The Fight
When I was ten, my sister had a commando friend who loved to beguile her and me with his army stories. One day at our home, Frank talked about his scuffle with a fellow commando at camp.
He spoke proudly about the incident in a merry tone with much animation, like a kid who had eagerly done something naughty. Now I can�t recall why or how they fought. But their sergeant, who discovered the fight, said, �We don�t fight one another. We fight the enemy. But since you two fighting cocks like fighting so much, I�ll give you another chance to fight.� Having made them put on boxing gloves, the sergeant gathered the whole platoon and announced a fight. Everyone was happy to be entertained, cheering when the boxing began.
�I gave him two in the head,� Frank bragged, grinning, punching the air with his left and right fists. Sister and I were impressed. Wow! He won, I thought. Then he said, �But he also gave me two." Pointing at his own heard, he said, �Right here." Still grinning, he was as though just as happy to be punched.
Since then, I had wondered if I would ever fight a comrade. Frank's sergeant said we were meant to fight the enemy, not one another. So I was determined not to fight my own. Moreover, I was even tempered. I would settle differences, not by using fists, but by talking it over as civilized adults. I was to be proved dead wrong . . . .
One day, I sat on the bunk floor to rest with my back leaning against the cupboard, minding my own business. �Wood.� That word again. How I hated hearing it again and again. My platoon mates called me Wood because they thought I was rigid for not stealing, lying or cheating under any circumstances. In the army, you�ve got to be flexible to survive, they reasoned.
Hence the nickname. Until then, I could take it. After all, nicknames were common in the army. But this time, I was in a bad mood to begin with. Why that was so I can�t remember now. Maybe because I had heard that word once too often. Wood. Wood. Wood . . . .
�Wood,� Derek called out again. �Wood, you lousy piece of wood. Wood! Wood!�
�Stop it!�
�Wood, you wood. Nothing but wood . . .�
�Derek, that�s enough.�
But he kept right on. I couldn�t stand it anymore. Staring at him, I got up and strode towards him, both fists clenched by my side. My body language told him to get ready to fight. I didn�t want to surprise him because that would be cowardly. The four or five others in the bunk turned to look at us.
When I was three feet from him, his right arm grabbed a leather belt on his bed and swung it towards my left hip. He was so swift that I could only instinctively raise my left knee to block. Crack! The belt hit my outer thigh: painful. But I didn�t dwell on the pain. It neither affected me nor slowed me. I raised my right fist and punched. A skillful fighter, he blocked with his left arm. Without a moment�s waste, I punched with my other fist and this time hit him in the solar plexus. Thud! The impact sent him reeling backwards.
As I had made my point, I didn�t pursue him. I remained where I stood, while he stopped reeling and just stood. We stared at each other. Through the stares, we mutually communicated, I am angry, but it�s no use carrying on the fight. We understood the fight was over. No use fighting one�s own. Without a word, I turned, walked away, and returned to where I was sitting.
For the next few days, I didn�t think much of this scrimmage. We hadn�t spoken a word about it since then. It was just one incident among many during the hectic training. But one day I had time to think as I sat in an army truck on a long journey to a training area.
I hummed Kenny Rogers�s �Coward of the County,� a song I had heard countless times on the radio before I enlisted. The dying father's advice caught my attention:
�Promise me, Son, not to do the things I�ve done.
Walk away from trouble if you can.
Now it don�t mean you�re weak if you turn the other cheek.
I hope you�re old enough to understand:
Son, you don�t have to fight to be a man.�
After that, everyone called the son the coward of the county. One day, three men raped his wife. After he felled them all, he said,
�I promised you, Dad, not to do the things you�ve done.
I walk away from trouble when I can.
Now please don�t think I�m weak, I didn�t turn the other cheek,
And Papa, I sure hope you understand:
Sometimes you gotta fight when you�re a man.� (Full lyrics)
So who was right: the father or the son? Was it right for me to fight Derek? I don�t know. But I would like to think the son was right because I acted as the son did.
Or maybe both of them were right. You don�t have to fight to be a man. But once you are a man, sometimes you had to fight. Sometimes, you fight not to be a man, but because you are already a man. Maybe that�s it. Notice the son didn�t say you got to fight to be a man, but you got to fight when you are a man.
I wasn�t sure if my analysis was correct, but I knew I felt satisfied. I had stood for myself. Since then, Derek hadn�t called me Wood -- or at least not as often as before. When news of the fight permeated the platoon, I heard that word less often from the others too.
But I also felt guilty. I had raised my fists in anger against my fellow solider. As the sergeant had said, we were meant to fight the enemy -- not one another. I had used the training I received for a self-centered motive.
I had also surprised myself. Normally patient, I had lost my temper. Still much I had to learn about myself.
So, I had mixed feelings. I still struggled with moral qualms about the fight. But one thing I resolved to do: the next time I raised my fists to punch, it would be against the enemy, not against our own (except for training). Or at least I hoped so . . . . As it turned out, that was my first and last fight in the army.
No More Wayang Kulit
�UP! One thousand . . . Two thousand . . . Three thousand . . . DOWN!
One thousand . . . Two thousand . . . Three thousand . . . .
UP! One thousand . . . Two thousand . . . Three thousand . . . DOWN!
One thousand . . . Two thousand . . . Three thousand . . . .
UP! One thousand . . . Two thousand . . . Three thousand . . . DOWN!�
What were these soldiers shouting about? What were they doing? Aerobic exercises? No. A parachute drill? (If you have taken the parachute course, you may think that). Nope.
They were the glorious �butt party� who carried targets for other soldiers to shoot.
If you were attentive, you would hear:
�UP! One thousand Yawn Two Thousand . . . Three thousand . . . Yawn DOWN! Yawn
One Thousand . . . Two thousand . . . Three thousand . . . Yawn�
Why the yawns?
In those days, we had to physically carry and move targets at the �live� firing shooting range. The targets, made of thin plywood, were ugly drawings of a soldier with a rifle. At the command �UP," we lifted the target, then moved it for, say, three seconds, hopefully at a constant speed. �DOWN� and we lowered it.
I felt like a puppet master in a wayang kulit (ancient shadow plays of Bali). There were important differences though. In the wayang kulit, the puppets were �brought to life." But in our live firing range, our �puppets� were shot to death with live rounds. Being a puppet master required great skill and artistry, but for us, no skill and artistry was required. And we were not on stage but in a long and narrow dust-filled pit. The pit was hot, humid, and dusty. When grains of sand at the mouth of the pit were hit by bullets, they scattered over us. In a wayang kulit, the show involved meaningful hilarious stories, but we didn�t find anything meaningful or hilarious about pushing and pulling plywood up and down. We dreaded the monotonous and repetitive nature of this job. This, coupled with our usual lack of sleep, made staying awake a daunting task.
Sometimes, due to a combination of drowsiness, boredom and plain carelessness, we made silly mistakes: a target going UP too late, or going DOWN too soon, or a target not moving at constant speed, or a target not held straight up. We therefore much preferred running and shooting to being in the butt party.
One fine day, we made far too many mistakes � even more than our usual share.
�UP! One thousand . . . Two thousand . . . Three thousand . . . DOWN!
One thousand . . . Two Thousand . . . Three thousand . . . .�
Instead of the usual command �UP," silence followed . . . . We then heard sounds of quick heavy footsteps overhead. Still in the deep pit, we couldn�t see the owners of the footsteps. But when the incensed faces of our lieutenant and two sergeants appeared, we knew we were in deep trouble.
�You f--kers! What lousy target party are you? F--king Hell!" the lieutenant shouted. "Targets not appearing, targets not moving, targets slanted! What the . . . What the ------- nonsense are you doing?� The two sergeants started shouting similar curses. Their swearing and curses echoed throughout the miserable pit.
Obviously, we were not doing too great a job. The monotony, boredom and heat had won. But we had no choice but to shape up or face punishment which could mean even more butt party duties.
About twenty years later, after I had left the army, I visited the Army Open House where the �live� firing range was open to visitors. I looked with envy at their mechanically and electronically controlled targets. There was NO butt party! Thanks to modern technology, soldiers today are spared from the �UP! One thousand . . . Yawn Two thousand . . . Three thousand . . . DOWN! Yawn�
No more wayang kulit.
One More Sit-Up
�Come on, Raymond,� the Bull urged. �Just one more . . . . You can do it!�
I wasn�t too sure if I could do another sit-up. My fellow recruit, nicknamed the Bull because of his aggressive and straightforward nature, was helping me by holding down my ankles.
I forced my fatigued upper body off the ground to try just one more sit-up. Up . . . Up . . . Up as the angle between my upper body and the ground increased ever so slowly. At last the angle became ninety. Last sit-up done! My upper body collapsed to the ground with a thud.
�Gooooood," said the Bull. "Now another one."
No, not another one; I can�t. I groaned. But I pushed my upper body up once more and, to my surprise, finished another sit-up.
�OK platoon, REST," shouted the sergeant trainer.
My upper body collapsed to the ground again. I tried to catch my breath as my chest heaved.
�You know something?� said the Bull.
�Whaa . . . aat?� I mumbled.
�I admire your endurance.�
�Huh?�
"Yes, your endurance. I notice you always exert yourself . . . beyond your limits,�
He paused, then said hesitantly, �You are actually . . . errr . . . not that fit."
That�s it. My cover blown. He knows I am only a pretender.
�But you always endure," he continued. "I notice when you run or do sit-ups, you always persevere. You never give up."
�Err . . . thaaanks,� I said, still trying to catch my breath.
�OK, platoon, end of today�s P.T.," the sergeant shouted. "Now get back to your barracks."
Bedtime that night, I lay on my bed exhausted. The barrack was peaceful and quiet at last after a hectic day of physical training. My eyes begged to close, but my mind could not help but ponder the Bull's mysterious words.
Hmmmm . . . The Bull admires my endurance . . . or so he says. Coming from the Bull, it was no bull. The Bull has a straightforward nature, hence his nickname. He meant what he said; he said what he meant. No doubt he was sincere. And he himself is known to have great endurance, so what he said must have meant something.
But doesn�t everyone here have great endurance? Everyone has to endure.
I was puzzled . . .
The physical training was beyond our natural abilities, as a platoon mate later told a group of signalers (when we were attached to the School of Signals), �in our unit, even if you are an elite marathon runner, you still suffer."
I continued to ponder . . .
Maybe it is that little extra I put in that the Bull noticed. Yeah, maybe that�s it: endurance beyond normal endurance. This is what I need to earn the Red Beret . . .
I felt determined.
But where did I get this endurance from? Oh yes, �let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith,� the Bible says [Hebrews 12:1,2]. Glad I memorized these verses. So this endurance is from Jesus � not from me . . .
I felt humbled.
Also, it feels good to have someone say something good about me for a change. A pat on the back once in a while wouldn�t hurt . . .
I felt affirmed.
In this place where threats and insults are the norm, the Bull actually said something positive . . .
I felt grateful.
The Bull saw right through me. I am �not that fit�. He is right. I am just a pretender. Still, if I continue to endure or to �pretend," then I stand a chance to earn the Red Beret . . .
I felt enlightened.
I resolve not to waste his affirmation. I resolve to endure. I don�t know if I'll make it, but I'll endure till the end . . .
I felt resolute.
Before another thought, sleep overcame my tired body.
Since then, whenever I felt like giving up, whenever I felt that I could not take another step, I heard the Bull urging, �Come on, Raymond, one more sit-up!�
The Casualty
Few men are born brave. Many become so through training and force of discipline.
-- Flavius Vegetius Renatus
�Someone take over the casualty now!� the sergeant shouted. �And I mean NOW!�
Carrying a seriously injured fellow soldier with the fireman lift, the man wobbled, causing the body of the injured soldier to sway from side to side. The carrier was about to collapse. Soon, Newton�s gravitational laws would ensure that both men collapse. The ground wouldn't be merciful to them.
But everyone else, as exhausted as the carrier, glanced around, hoping that someone else would take over . . . �Now!� the sergeant yelled again, this time much louder. �Or you�ll all get something from me!�
I don't remember much about this platoon exercise except for the above incident. We were a small squad of five, taking care of a �casualty." (At that moment, the rest of the platoon were elsewhere.) To make the training more realistic, our trainers often assigned unhurt soldiers to be "casualties," usually while we attacked an objective. Please don�t believe Hollywood�s version in which commandos attacked an objective, and everyone came out unscathed. How I wish that version was always true on the actual battlefield.
The �casualties� usually had serious leg wounds, so we had to carry them during the withdrawal from the objective. We had to withdraw speedily over a long distance because the enemy, now fully aware of our presence, would pursue us with vengeance. The stealthy part of the commando mission was over.
The five of us were detailed to take care of a casualty. We took turns to carry. My platoon mates knew that I had an injured lower back, so each of them kindly carried the casualty for a longer time than I did.
After miles of exhaustive withdrawal, we finally approached the infamous Hendon Road, the final stretch of road leading to our barracks.
The Good: the road signaled the end of our exercise.
The Bad: the road was on a steep slope.
The Ugly: it was here that we had faltered many times; for an example, read �The Rude Awakening� at Army Memories (Page 3). (The road was similar to Heartbreak Hill for Boston marathoners.)
It was here that our dear man carrying the casualty was about to collapse with the mad sergeant screaming. I took a few quick steps to the wobbling figure, grabbed the casualty, and hoisted him over my shoulders.
A platoon mate, Harry, shouted, �Raymond! Your back?!�
"Yeah," another said, "your back�s injured.�
�Never mind," I shouted. With a last surge of strength, like a runner nearing the finish line, I quickened my pace up the infamous slope, not giving Harry and the others a chance to take the casualty from me.
My injured back (years later it was diagnosed as slipped disks), which had trouble enough supporting one body, now had to support two bodies. But I was too exhausted to notice if my back hurt. My only thought was to reach the barracks and to spare us more punishment. Step by step up the slope I took. I didn�t know if I wobbled; probably did.
When I at last reached the barracks, I laid the casualty down gently (or at least I thought it was gentle), and only then did I collapse. My four platoon mates soon reached me, and they too collapsed. Smiling, the sergeant seemed pleased with our performance, though he said nothing. When our sergeants said nothing, it was usually a good sign.
This incident struck something in me but, at first, I didn't know what that "something" was. The exercise was physically demanding, but so were many other exercises. I had an injured back, but that wasn�t the only time. I did nothing heroic. After all, I carried the casualty the least.
Yet I was sure of this: my platoon mates showed concerned for my back despite being utterly exhausted themselves. My platoon mates� concern made me understand what struck me: the incident epitomized our spirit of camaraderie and teamwork.
We often think that the Red Beret is an individual achievement. This or that individual earned his Red Beret, we say. Movies such as Rambo (Sylvester Stallone) and Commando (Arnold Schwarzenegger) portray the commando as a solo soldier. With a machine gun in one hand, Rambo killed hundreds of enemy soldiers all by himself. (I wonder how he could carry so much ammunition. Even more amazing � none of the hundreds of soldiers who shot at him scored a single hit. How I wish all enemy soldiers were that inept.)
We were individually highly trained, but our training often involved teamwork and mutual support. We must depend on one another even more than soldiers do in most other units. We had to operate in small squads in enemy territory with minimal support from the main army. Thus, we had to rely on one another to accomplish the mission and to survive.
Without my platoon mates, I would not have earned the Red Beret nor survived the training.
Thank you, fellow soldiers.
The Stare
�Up,� commanded the sergeant. His voice wasn�t loud but severe.
I lifted my body, trying to do a single sit-up but felt the sharp pain in my lower back again. My hapless body collapsed to the ground with a disappointing thud.
�Up,� commanded the sergeant again. Still not shouting but sounding sterner.
I tried again, but it was in vain.
This time the sergeant remained silent. Instead, he stared at me with fierce intensity. If looks could kill, that stare would have killed me. The stare, which emitted hostility and wrath, was more unnerving than the loudest shout (and our trainer sergeants could really shout).
He was one of the monsters I had seen as a child in the sixties and seventies. In a popular Japanese television program, the superhero Ultraman fought evil giant monsters. During the fight, buildings were knocked down and crushed like toys. (I believe they were indeed toys. Those were the days before computer animation.) The monsters were shot at camera angles that made them look gigantic. To me, the sergeant was one of those TV monsters. As I lay down, struggling to do sit-ups, he towered over me. I looked up to see nothing but his face, with the bright clear sky in the background.
The stare spoke more than words, as if he was communicating by telepathy. �I despise you more than words can say. You are absolutely worthless. You think you can fake injury and get away? I swear to make your life a living hell from now on.� A picture is worth a thousand words, they say; but in this case, a stare is worth a thousand words.
The stare lasted maybe only three seconds, but the effects lasted much longer. Even today, I can see the face as though it was staring at me right now.
I felt more helpless than when I suffered heat exhaustion (full story), and more helpless than when my lip was stitched without anesthetics (full story). In those two situations, at least I had people who understood me, but in this staring incident, I felt alone and vulnerable. I guess being misunderstood can make one feel that way; being misunderstood is no fun.
How could I convince this sergeant that I was really injured? I felt angry and frustrated. My body refused to do one more sit-up. I was the injured, hapless Ultraman at the mercy of this evil monster. Ultraman was doomed.
�UP,� shouted the monster. Again, I tried but couldn�t move. This was no movie. No miracle; no last-minute reprieve for this Ultraman . . .
I cannot remember what happened next. After seeing that stare, my memory must have gone blank, but I do remember my life taking a drastic turn for the worst. That sergeant made my life more hellish than it already was. He tortured me more severely than the rest and kept finding fault with me.
But what remained most in my mind was still that stare; and what remained most in my heart was still that helpless feeling.
P.S. � About ten years later, a Magnetic Resonance Imaging (MRI) scan at National University Hospital revealed that three of my lower back disks were damaged, two seriously.
Our Entebbe Raid
If you're in a fair fight, you didn't plan it properly.
-- Nick Lappos, Chief R&D Pilot, Sikorsky Aircraft
All's fair in love and war.
-- Francis Edwards
Intelligence sources had indicated that an elite enemy unit would attack before sunrise the next day, but these soldiers weren�t concerned yet. This particular enemy almost always attacked at night which provided more concealment, but now the early evening sun was still bright. Moreover, these barrack soldiers were hungry.
They were guarding a lonely outpost on a small island. The outpost had two single-storey old white and grayish barracks. A narrow road led to the outpost. Except for several bushes and scrubs nearby, open spaces surrounded the outpost, making it hard for the enemy to approach undetected. Thus they were even more convinced that the enemy would attack at night.
Tom, a barrack soldier, was lying on his bunk bed. He yawned, feeling bored. In a few minutes he was sound asleep. John, another soldier, complained to his leader, �I am hungry. All I can think about is food."
�Me too," Andrew said. "Dinner truck is late, but cheer up -- should be here anytime now." The rest of the ten soldiers were likewise either dosing off or thinking about food or both -- sleeping and dreaming about food.
�Hey! The dinner truck's here!� shouted John excitedly. The soldiers cried, "Horraaayy!� Tossing their weapons aside, they rushed out to welcome the long-awaited dinner truck with spoons, mess tins and plastic mugs in their hands. Tom was still sleeping comfortably though. In the excitement, no one had noticed that he was still in bed.
On came the truck. Even from a distance, the light reflection caused by the tin food containers was clearly visible. The soldiers couldn�t wait to get into the contents of those containers. They could already taste warm fresh food in their mouths.
The truck came close and stopped. Suddenly, figures with assault weapons leaped from the truck and began shooting the soldiers. A few soldiers, including John, fell wounded. Enemy soldiers! Startled, leader Andrew raised his hands in surrender, and the barrack soldiers with him followed suit.
Three or four enemy soldiers stood guard over the captured soldiers while the others stormed the barracks. The leader of the enemy soldiers, a lieutenant, hurled a grenade right under Tom's bed. The explosion send Tom skyward to the heavens.
Nearby bushes suddenly leaped and rushed towards the barracks. These �bushes� were actually well camouflaged enemy soldiers. Comprising the second wave of the attacking force, they stormed the barracks, joining and supporting the soldiers from the truck. (This scene reminded me of the Shakespearean play Macbeth. In one scene, trees moved towards a castle. The attacking soldiers hid in the trees to conceal their number. This act also fulfilled one of the witches� prophecies.)
In less than two minutes, the enemy was in complete control of the barracks. The barrack soldiers didn�t stand a chance. They were overwhelmed in minutes. The �enemy� leader, a lieutenant, announced that the mission was accomplished and the exercise over.
The �wounded� John shook the dust off his uniform and got up. Tom staggered out of his barracks, looking dazed. The thunder flash must have temporarily deprived him of his hearing. �That was so unfair,� murmured the captured Andrew.
An �enemy� soldiers said, �there�s no exercise rule prohibiting the use of the dinner truck, and besides, war isn�t fair."
I was among the �enemy� soldiers in the second wave, having hid behind the bushes. I was happy with the mission. Our deception had achieved complete surprise. The only rule in the exercise was that the attack occur before sunrise the next day, and our attack occurred even before sundown the day before.
My mind traveled back to 1976 when I was only twelve. Our school teacher talked about the famous Entebbe raid which had taken place recently. She described how Israeli commandos had deceived the terrorists by disguising themselves as the Ugandan President Idi Amin and his guards. One commando wore a military uniform resembling that of the dictator, which was full of medals. He, along with other commandos wearing the Ugandan army uniform, arrived in a Mercedes, with two Land Rovers following behind. The surprised terrorists and Ugandan guards were quickly overwhelmed and the hostages rescued.
(See 1976: Israelis rescue Entebbe hostages.)
In this exercise, we had used the same principle of surprise and deception used in that famous raid. I felt proud to have a small connection with the Entebbe commandos. Of all our exercises, this one came closest to the romanticized version of commando raids held by Hollywood and the public. Our training was mostly repetitive, which was necessary to horn our skills. But they were not the glory and glamour of commando fighting as the movies suggest.
For once we could have some fun, like children, playing make-believe that we were involved in an exotic commando mission with the well-used Hollywood plot of drama, twists and deception thrown in. I also felt that, at least for that moment, we belonged to the brotherhood of commandos worldwide.
All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must seem inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near. Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him.
- Sun Tzu, the Art of War
Note: The conversation between John and Andrew was fictitious. (I wasn't in the barracks but was part of the raiding force.) But my imagination wasn't too far off because they were indeed hungry and waiting for dinner. The thunder flash did go off under Tom's bed with him sleeping on it. We in the attacking force had a good laugh over it. Our lieutenant, who threw the thunder flash, talked about the incident with the excitement of a kid who had done something naughty. �You should have seen how Tom got the shock of his life when the thunder flash exploded beneath him as he slept soundly BOOM!" he said with relish. "What a glorious sight.�
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