon found myself involved in most activities—either holding logs, ropes or drums. All this involvement didn’t do me any harm: indeed I was made a ‘casualty’ half way through the third problem to shut me up.
By lunchtime we were finished with most of the activities and we were taken to lunch with the members of the board. This was a buffet meal in an annex adjoining the Puckapunyal Area Officers’ Mess. The meal was nothing short of sumptuous. My dear old dad had been right all along. After the food in the other ranks’ dining hall we couldn’t believe our eyes. There was sea-food, ham, pork, roast beef, curry, cold meats and delicious sweets. This veritable banquet was attacked with zeal and we soon had our fill. After lunch the members on the board interviewed us one at a time for about half an hour and then we were free to go.
Almost two weeks passed. Then all the candidates for OTU were mustered on one of the company parade grounds to be told the results. The sergeant read out the names in alphabetical order of those candidates who were successful. He passed down the alphabet. My heart leapt as he read ‘McKay’, and then sank as he read the initials—‘D.J.’, a man who was a school teacher in another company. He moved on down the list and I was sure I had missed out when he suddenly started on names in random order and then my name was read out. I wasn’t really sure why I was so pleased to be selected. Every one I had spoken to about Scheyville had said how tough and how demanding the course was.
In all about thirty of us had made it through to the final selection. I was not sad to be leaving the lousy weather of Pucka, but there was one person I was sad to be leaving. He was a big lump of a bloke who had come from somewhere in northwestern Victoria. This fellow couldn’t read or write. He had lived on a remote farm and I don’t believe he had even finished primary school. The authorities were in a bit of a quandary about what to do with him. He was so keen to do well in the army he was almost embarrassing. Unfortunately, he was slow and possibly a little retarded. His coordination was bad and several of us in the platoon had been given the task of teaching him to march and perform simple drill movements. This was not an easy job. He was a classic ‘square-gaiter’: with the left foot and arm going forward together as the only way he could march. Every time we tried to untangle this behemoth he would tense up and start square-gaiting. Not only was he uncoordinated and illiterate, he also had very poor teeth. Just before I left for Scheyville the dentists had removed most of his upper and lower teeth. Word finally came that he would not finish his national service and he would be discharged.
This was devastating news to this fellow and he broke down and cried when he was told. I really felt for this man who had never had a lot going for him; all he wanted was to be a soldier.
My platoon commander called me into his office the day before I was due to leave for Scheyville to give me some advice. In the inner sanctum of his office he admitted he was a Scheyville graduate. He wanted to pass on his philosophy on how to pass the course. His first piece of wisdom was never to lie or try to bluff your way out of a sticky situation; the next was to ‘be yourself and not to ‘put on the dog’. And finally he passed on the cadets’ motto, which was Nil Bastardum Carborundum. Roughly translated from that pig latin, this meant ‘don’t let the staff wear you down’. His advice stood me in good stead in the six months to come.
2
Doing Extras at Scheyville
The plane trip up to Sydney lulled us into a false sense of security. The meal on the plane had been superb, and our escort officer had allowed us to have a can of beer. It was just on 3.00 pm when our bus drove onto the Scheyville parade ground. Our reception this time bore no resemblance to t
he greeting we had experienced at Pucka. On the parade ground stood a regimental sergeant major and a line of drill sergeants. As the bus came to a halt a very ugly, shaven head topped by a ceremonial blues cap was thrust inside the opening door. It told us in extremely loud tones that we had thirty seconds to get off the bus.
There was instant chaos. Men, coats, suitcases and hats were going in all directions. This pandemonium was not aided by the drillies, who had by now come to life. They began harassing us as we struggled to get out of the coach as fast as we could. Bags were pushed out of windows as we tried to meet the time limit. Finally we were out of the bus and more or less in a military formation on the parade ground. Our names were read out and we were sorted into our new platoon organisations. We were then introduced to our platoon drill sergeant. My platoon was 9 Platoon and my drill sergeant was a short Armoured Corps fellow who had a voice which sounded like it came out of someone twice his size. He dressed us on the parade ground and after having us do about five right turns, followed by five ‘as you weres’ we finally did it right (calling the time) and marched off to our rooms.
This was the first shock. The marching pace at Scheyville was 140 paces to the minute for the first month. This was known as light infantry pace; and it was considerably quicker than the regulation 116 paces to the minute we had been dawdling about Puckapunyal with. Once again we had a Cooks’ tour of the area on foot, only this time it felt like we were running as we covered about five miles of the Scheyville complex. As we approached a place of interest such as the gymnasium we would be halted, turned to face the building in question and given a one minute brief on what it was, what we would do in it and how much we would enjoy doing it.
After the guided tour of the facilities by our drill sergeant we were put through the clothing and equipment drill all over again. This time, however, we had a lot more clothing, more equipment and text books and training pamphlets by the score. As soon as we had enough gear to fill our arms we would march back to our rooms, dump it all on the floor and return for another load. Afterwards we were paraded back at the platoon lines to receive a room layout demonstration. I thought the staff at Pucka were strict—until we went through the rigmarole of how to roll our socks and fold our underwear at Scheyville. Everything had to be perfect. There was no latitude for individuality and if it wasn’t correct, as per the official layout, we would be given an ‘extra’. We would soon find out what an ‘extra’ was.
The extra training parades were a rotten punishment. The offending cadet had to be on the side of the parade ground near the laundry at exactly 0610 hours. Naturally if you weren’t there you chalked up another extra and had to charge yourself for being absent from a place of parade. This usually resulted in an additional three extras. The dress for extra training parades was called ‘Battle Order’: boots, greens, full field equipment consisting of basic webbing with large 37 Pattern pack and bedroll and rifle, and all of this topped off with a helmet. The cadet duty officer would march the sleepy beasts of burden out onto the fog-shrouded parade ground and dress them for an inspection by the staff duty officer. The staff duty officer of course would take out his wrath at having to get up at some ungodly hour to inspect the defaulters. Often it was dark at extra training parade inspection time, so he would demand to see all the equipment. One of the more obscure items that would be inspected was our sewing kit, known as the ‘housewife’. Checking to see that the water bottles on the webbing were full was another favourite, as would be the tin of boot polish which was invariably the one used for day-to-day polishing and was usually back in your room. Failure to produce the items requested resulted needless to say, in more extra training parades.
After the inspection the cadet duty officer would drill the men for twenty minutes and at about 6.30 am they would be released to ready themselves for mess parade. The equipment worn on extra training parade then had to be broken down into its basic components and laid out on the bed in inspection order. By losing that half hour before breakfast you were behind for the rest of the day. You couldn’t cut meal parade to make up time and because you were so hungry you wouldn’t dare miss breakfast. Once you had wolfed breakfast down you would tear back to your room to try to get the room squared away before the inspection parade. As well as all of this tidying up you were required to have all your dirty clothes parcelled ready for the section second-in-command to take to the laundry. We soon realised that extra training parades started you on a vicious circle that was hard to get out of.
The platoon was housed in long wooden huts which had served a multitude of purposes over the decades. The camp had been used as a hostel for the Dreadnought Agricultural Training Scheme at the end of the last century, and after the First World War it had become an internment camp for German aliens; then, during the Second World War, it had been made into an army training centre. In 1949 the camp became the first temporary home for many migrants who wanted to start a new life in Australia. While the huts were quite old they were in reasonable shape and painted a nondescript grey. Each officer cadet had his own pretty basic room and shared common shower and latrine facilities at the end of the hut. Each room contained a wooden wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a steel writing table or ‘tables personnel’ as they were called, a cot and mattress and a bedside rug. Below a very over-loaded bookcase was a rifle rest on which we were to put our 7.62 mm self loading rifle or SLR as it is known. This was a change as previously our personal weapons were always locked away in the armoury until we needed them.
After our room layout demonstration came the task of sorting out the piles of gear we had accumulated in our dash around Scheyville that afternoon. Just as I started this mammoth task the light in my doorway was blotted out by an extremely tall, skinny man who identified himself as my ‘father’. This ‘father’ was in fact a senior class cadet who, like all the other senior classmen, was allocated a junior classman to foster through his first three months. My father was a veterinarian by the name of Dave Parry-Okeden. At 23 years of age he was older than the average nasho and presented an imposing figure at six foot four or five. His air of confidence was very consoling to me right then. He stepped into my mess of a room and by dinnertime he had run me through the whole gamut of how to set up the room in inspection order, and how to make my bed properly so the drillies could bounce a 20 cent coin off the counterpane.
Dave was an easy-going bloke who was willing to advise but always made sure it was me who did the work. Once the room was squared away he took me up to the cadets’ mess where the whole battalion of officer cadets was on meal parade. We lined up by platoons in company lots and the senior cadet, known as the battalion sergeant major, stood on a dais and welcomed the new junior class. In all, my intake numbered about 150; and the senior class—who were just starting their second term with less than three months to go—had only some ninety left in their class. This was a sobering thought on the first day and was an instant reminder that the fun had only just begun.
The senior class were all dressed in a woollen serge blue uniform with white shirt and a straight black tie. On the lapels of the jacket were white gorget patches which denoted that one was of officer cadet status. Prior to moving in for dinner a cadet stood near a board which displayed the number of days until graduation for the senior class and recited a poem which ended with the number of days to go; a tradition handed down from class to class and continued into our senior term. Dinner was a semi-formal affair with steward service despite the fact that you had no choice of what you were going to eat. The food was wholesome and obviously good for you but I was still hungry at the end of the meal despite devouring half a loaf of sliced bread before I rose from the table. Coffee and tea were taken in the ante-room and it was a fairly uncomfortable time for the ‘new boys’ as we took in all that was going on around us.
After dinner we were trooped off to a lecture and were given the procedure on daily routine and the various components of Scheyville. It was here that we found out that one couldn’t
resign from Scheyville until a month had elapsed. The adjutant then detailed the system of punishments at Scheyville. After he had finished his tirade on how we were to record our punishments, charge ourselves for misdemeanors, and work off our penalties, I started to think that a month could be an awfully long time.
It was just on 9.30 pm when we were dismissed for the day. When I returned to the lines, Dave called me into his room to tell me what would be required of me the next day and how to set up all the different forms of dress I would have to wear in accordance with the training programme. This training programme became the driving force in your whole day. I had to read it accurately or would suffer the consequences of appearing for a weapon training lecture in physical training kit. Dave also reminded me that if I was awarded an extra in the first week, he had to do the punishment. In the second week we did them together, and in the third week I was on my own. With this charming thought in mind and hoping Dave Parry-Okeden was not a violent man, I went to bed at lights out at 10.00 pm. It had been a hectic day and I slept like a log in my newly-issued, striped flannel pyjamas—until I was very rudely woken at 0600 hours the next morning.
It was quite cool at this time of the day and my ‘father’ ensured I was out of bed with all of my bedding under my arm and standing to attention in front of my flywire screen door. A scratchy recording of reveille preceded our cadet platoon sergeant numbering off our platoon and commanding us to ‘fall out’ and get into the showers. No sooner had I dumped my bedding back on my bed than my ‘father’, who had turned into an ogre during the night, started yelling at me to get myself sorted out and into the showers. It was the same all over the company. Sleepy-eyed cadets were being herded down to the showers accompanied by an incredible amount of shouting and swearing. We were allowed two minutes to shower, shave and be back in our rooms to start getting dressed. I was still putting my trousers on when Parry-Okeden burst back into my room to see why I wasn’t ready for mess parade. I could hear from the din in the adjoining rooms that I wasn’t alone in this regard.