Encounters with Heavenly Beings
In the army, girls were a premium. We had minimal contact with them, particularly the younger and more physically appealing ones. Girls! Girls! Girls! (title of a 1962 Elvis movie). They were beautiful heavenly beings from another world, so far removed from the reality and harshness of our training and suffering. All we needed were girls! We were desperate. Give us girls or give us death! (a slight modification to the American patriot Patrick Henry's "Give me liberty or give me death").
One bright sunny afternoon, things would change. We were sitting outside the cookhouse after lunch. Officers moved in and out. Most of them were unfamiliar, and by their uniforms, we could tell they weren't from our unit. A big event must be taking place here. Normally, we had to salute officers, but this rule was relaxed when there were too many officers; saluting all would not be feasible. As that was the case here, we paid no attention to them.
Then a female lieutenant walked by. She was in her early twenties, had long dark hair, with a ponytail that reaches slightly below her shoulders. Her figure was tall and curvy, slim but not skinny. Her complexion was fair, unblemished and perfect. She looked like a supermodel dressed in army uniform. She was the army version of Cindy Crawford. I couldn't believe my eyes. How could an army officer look this gorgeous? Not only was she not from our unit, she wasn't from this world! Huge attentive gawking male eyes followed her everywhere.
Still ignoring the many male officers all around, each of us greeted her.
�Good Afternoon, Madam.�
�Good Afternoon, Madam.�
�Good Afternoon, Madam.�
A thousand greetings came her way from all directions, but swiftly turning her pretty head left and right, she politely tried to acknowledge each greeting with a sweet shy smile and a nod. She seemed to find all the attention amusing.
When she passed by me, I greeted her too. Why not? One didn�t get many chances for contact with a gorgeous female. A sweet officer like her surely deserved my greetings.
On another occasion, we were standing rigidly at attention at the parade square outside the same cookhouse. On our left, an army truck stopped, and out came young female soldiers. Although our heads remained facing forward, our eyes turned left to gaze upon the beautiful heavenly beings, creatures that had gone missing for an eternity.
Our sergeant in charge knew what was happening. With a smirk, he commanded, �FACE RIGHT!� (This is the command to turn our heads right, usually to acknowledge a VIP while marching.) We had no choice but to obey and to face right, away from the lovely sight.
But not all heavenly beings were equally beautiful. One sleepy hot afternoon, we were having a lesson at the training shade. I was sitting near the front of the platoon where Sergeant Lim was lecturing. Not all commando training was exciting. As in school, we had to learn theory. Like students in class, we felt bored. Any distraction would be welcome to break the monotony.
As Sergeant Lim droned on and on, I felt particularly bored, and any small stimuli could capture my attention. On my left, an unfamiliar figure appeared at my peripheral vision. Instinctively, I turned my head swiftly to look. An elderly lady was walking slowly with a cane. (I had no idea what she was doing there, perhaps she was a cleaning lady.) Sergeant Lim stopped his lecture and, shaking his head, said in Singlish (Singapore English), �You ahh, even old lady you want to see!� Loud laughter arose. �You must really be desperate ahhh.� More laughter.
Embarrassed, I grinned. I was the unwitting butt of a joke, but I did not mind. I was embarrassed but not humiliated. I was only thankful to God for the light-hearted moment that broke the monotony.
I would always be grateful for the fairer sex. Like other civilian luxuries we took for granted (such as a nice warm bed, cold soft drinks etc.), we might have taken them for granted too. It is one thing though to take things for granted and another to take human beings for granted. But we thus no longer would do so.
P.S. - A slideshow I made featuring Israeli women soldiers.
Touched by an Angel
We must not, in trying to think about how we can make a big difference, ignore the small daily differences we can make which, over time, add up to big differences that we often cannot foresee.
-- Marian Wright Edelman
In the popular TV program �Touched by an Angel," people encounter angels in the form of human beings. Little did I expect to encounter one such angel myself. It happened at 30,000 feet in a civilian airliner while on our way to a foreign country for military training. Training in a foreign country was particularly arduous because our instructors always ensured that our trip abroad was worthwhile. We also had to adjust quickly to the foreign country: climate, terrain, environment, barracks, rules and regulations, and the isolation of being away from home and our loved ones.
Before our flight, a section mate told me that a more senior soldier had advised him, �Enjoy yourself during the flight because once you get there, you are going to suffer." I was contemplating the wisdom of these words as I sat comfortably on the cushioned airliner seat. I was enjoying myself. Accustomed to the Spartan army life, I considered the soft cushioned seats and the air-con to be luxuries. With a contented smile, I looked around. The night was quiet. As far as I could tell, everyone was sound asleep. That was one thing we soldiers loved to do whenever given the chance: sleep. But for some reason, I didn�t feel like sleeping. Maybe it was due to the anxiety of what was to come. The words �You are going to suffer� refused to leave my mind.
I decided to prepare myself for what lay ahead. I took a small plastic bag from my left breast pocket of my green camouflaged army uniform. Then I took my trusty worn-out pocket Bible from the bag. (The plastic bag protected the Bible from moisture). This small precious Bible had accompanied me through hundreds of miles of jungles, rivers, mountains and valleys. I always had it in my left breast pocket close to my heart. This way, I had a physical reminder of God and His precious promises of encouragement. My fingers flipped to a page containing one of the Psalms (poetic prayers). The lights in the airliner were dim. But I could still read, although I had to strain my eyes.
After I had read a couple of verses, the page brightened instantly! What was happening? I had heard that God�s word, the Bible, was alive, but I never knew it came alive this way. Startled, I looked up and saw an angel smiling sweetly at me. The angel radiated a yellow glow on her face and shoulders. This same glow had illuminated my Bible. The angel had the face of a beautiful fair lady. She turned and walked away quietly, gone as swiftly as she had appeared. Nobody else had seen the angel; they were all asleep.
The angel was a flight attendant. With a touch of a finger, she had switched on the reading lights for me. Surprisingly, my initial reaction was that of surprise, as though something strange had happened. But why did I feel strange? I pondered . . . . Then I understood. Her kind deed was in sharp contrast to the harsh army treatment we were accustomed to; her kind deed was the bright light of a lighthouse piercing the vast deep darkness of the ocean. It took a few seconds for my mind to register that someone had actually done a kind deed for me, that someone had actually served me.
After the surprise had worn off, I felt a great appreciation for the angelic flight attendant. One may say that she was merely doing a job for which she was paid. True, but if she hadn�t switched on the light, no one would have complained. Everyone was asleep and I wasn�t even aware of her presence. She could have seen me as just one army boy among many. She could have seen us as just a bunch of rowdy army boys. We were supposed to be tough soldiers anyway; why pamper us? But she didn�t. Instead, she saw me as a person worthy to be served.
She had long forgotten about switching on that light for me. But I would always remember. A small act of kindness comforted me when a trial awaited me.
A touch of a finger was all it took.
You never know what a single kind deed could achieve. It could even start a chain reaction leading others to do the same. Rachel Scott said, "I have this theory that if one person can go out of their way to show compassion then it will start a chain reaction of the same."
An angel had given me light (literally and metaphorically). I realized that God could send more angels to minister to me through the trials ahead. These angels could be ordinary people, or they could be angels from Heaven.
After reading the Psalm, my anxiety lifted. The words �You are going to suffer� were replaced by grateful thoughts for the flight attendant. I drifted into a blissful sleep. In a few hours, the airliner would land and the suffering would begin.
We can do no great things; only small things with great love.
-- Mother Teresa
Unexpected Visitors
The day started like any other day. Five of us were on a mountain for recon training. Unknown to me at that time, three very high-ranking officers from a foreign nation would pay us a surprise visit. Would they be happy with what they see? Would they be satisfied with our performance? Or would they catch us all asleep?
An important role for commandos is to perform reconnaissance on the enemy. To do so, we operate in small teams of about five. A larger force makes detection by the enemy easier. The team comprises one team leader, one medic, a signaler (which was what I was), and two other men.
On one reconnaissance training mission in a foreign country, we were detailed to set up an observation post to observe a busy �enemy� road. After examining the location around the road, we decided on a spot for the post. The location was high up in the mountain where we could easily monitor activities on the road. So for a day, we successfully monitored activity on the road, reporting by radio to HQ.
The next day, we had three visitors. They were in civilian clothes, obviously foreign but not from the country where this training was taking place. All three were in their forties or maybe 50s. They spoke English to us, but amongst themselves they spoke in a language I didn't understand.
Their visit was unannounced; there wasn�t any fanfare or formality. We merely greeted them when they arrived. They spoke mostly to our team leader, who was a Lieutenant, but loud enough for everyone.
From the conversations, it was clear that they were evaluating our location. After much discussion, they concluded with two main points.
One, the observation post had excellent camouflage and concealment -- high up in the mountains and hard for the enemy to detect. They even had difficulty finding us. Even so, we could observe a long stretch of the road easily.
But there was a downside. Because of the remote location, it was hard to find water. High up in the mountains, we were far from the nearest river or stream. Traveling to and from the river or stream to replenish our water would incur a greater than normal risk of detection by the enemy. They said that �survivability� was a problem. But on the whole, they were pleased with the location, adding that the pluses outweighed the negatives.
After they left, our Lieutenant said that two of them were generals and the other one a colonel. I was surprised but then not too surprised. After all, they were foreign military advisors, thus not unlikely to be of such high ranks.
I felt honored that these officers visited us. They were friendly and approachable. Before that, I had thought that my first meeting with a general or a colonel would be very formal, if I indeed had a chance to meet one. I had pictured myself on parade standing rigidly at attention with the general not even bothering to glance at me. But these three officers� visit was rather casual. They spoke to us almost as if we were their equals. They respected our opinions.
I also felt proud that they had given us a good evaluation. We had done a good job, knowing the extremely high standards of these officers. They were most probably great commando leaders with war experiences.
P.S. Special Operations: Silent Heroes - LRRP - Video about LRRPs.
Romancing the Stone
During our lonely and miserable recruit days (BMT), news came that we were going to watch a movie that very night. We were excited for the chance to taste civilian life. But unknown to us, this movie break would take a strange topsy-turvy twist.
Recruit days were especially long and lonesome. We were still adjusting to army life, away from the usual creature comforts, luxuries and liberties of civilian life, which we had taken for granted. We were bald, a reminder to us that from now on, things were different. It was a remainder that we were no more individuals but part of a regimented body. No more Mummy�s boy, no more nice warm bed of home (except for a few weekends), but constant training and induction.
But a welcome break was coming. For this evening and this evening only, things would be different. When our sergeant announced that we were watching a movie, we were overjoyed. For once, we were going to do something �normal." A movie meant so much; it didn�t matter what movie. It had the romantic title "Romancing the Stone." I had heard of the 105-minute movie, although I had never seen it.
Soldiers from outside our company arrived with the movie projector and other equipment. I didn�t know if they were from the commando HQ or from outside our unit. They must have been in charge of entertainment. We sat on the ground at a vacant car park beside one of our barracks.
Instead of the usual story built-up and introduction of the characters, the movie was action-packed right from the beginning. It got more and more exciting, and we were still only in the first half of the movie. After only forty-five minutes, the movie ended abruptly. The big words �The End� were flashed on the screen. We were stunned. What was happening? The movie was supposed to be 105 minutes long. Puzzled heads turned left and right, trying to make sense of it all.
After a few minutes, during which the screen remained blank, one of the entertainment soldiers walked to the front of the screen. He was a thin, bespectacled Private or Lance Corporal. He sheepishly announced that they had shown Part Two of the movie by mistake, but the good news was they were now going to screen Part One.
Men groaned and jeered and sighed. What expected to be an exciting movie was now an anticlimax. Why watch Part One now when we had just watched Part Two? Nevertheless, they screened Part One. As expected, it was one big yawn.
As I lay on my bunk bed that night, I reflected on the evening�s event. We would not have another entertainment night for a long time, most probably not while we were still recruits. Hmmm . . . Showing Part Two before Part One. I should not be too upset nor complain too much. After all, we were in the army where Murphy�s Law ruled: "If anything can go wrong, it will."
The army world was topsy-turvy. Things often made no sense at all, especially to the rank-and-file soldier. Screw-ups seem common. We just had to accept things the way they were and to be thankful for the bits of enjoyment along the way. At least I enjoyed Part Two of the movie.
Among the thorns, roses brighten our day. Or rather, among the �stones� of adversity, some �romance� of fun, light-heartedness, and humor brighten our day.
Stealth of a Ninja
When I was a kid growing up in the sixties and early seventies, I watched many popular Japanese TV programs featuring Ninjas and Samurais. In my simplistic child�s mind, the heroic Samurais were always the �good guys� while the villainous Ninjas were always the �bad guys." Samurais were honorable. To use a computer lingo, they were the what-you-see-is-what-you-get guys. Ninjas, on the other hand, �played dirty." They were the what-you-see-is-not-what-you-get guys: cunning, stealthy, and mystical.
Today, instead of merely watching these mysterious Ninjas portrayed on TV, I would experience the spirit of these fine ancient warriors firsthand. As a result, I would have far more respect for Ninjas, as well as for my commando instructors.
This happened in Basic Commando Training (BCT), which came right after Basic Military Training (BMT). We had just finished night training in the dark woods. Now we were eager to board the waiting 3-tonners (army trucks) to take us back to camp for a well-deserved night�s sleep. But a sergeant said, "Not so fast. We have one small exercise left. Gather yourselves in pairs. You are going somewhere five hundred meters from here. See the slightly raised ground there? That's the objective. Reach it without being captured by us. Any questions? No? Let�s begin.�
My partner was section-mate Harry. He was cheerful, easy-going and musically inclined. He sang a country song dedicated to the runner who refused to give up. (See "Spirit of a Commando" here.) He sang and played guitar for solace. He always smiled as though he hadn�t a care in the world. Maybe music contributed to his cheerfulness. He knew how to have fun too. About a year after this Ninja incident, we were doing our guard duty when Harry was the Duty Officer. A guard friend saw Harry carry a small TV set to his Duty Officer bunkroom. Harry and I got along well.
We carefully made our way towards the checkpoint, successfully evading capture for the first four hundred meters -- so far so good. We realized that the last hundred meters would present the clearest and most present danger. The ground before us was mostly flat with short vegetation growth. We had to crawl to remain undetected. �We�ll both crawl forward, leapforging each other," I suggested. "When the forward one checks that the coast is clear, the other will leapfrog and do the same thing. We'll crawl one at a time.� Harry agreed. The moonless night was dark; we fancied our chances. If we remained vigilant and quiet, we should get to the checkpoint safely.
I was the first to crawl forward. I checked and stopped. Everything was still and quiet, except for the distant sound of crickets. No sight of the sergeants. All seemed clear. Still undetected by the prowling sergeants, I turned my head to look back. Because of the darkness, I couldn�t see Harry clearly but only his silhouette. I could hear him begin his cautious crawl. Soon he leapfrogged ahead of me. After he stopped, I crawled forward, leapfrogging him. Then he crawled, leapfrogging me. So we went on like this, slowly and cautiously making progress, inch by inch.
Eventually we were only ten to twenty meters from the checkpoint, the slightly raised ground. I could already see one of our sergeants, Sergeant Soh, strolling casually, not looking watchful. I cannot wait to see his surprised expression when Harry and I jump at him! Harry and I might even be the first to reach the checkpoint successfully.
I looked back at Harry who must have been thinking the same thoughts. He started crawling. But this time, instead of leapfrogging me, he crawled towards me. Most likely he intended to converse with me, to plan our crucial final approach to the checkpoint. I continued looking at Harry�s dark silhouette as he approached.
Harry came within a foot from me. To my great horror, he wasn�t Harry! He was Sergeant Chee, one of our meanest and most cunning Ranger-trained sergeants, with an evil smirk. He laughed. "Do you know how long I've waited to crawl to you, tap your shoulder and say 'Hello'?�
I stood up, for the game was up. No sign of Harry; Sergeant Chee must have already captured Harry. �I tricked you into thinking I was Harry, just as I had tricked Harry with the same method," Sergeant Chee said gleefully. "When Harry saw me, he thought I was you."
How did Sergeant Chee trick each of us into thinking that he (Sergeant Chee) was our partner? I had no idea how he did that, outsmarting both Harry and me. Dull I may be but not Harry who eventually became an officer.
One thing was sure. Sergeant Chee had stealth, as commandos were reputed to have. Historians suggest that Ninjas, the ancient Japanese warriors, were the forerunners of modern day commandos. Ninjas were famous for their stealth, cunning, with a reputation for �walking through walls." Sergeant Chee had demonstrated the stealth of a Ninja. From then on, I was in even greater awe of our commando trainers. I aspired to emulate them.
But the story hadn�t ended yet. Eventually, the sergeants captured all the trainees, and the exercise was over. "We gave you guys a chance to get near the checkpoint," Sergeant Soh (whom I had earlier seen walking casually) said. �If we had really gone all out to capture you guys, none of you would have even gotten close." That explained his casual demeanor.
�Those who did well in the exercise will board the 3-tonner back to our barracks," another sergeant, Sergeant Ong, announced. "The rest will follow the 3-tonner on foot.� It had already been a long night. We desperately needed to rest, and now we might have to march seven km back to camp?
The sergeants began dividing us into two groups. Most were judged not to have "done well." Then Sergeant Chan pointed at Harry and me and asked, �What about these two?� Sergeant Soh, who must have seen my capture by Sergeant Chee, rescued us. �I saw those two captured very near the checkpoint. Very near. They did very well. Excellent." None of us reached the checkpoint, but Harry and I were maybe the nearest. The sergeants appreciated our effort.
So Harry and I, along with only four other pairs, happily boarded the army truck for the trip back to camp. The sergeants also boarded the truck.The truck started. As I sat comfortably, I watched the unfortunate group of thirty on foot. Helmets on their heads and rifles in their hands, fatigue was written all over their faces. They struggled to keep pace with the truck. After a while, I noticed that most of them were slowly lagging farther and farther from the truck. The sergeants screamed at them to close the gap. They quickened their pace and closed the gap. But this effort exhausted them even more. After a while they faltered and the gap widened again. The sergeants screamed again.
Thus, the cycle continued. A long, long night lay ahead of these poor souls -- all because they did not demonstrate the stealth of a Ninja.
The Most Improved Recruit
At the start of our Basic Military Training (BMT), we raw recruits were at varying levels of physical fitness. One square-jawed recruit was a bodybuilder. Muscles bulged everywhere from his V-shaped body. He was the Incredible Hulk right out of a superhero comic book. He should have painted himself green! Several were runners, including yours truly. But Benjamin was not physically fit. He was chubby and overweight, looking out of place in a commando camp.
In every running test, Benjamin finished last. He ran clumsily, bringing his leg down hard as his foot landed. He struggled to lift his heavy torso for even one sit-up. Everyone wondered if he would survive BMT, not to mention commando training which would follow.
But Benjamin had other ideas. He had a look of determination on his face and was not one to quit. Complaining wasn�t his style; he was quiet and introverted, not showing his emotions freely. But it was plain to everyone, trainers and fellow recruits alike, that he had a never-say-die attitude.
Still, the task wasn't easy. He continued to be last in almost everything. He became the most regular member of the �Red Squad." The Red Squad was created for recruits weak in one or more stations of the Individual Physical Proficiency Test (IPPT). Benjamin was weak at all stations, hence Red Squad training for him. (They called it Red Squad because in schools, teachers traditionally wrote in red ink the failing grade on students� papers.)
Red Squad members endured extra physical training. While the rest of us rested, they ran, did chin-ups, sit-ups and pushups. As I sat on my bed in the evenings, I often heard members of the Red Squad exercising outside our barracks. Though relieved because I wasn�t in their shoes, I felt sorry for them.
Little by little his persistency began to pay off. He finally managed to do his first chin-up. Soon he managed two, followed by three. His running and sit-ups also improved. After several attempts, he even passed the IPPT.
At our BMT passing-out parade the usual awards, such as the Best Recruit, were presented. But for that year, a new award would be introduced: the Most Improved Recruit. �This is the very first time we're having this award." Glancing at Benjamin, our platoon sergeant continued, "We noticed that one among you especially deserves this award, so we introduce this award specially for this batch of recruits.�
When the name of the award�s recipient was announced, nobody was surprised to hear Benjamin's name. Though still overweight, he had slimmed down a lot since the day he stepped into camp. With his usual style of bringing down his feet heavily (that still hadn�t changed yet), he marched proudly to the Company Commander.
Loud applause followed. Everyone knew that, in terms of physical fitness, Benjamin had worked twice as hard as any of us. He had demonstrated the spirit of the commando. He inspired all of us, including our Ranger-trained sergeant trainers. Credit went also to our trainers who didn't give up on Benjamin and who had the initiative and flexibility to introduce a new award.
P.S. Benjamin eventually earned the Red Beret and became a member of our mortar squad.
The Commando T-Shirt
We wanted to wear our proud Commando T-shirt, but it was against the regulations of this external unit. Should we go ahead? Or should we back down?
We had to decide on the last day of our two-month training attachment to the School of Signals. (Each commando has his own specialty � demolition, weapons, sniper, communications, medical etc. Some of us were at the School of Signals to be trained in the field of communications. See My Tribute to Lieutenant Soo). We wanted to do something different today.
Almost simultaneously, all of us thought of wearing our 5th Company commando T-shirt. We had designed this T-shirt ourselves, and we had received them recently, right before the two-month attachment. (Each of the five companies in our commando battalion had its own specially designed T-shirt and logo.) So we were eager to wear our brand new T-shirts for the first time, not having a chance so far in the School of Signals where we had to wear the regular army green vest.
A bigger reason for wearing our T-shirt was pride. I am not talking about overweening pride but a healthy pride of belonging to the commandos, knowing that we had suffered much to be worthy of wearing that T-shirt. At that time, we were not officially commandos yet. We had yet to earn the Red Beret (symbol of the commandos, see My Red Beret Ceremony). We were only commando trainees. But even as trainees, we felt proud to belong to the unit.
Even the most modest and reserved among us were enthusiastic about the idea. Of course we knew that we were in the commando unit, but this fact was highlighted and more pronounced when we were at another unit. (Like being a Singaporean or some other nationality, we tend to take that for granted till we go abroad. Then we realize the differences and uniqueness of being a Singaporean or some other nationality.)
We knew that it was against the regulations of the School of Signals to wear our T-shirts. But we had so far behaved well. (Or rather we had behaved better than they had expected, due to some stereotyping of commandos.) And what could they do to us on this last day?
So we wore the T-shirts. We went to the cookhouse proudly. Though our army green fatigues were over the T-shirts, the T-shirts was still visible around our collar bones. This was our way of saying goodbye to the School of Signals -- a little message that we from the commandos were here.
Our venture did not go unnoticed by our School of Signals instructors. Later in the evening one of them, the most senior corporal, gave us a half-hearted mild scolding. "Errrr . . . Actually, you are not allowed to wear your commando T-shirts here." But that was all. The outcome as expected -- no punishment.
The Sausage in the Jungle
Before the following incident, I had always prided myself for consistently making rational and logical decisions. For example, no way was I going to be swayed by any get-rich-quick schemes or any commercials making promises too good to be true. But surprisingly, I discovered that my primal instinct and desires residing deep within me can override my rational and logical part.
It happened deep in the dense tropical rainforest of a foreign country. The past week seemed more like a month. The constant rain made us wet, cold, uncomfortable and filthy. Our wet dirty uniforms clung to our skin. We had no civilian comfort: no bed, no roof over our heads, no fresh food, no bath, and little sleep.
We had been eating nothing but the combat rations which we carried in our backpacks. The combat rations were bland. The biscuit was called hard tack (not sure how to spell this) because it was, well, hard. In the mouth, the biscuits absorbed our saliva and dried our throats, making us feel even more thirsty than we already were. So did the can food of sardine or beef or some meat. But we had to eat the rations or we would starve. The amount of combat rations was never enough; we could only carry so much because of our already heavy gear.
However, there was one thing that everyone was looking forward to. Everyone longed for today! The knowledge of what this day was to bring had kept our spirits alive so far.
Fresh food was coming! Fresh food was simply normal food that civilians take for granted. We didn�t call it �food� but �fresh food." It was warm rice and cooked vegetables, meat, and gravy. Compared to our combat rations, any fresh food was an exquisite restaurant cuisine.
When the truck arrived, each received his share. Everyone sat down by himself to concentrate on his food. Nobody talked. Everyone retreated to his own private world to enjoy the heaven-sent food. Except for the rustling of leaves and the sounds of crickets, all was silent.
I sat down to eat. Like the others, I got lost in my own world, savoring the food. Although I was famished, I resisted the temptation to gulp everything down at one go. I nibbled each piece of delicacy. I chewed slowly, extracting all its flavor. Only when the food had completely dissolved in my mouth did I swallow reluctantly. In this way I finished a tasty sausage. Oh, if only I could have another sausage. But each man was given one and only one.
�Oh no, I don�t know why but I CAN�T swallow this darn sausage!� Gary complained loudly. In a microsecond, my head lifted. I gaped at his sausage which he had lifted high with two fingers for everyone to see. My reaction was purely automatic. Everyone else had the same reaction. Staring at Gary�s sausage, everyone had stopped eating. Everyone and everything was frozen for a few eternal seconds, as if time itself had stopped . . . .
Then Gary laughed sneeringly and dropped the sausage into his big mouth. "Fooled everyone, didn't I?" After an exaggerated gesture of wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in satisfaction, he declared smugly, "I knew everyone would be dying to have my sausage. Hahahahaah . . . .�
Disappointed, everyone went back to his own meal. I felt silly; I had been fooled. I should have known better. Who in his right mind would not want a sausage? Who couldn�t swallow a delicious fresh sausage? But it wasn't my conscious mind that made me look at the sausage. Rather, it was my instinct, my gut reaction - something more basic and primal.
It struck me just how much a single sausage had meant to us. In our civilian lives before the army, we had taken sausages for granted. But out here in the jungle, it was so desirous that nobody cared about being fooled as long as there was some chance, however remote, of tasting an extra sausage. And I should thank God for the one sausage that I actually had. Since that incident, every sausage tasted great � no exceptions.
The "Machine Gun" Lecture
What do you remember about your worst lecture or class? Maybe the lesson was boring; or you were so sleepy you could hardly keep your eyes open; or the teacher was demanding, asking hard questions; or you said something stupid; or the chair was uncomfortable.
I would always remember one lecture. No comfortable classroom, no chairs, no tables, but a training shade made of flat zinc sheets. We had to sweep the leaves off the shade's concrete ground early every morning. Still, leaves littered the floor.
The lesson was on the General Purpose Machine Gun (GPMG) which included lots of boring technical details such as the weight (with and without the tripod), length (with and without barrel). Sergeant Lim, one of our most sadistic trainers, conducted it.
The lecture began normally. Another boring lecture, I thought, yawning. After lecturing for less than ten minutes, Sergeant Lim, sensing that many of us were dozing off, popped a question to test our attentiveness. Nobody could answer. Furious, he shouted, �Twenty pushups!�
That was still normal. Twenty pushups and back to the boring lecture. But after the twenty pushups, Sergeant Lim did not give the command �recover� as was the usual procedure. He merely went on with the lecture as though nothing had happened. Nobody dared ask for permission to �recover," so we remained in the pushup position.
That wasn�t all. Sgt Lim continued bombarding us with questions. Each time we answered incorrectly, more pushups followed. I lost count of the number of pushups which could have been over a hundred.
My shoulders and arms were throbbing. Being in a stationary position for long was a tough isometric exercise. I could only move my buttocks up and down. Doing pushups was almost a relief, but after each set of pushups, I ached even more. I lost track of time. The lecture, I think, could have lasted forty-five minutes to an hour, although it seemed much longer. Worse, I had to be the culprit one time.
Sergeant Lim asked, �What is the weight of the machine gun?�
Silence followed; nobody answered. Pushups were coming soon. Vaguely remembering the length, I shouted, �12.5 kg.�
�With or without the tripod?� asked Sergeant Lim.
I couldn�t remember this one. The figure I gave was most probably correct, but I couldn�t remember if that figure included the tripod. I took a fifty-fifty chance and, trying to sound confident, replied, �With the tripod!�
�Who agree with Raymond?�
Because I sounded so confident, almost everyone raised his hand, with the other hand on the ground (we were still in pushup position).
�WRONG,� shouted Sergeant Lim. �Those with raised hands, twenty pushups!�
I felt guilty for those who had put their confidence in me, but, oh well, that was army life.
After the army, I went to universities and had to endure all kinds of lectures. I would attend many mentally demanding lectures, especially at Stanford University. However, none of them would even come close to this �machine gun� lecture in terms of sheer physical exertion.
Will David Jump?
Courage is doing what you're afraid to do.
There can be no courage unless you're scared.
-- World War I Ace Pilot Eddie Rickenbacker
Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear.
-- Ambrose Redmoon
The big day of our very first parachute jump arrived. Everyone knew that David had acrophobia (extreme fear of heights). After our own jumps, we anxiously scanned the sky for the aircraft carrying David. At last, the aircraft came within view. As it approached the Drop Zone, the only question on everyone�s mind was �Is David going to jump?�
David was the tallest man in our company. He was slim. He was one of our more conscientious man, not one to shirk a duty. Once, David and I were sweeping a road near our barracks as part of the morning area cleaning. He said, in his usual slow and deliberate manner, as he swept, that one had to put one�s heart into sweeping to do a good job. This was a stark contrast to the prevalent attitude resenting area cleaning.
We discovered David's phobia a few weeks before, when our instructors made us jump from a platform of thirty to forty feet unto the swimming pool. This was to increase our confidence and to help us overcome our natural fear of heights, preparing us for the coming airborne course.
We were instructed to jump with our bodies straight and upright, arms across chests, shouting �Commando!� as we descended. It was scary. But all of us jumped -- all but one.
When David's turn came, he refused to jump. There was no such thing as gentle persuasion in the army. The instructors shouted insults and abuse at him, hoping that would make him change his mind. But instead, he cried. He actually literally cried on the platform. Tears ran down his cheeks - truly a sight to behold. Few of us ever cried, much less in full view of everyone. In this place, everyone showed (or tried to show) his tough bravado exterior. To cry openly was an open invitation for the worst kinds of insults and mockery.
And that was exactly what came David�s way. A Physical Training Instructor (who wasn�t a commando himself but attached to our unit) walked over to David, spat on the ground and berated him. �You call yourself a commando? You are a big disgrace!� Eventually, after a long time, David jumped. SPLASH! Everyone was relieved.
A few weeks later, we attended the parachuting course. Soon it was time for our very first jump. My stick (a group jumping from a single aircraft, flight or sortie) had finished jumping. We were sitting in neat rows, as was the standard procedure, happy that our jumps were over without incident.
But one question remained. The aircraft carrying David�s stick was going to make its pass over us soon. Everyone was thinking the same thing -- Is David going to jump? We scanned the sky. We saw several patches of high-level clouds, forming thin white lines. Other than that, the sky was clear. The sun was behind us, so there was no glare, making it easier to see. Came the aircraft.
David, being tall and heavy, was to be the first jumper. I pictured in my mind what would happen if David refused to jump. Will David cry again? If he refused to jump from a height of 40 feet, how is he going to jump from a thousand feet? If he, being the first in line, refused to jump, how would the rest of the stick jump? They might have to unfasten David�s snap link from the static line, and push him aside, so the rest could jump. Or would the jumpmaster literally kick him out of the aircraft?
Everyone strained his eyes anxiously. Finally, a small black dot in the shape of a man appeared out of the aircraft. Three seconds later, the canopy opened. Below the canopy was the distinctive tall, lanky figure of David. Exuberant cheers arose. David had conquered his fear.
The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.
-- Franklin D Roosevelt
You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You must do the thing which you think you cannot do.
-- Eleanor Roosevelt
Compassion of a Commando Sergeant
Compassion is not a quality normally associated with a commando platoon sergeant. But the following incident led me to discover the great compassion our commando platoon sergeant had for us, for which I would be eternally grateful.
It was noon, the hottest time of the day. Being recruits, we had been in the army no longer than three months. We were bare bodied in army pants, carrying rifles, in formation on a hot black tarmac road.
"Pumping position down!" the sergeant shouted. "Give me ten pushups!" We went down in the pushup position, with our palms on the hot tarmac. Our hands were burned! I heard screams of anguish. I felt the urge to scream too. I could almost smell the odor of burnt flesh.
We were supposed to place our rifles on top of our hands as we perform the pushups. But some placed their hands above their rifles instead, to shield their palms from the tarmac.
The sergeant said in a tone of triumph, �I know what some of you're doing. Want to play games with me? Very simple, we'll have to prolong this!�
So we had no choice but to endure the heat, doing ten pushups, even though it wasn�t exactly in good form. It was the longest ten pushups of my life. �One! Two! Three! . . . Ten! Permission to recover, Sergeant.� I was not able to hold out much longer. Come on, I just want to hear the word �recover." At last the reply came, �recover!� Instantly we were on our feet, still in pain but feeling relieved.
Even before we had time to survey our burned palms, however, we heard another command �now give me ten situps!� As mentioned, we were not wearing any tops. The tarmac was going to burn our backs too. We hesitated, hoping against hope that our crazy sadistic sergeant was not serious or that he would change his mind.
�Hahaha�, he laughed. �I was only joking." Only our palms were burned - our backs were spared. Our sergeant was full of mercy and compassion. He was Mother Teresa. Thank you, God. |
