I�ll Take Twenty Tablets!
A particularly arduous training phase was coming soon. Alex, a platoon mate, had just returned from the army clinic. I heard he had consumed ten Panadol (similar to Bayer or Tylenol) tablets to try to evade the training.
Curious, I wanted to ask him if this was true, although I expected him to deny vigorously since self-injury was a serious offence in the army.
I found Alex resting, sitting with his back leaning against his cupboard. Alex was short and flabby. I think of a bottle-nosed dolphin whenever I see him. This dolphin has a perpetual smile on its face, both ends of the mouth curving up. But Alex�s mouth was exactly the opposite, curving down, giving him a perpetual dissatisfied look. The shape of his head and his hairstyle reminds me today of Bart Simpson. His face was square and flat at the top; his hair short and pointed straight up.
I asked him if what I had heard was true. "Yes, that's true," he replied defiantly, as though proud of what he had done. Straining his eyebrows and raising his arm for emphasis, he then said, "Next time, I�ll take twenty tablets!� He sounded serious, and I had no reason to doubt him. He could not bear the thought of going through that grueling training. I cannot recall if he was able to escape it. I also did not know why he wasn�t charged or punished. Maybe the Medical Officer pitied him. But I would always remember the earnestness in which he barked, �I�ll take twenty tablets."
Another platoon mate boasted that he was getting someone to break one of his arms. (I can�t recall if it was to evade the same training as the above.) Eventually, he didn't do it. But the training was such that they considered taking such drastic measures to avoid it.
We are Fitter than You
The best welfare for the troops is good training.
-- Field Marshal Irwin Rommel
�In other units, trainees are usually fitter than their instructors, but here we instructors are fitter than you trainees," a sergeant declared smugly during our recruit days. "So you think your Dick is a great runner? Even he can�t beat us." Dick was the best runner among us trainees, at least for the standard 2.4 km run.
(During a 2.4 km test run early in our recruit days, Dick finished first; I second. Tried as I did, I could not overtake him - he finished a good thirty meters ahead. Today, I can�t recall if it was a run involving our platoon or the whole company. He had a short physique and a round body, not exactly the typical physique of a distance runner. The mental picture of Dick's short figure running fast, as I vainly tried to catch him, is still in my mind.)
The sergeant was right - a scary thought indeed. On runs and marches, our instructors had repeatedly demonstrated beyond all doubt the vast superiority of their fitness. They often left us in the dust. One big problem: we were not allowed to be left in the dust. The sergeants themselves made sure that we kept with the pace no matter what.
In most other units, the instructors were just that � people who instruct. They simply instructed their trainees to run here or there or to do this or that. Not so with our instructors who often accompanied us on our runs and often did (though not always) what we did. Therefore, we could not complain that the run (or whatever training) was too exhausting. How could you complain when the instructors themselves were doing the same thing? Our instructors led by example.
I would always remember one night march/walk/run during our recruit days. Our company was force marching in lines of two abreast, wearing standard webbing gear, helmets, ammunition (actually dummies to simulate actual weight of the ammunition) and rifles. I was somewhere towards the back of the formation. Leading us was a sergeant at the head of the formation.
Onward we marched. The pace kept increasing till we were running. (Being at the back of the formation made it much more exhausting as those who have run in a formation may know. You always had to keep up with those in front and it seems that they are always moving at varying speeds. You had to slow down, then speed up, and then slow down again.)
Naturally, I thought the leading sergeant must have started running, but when I caught sight of him, he was merely walking! Occasionally I managed to glance at him in the distance, and each time I did so, I noticed he was still in a walking motion. But here we were running and playing catch-up all the time. His walking speed was as fast as our running speed. And he wasn't tall at all. At about five foot five inches, he was our shortest sergeant. What was happening? Couldn�t recall how long, but the march was perhaps an hour though it felt much longer. I became breathless. This incident demonstrated how fit our instructors were. Till this day, I could still see him in my mind very vividly, walking at the head of the formation.
In most other units, many NCO instructors were National Service men themselves, having passed out of NCO courses not too long ago.
But in our unit, all the NCO instructors were regulars, the hardcore professionals and career soldiers. They knew their stuff, having taken many additional military courses. They did their best to impart their professionalism and skills, making sure that we were proficient at our jobs, that we became efficient killing machines.
Our NCO instructors enjoyed army life or, more specifically, commando life. Many of us trainees were at best tolerating army life, but these instructors were born for army life. They felt completely at home at the Home of the Commandos (no wonder they called it �Home�). Not only that, they felt completely at home in the vast unforgiving jungles too.
With eagerness, they recounted �war stories� and gave additional pointers about commando operations not normally found in textbooks. I still remember one such �war story." The sergeant, normally fierce, told the story with the excitement of a child. �Very early one morning during the Ranger course, we were having breakfast in the cookhouse. Suddenly, we heard a loud thud. We turned to see what it was and saw a trainee asleep, his head buried in his breakfast. We continued eating. After a while, another thud - the same thing had happened to another trainee. So it went on like this�.� We laughed but admired even more those taking the Ranger course.
Our sergeant instructors often spoke proudly about the Ranger course, an extremely demanding course even for commando standards. Many failed the first time; some failed several times. At that time, some had indeed passed the course, including the sergeant who woke us with the banging of a broom. (See �Rude Early Morning Awakening� on this page.)
Though it was intimidating, I was glad and honored to be trained by these fine professionals. I could be hundred percent sure that I was taught right. Being taught right and trained accordingly, along with possessing a level of fitness on par with our instructors, meant the difference between life and death, and between success and failure on the battlefield. I thank God for all my commando instructors. I will forever be grateful to them.
A Memorable Run
One day, just before an evening run, a Ranger-trained sergeant ordered us to drink one liter of water from our green army water bottle, which was a usual procedure.
He made us fill our water bottles again. This time I was puzzled because they usually made us drink only one liter. �Drink it all," the sergeant commanded. Something was different. All our runs were hard, but I suspected this one would be particularly so. Even though my stomach was full, I knew I needed all the water I could get, so I complied willingly. I would regret later if I didn�t finish drinking. The rest did the same.
I was soon proved right. We did the usual running, duck walks, situps, and pushups along the way. But everything was done at breakneck speed; we were pushed beyond our llimits.
Part of the run was at Changi Beach, but I didn't have the time nor the energy to enjoy beach scenery. We ran past several nice resort chalets. How I envied those vacationers. They didn�t know how fortunate they were to be enjoying themselves and having BBQ while we suffered. I always had a surreal feeling about the resort chalets situated so near our army camp. It was like having Disneyland right next to Auschwitz concentration camp.
After the run we were resting, sitting in neat rows outside our barracks. Our sergeant was in a contemplative mood. �Do you know John [a platoon mate] vomited twice during the run? But he still carried on. I am very proud of him. He did not give up. That�s the spirit I want to see in each of you!�
A Thousand Needles
During the first few months of army life, I had severe heat rashes. My skin was not used to the army uniform and the heat. Applying calamine lotion to my red body helped only a little.
The itch was painful and irritating, making sleeping hard. In the army, especially during the first months, sleep was a premium. I often tossed about on my bed in the dead of night. Though tired and sleepy, I couldn't sleep when what felt like needles were prickling me, especially on my back. I felt anxious, knowing that if I did not get enough sleep, the next day would be doubly hard. This anxiety, in turn, made falling asleep even harder. Thus a visious cycle ensued. I looked with envy at my bunkmates sleeping soundly.
One day, we recruits were in our full battle gear, that is, we had our full packs, weapons and helmets on. Our platoon was at a slope called Hendon Road that led to our barracks.
For some reasons I can�t recall now, we were being punished. The corporal ordered pushups. As I adopted the pushup position, the weight of the fullpack pressed against my back. A thousand needles prickled my back. When I did push-ups, the thousand needles pressed deeper into my skin.
Many were groaning under the weight of the full packs and the exertion of the push-ups. I was groaning too, but for a different reason � heat rashes were killing me. Doing the push-ups was hard enough, but I had to endure the heat rash too. After we had finished ten push-ups, the corporal found more fault with us (as usual), insisting that not everyone had done the push-ups correctly. So began another ten, and then another ten, and so forth. When will this ever end?
Fortunately, my heat rashes abated later, although it never went away completely while I was in the army.
Breaking Bricks with My Head
I would be breaking bricks with nothing but my stupid blockhead before the entire nation. Yes, I was crazy enough to volunteer for this silly stunt. Mom said it was too dangerous; she reminded me about boxers who had suffered brain damage. I assured her that the stunt was only a one-time event. The training required that I perform this stunt repeatedly though, but I did not mention this. I looked forward to the day when my craziness and stupidity would be broadcasted "live" to the nation.
It all started when our company was tasked to demonstrate Tae Kwon Do on Singapore's National Day (like Independence Day for you U.S. folks). A captain from another company took charge of this demonstration. He decided that we would break bricks in sequence. One would use the side kick, followed by another with a turning kick, followed by a hand chop, a punch, and an elbow, and lastly the head. Who was the blockhead who volunteered to use the head? I of course. Who else but yours truly?
During a practice, came my turn to demonstrate. Everyone crowded around me. This was supposed to be the grand finale of the demos. The bricks were ready. I glanced at the captain for permission to proceed. He nodded. YAHHH!!! I shouted and brought my left leg forward. My head thrusted forward against the bricks as hard as I could with my eyes wide open throughout. (Not Eyes Wide Shut.)
I felt my face on the ground, my nose flat against the grass of the field. The familiar smell of grass entered my nose, momentarily bringing me back to high school Saturday afternoon soccer days. I felt at least one blade of grass stuck to my cheek. But where were the bricks? What had happened to them? Shaking off a slight concussion, I lifted my head. Broken pieces of red bricks lay on the ground. "A great strike!" said the captain. "No hesitation. Great forward momentum. Well done!� Although still dazed, I savored every word. Actually, it wasn�t as hard as it looked. Practically no skill was required. All you needed were guts. Also, some craziness might help too, not to mention a dose of stupidity.
From then on, we continued practicing. While others used their feet, hands, fists, and elbows, I used my blockhead. We were ready for the big day.
But that day never came. The National Day did come of course, but our demo was cancelled. Why it was cancelled we weren�t told. That was the way the army worked - you weren�t told what you didn�t need to know. I was disappointed - Mom was relieved. All my head bashing had come to naught. But I also felt relieved. Maybe Mom was right. Maybe I would have suffered even more brain damage than I already had.
There would also be another use for my head. Unknown to me at that time, I would be using my head at Stanford University years later, but in a much different way. (See my life at Stanford.) And it was not the way Zidane used his head during the 2006 World Cup soccer final.
Rude Early Morning Awakening
It was only 3:50 a.m. The whole platoon was sound asleep. Everything was still and quiet. Suddenly, a BANG! BANG! BANG! shattered the peace. In less than three seconds, everyone was awake.
One of our crazy sergeants had burst into our barracks. He grabbed a broom and smashed it repeatedly against our thin aluminum cupboards, shouting, �GET UP! YOU LAZY PIGS! GET UP! GET UUUPPP!� We were supposed to be in platoon formation at 3:45 a.m., ready to meet our sadistic sergeant for extra physical training. But everyone was so exhausted that not even one man had gotten up in time to wake the rest. What caused us to be so exhausted, that we dared oversleep, counter to our most sadistic sergeant�s order? How did it all start?
Ironically, it started on a routine run. We were wearing "vest and slacks": green army T-shirt, army pants and boots. The run went smoothly -- except at the end. A routine run does not equate an easy run. We ran up the infamous Hendon Road. The uphill road was notorious because it was here that we often had to do strenuous exercises. The road, which led to a small parking lot next to our barracks, signaled that the end of the run was near.
So far so good. Still in tight formation, as we were expected to be, we finally caught sight of our barracks. But then fatigue overcame us. Without warning, our formation broke. More and more men failed to keep up with the pace. The furious sergeants yelled. But it was in vain -- the formation disintegrated. The sergeants were like the horsemen who could not put Humpty Dumpty back together again. Though exhausted, I kept up with the main body of runners. But not much of Humpty Dumpty remained.
�From now onwards, I�ll be giving you extra physical training every morning, even before breakfast!" shouted a sergeant, well known for his torturous training. "I want you all to assemble at 3:45 a.m. tomorrow.� We knew our nightmare had just begun.
For the next three weeks, hell greeted us every morning. Instead of the usual time of 4 a.m., we had to wake up an hour earlier. Our sleep, already so lacking, was reduced. And we did an hour of exercises even before joining the other two platoons for regular company training. The other two platoons didn't have to do the extra P.T. So unlike us, they started each day fresh. Our regular training at that time included Tae Kwon Do which by itself was hard. We dreaded the extra physical training (P.T.). And we did them on an empty stomach.
The sergeant often made us �duck walk� uphill on Hendon Road. The �duck walk� burned our thigh muscles, causing much pain. Yet we had to continue. But one man, nicknamed �Bear� because of his flabbiness, stood up to walk instead of �duck walking� each time the sergeant turned his back on us. But Bear�s trick did not last long. The alert sergeant suspected something fishy and turned around swiftly, catching Bear in the act. "Bear! Sign up for three extra guard duties." Doing extra guard duties was a common punishment.
While we were resting during regular training, the sergeant said, smiling, �I know some of you skip brushing your teeth because of the extra P.T. That�s gross." He understood. He had observed us scrambling to meet him at 3:45 a.m., not daring to be tardy. Some did indeed skip brushing teeth for that extra five minutes of sleep. In case you are wondering, I wasn�t one of them.
By the time the sergeant woke us with his gentle broom bashings, we had been doing extra P.T. for three weeks. Our bodies couldn't take it anymore. Yet we still had to take it. Where did we get our energy reserves? I didn�t know, and I still don�t know.
The memory of the sergeant smashing our cupboards never fades. Even to this day, when I wake up in the morning or even before I am fully awake, I can almost hear, "GET UP!! GET UP!!� BANG!
BANG! BANG!
The Ledge that Saved My Life
We usually associate danger with spectacular activities such as parachuting. But danger also lurks at uneventful times that cause boredom, and the resulting complacency and lack of alertness invite danger. This was exactly what happened to me.
We had been walking up a narrow mountain trail in a foreign country for many hours. It was a dark but not a stormy night (Does this sound familiar? Hint: Peanuts cartoon). The terrain wasn�t too hard to negotiate. Beside the trail was the edge of the mountain with the dark precipice below.
Even though the terrain wasn�t hard, we were tired after walking and climbing for days. I felt bored and became less alert than usual. I decided to have a tranquil moment by praying.
Foolishly, I closed my eyes. Suddenly, my feet felt nothing underneath and my whole body dropped. It was as if the ground had opened up like an earthquake. The feeling was like that of freefalling after jumping out of an aircraft. Just as suddenly, I felt the impact of something beneath me. This felt like landing during a parachute jump. My palms instinctively thrusted forward, hitting the ground to break the fall. The rest of my body squatted. I found myself on a ledge protruding out of the precipice. The ledge had prevented me from falling farther -- possibly to my death.
I dared not look beyond the ledge down the mountain. The thought that I could have fallen all the way down was too scary.
A senior officer, most probably a captain, saw what happened. Instead of berating me, as I deserved, he spoke calmly with sincere concern in his voice. "Next time, don�t fall asleep while walking.� I said an emphatic �Yes, Sir!� I didn�t need that remainder but appreciated his concern.
That ledge probably saved my life. I thank God for placing that ledge where it belonged! The Bible said that we were to be �alert in prayer." Now I understood one way in which we should do that -- by not closing our eyes in such situations. Never again will I close my eyes, even to pray, while walking near the top of a mountain.
P.S. In July 2008, I came across an account of an Israel commando killed when he fell off a cliff during training. Made me realize even more how fortunate I was.
Strange Noises from the Barrack Toilet
Moans and groans came from the barrack toilet. I also heard what sounded like feet stamping on the ground and someone bellowing. This sounded like an instructor punishing recruits as usual. But in the toilets? Strange . . .
I approached the toilet to investigate. A foot from the door, I saw fellow recruit Jimmy inside the toilet five feet from the door. He was squatting and jumping. His anguished face revealed fatigue. I could see only Jimmy from where I was standing, but I could also hear the sound of other feet stamping on the floor. "JUMP FASTER! FASTER! You f--kers!" That sounded like a sergeant punishing recruits. But why was he punishing them? And why was he doing so in the toilets?
I was curious. But caution steered me clear of the toilet. Curiosity kills the cat -- no reason for me to wander into it. Perhaps the angry sergeant would find fault with me too and would force me to join the choruses of groans. I took a few steps backward and retreated to the safety of my bunk.
A few hours later, at our barracks, I met Jimmy, the recruit whom I had seen near the toilet door. He was probably the only married guy among us trainees. He was only eighteen. He was flabby. He wasn�t physically fit and was therefore a regular member of the Red Squad (this squad had to perform extra physical training; for explanation of the Red Squad, please see �Most Improved Recruit� here). He was vocal about his distaste for army life. Among the trainers, he was considered intractable with an attitude problem. He had numerous tattoos and was rumored to be a gangster.
I had a memorable conversation with Jimmy a week before this toilet incident. �The Red Squad training is killing me," he said. "We have to exercise every night, when the rest of you guys can rest.� He paused. Then came the words I would always remember. �What do they think we are? Made of Iron?� I didn�t know exactly why. But those words moved me. It was not just the words, but the way Jimmy said it. He said it sincerely with his whole being. His voice was a plea for compassion and understanding. He may have had an attitude problem, but my heart went out to him. At that moment, he was not a trainee with an attitude problem but a hurt human being crying out.
Now back to the toilet story. I asked Jimmy what had happened. He explained that a sergeant had caught three of them red-handed smoking in the toilets where they were hiding. Smoking in barracks was forbidden for recruits.
�So you guys wanna smoke?" the sergeant sneered. "All right. I�ll let you smoke all you want!� He forced them to insert ten to twenty lighted cigarettes between their lips. He ordered them to inhale and exhale quickly. With the cigarettes still in their lips and their lungs filled with smoke, they did calisthenics such as jumping jacks, jumping from squat position, pushups etc. After a round of this, the sergeant made them smoke another ten to twenty cigarettes, followed by another round of calisthenics. This went on for several rounds.
It was torturous, according to my recruit friend. I was sure it was. His anguished face, which I had seen earlier, had already told me that. I pitied those poor recruits. The temptation to smoke must have been too great to resist. After all, we had been in the army for less than four weeks. It was only recently that they could smoke freely as civilians. Doing all those exercises as punishment by a furious sergeant was hard enough. They did so while inhaling smoke that depleted their oxygen supply.
I thanked God I wasn�t a smoker. I didn�t have to deal with such temptations. But there was a lesson for all of us recruits. My smoking friends and the rest of us realized we were no longer civilians. To live under the illusion that we could still taste the sweet comforts of civilian life could bring punishment - and punishment came swiftly.
P.S. For those who want to quit smoking, please go to www.whyquit.com
Deaths in the Air, Land, and Sea
If a man hasn't discovered something that he will die for, he isn't fit to live.
-- Martin Luther King, Jr
I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.
-- Nathan Hale
Within a few short months, our small commando unit suffered three deaths. We were all grieved by the news. Interestingly, one happened in the air, one on land and the third in the sea.
The one that happened in the air was the most memorable for me. It was also the most highly publicized because it happened at a public demonstration. During the parachute jump display, a regular (�regular� means taking the army as a career, in contrast to conscripts who serve for a duration and return to civilian life) sergeant named Benny fell to his death.
I heard a few different versions of this tragic accident. According to one version, his legs were caught with his parachute canopy as the canopy was being deployed. Likewise, the reserve chute was tangled with his body. According to our platoon leader, as he impacted the ground, his legs were in the proper position as if the chutes were deployed normally. He was hoping for the best as he landed, fully aware of the predicament. Unfortunately, his best wasn�t good enough. I wondered what went through his mind as all these happened, especially when he was about to hit the ground, knowing that death was imminent.
Sergeant Benny was from another company. Our instructors knew him, but most of us trainees (NS folks or conscripted) did not know him personally. My bunkmate (whose bed was next to mine) had met Sergeant Benny. Daniel had asked if he could borrow a book from Sergeant Benny, and the sergeant politely replied, �Sure." That was Daniel�s only contact with the late sergeant.
The second death occurred in the sea. I heard that they were testing a new diving device in which no bubbles were produced to minimize chances of detection by the enemy. Unfortunately, something went wrong with the new equipment. He was a twenty-nine year-old sergeant named Steven. We attended his memorial service. Like Sergeant Benny, he was also a nice guy.
The third death happened on land. Unlike the first two, this regular soldier was not killed on duty. I can�t recall his rank or name. He was an ethnic Indian I think. He was at a bar or a social place. I heard that he was trying to stop a fight but was himself slain. He died a peacekeeper, as what commandos are meant for.
Even though I did not know any of the three, I was grieved. A commando�s life was hazardous. Fatalities were inevitable - part of the job. Yet, I still felt for them. They had dreams and families too. One moment, they were young, fit and full of life and vigor. Then they were gone like vapor. Just like that.
But again, it was interesting to know that between all of them, deaths occurred in the air, on land, and in the sea. There�s a famous saying that commandos excel in the air, land and sea. Terrain wasn�t a barrier to us. (This idea was espoused by the very name of the US naval commandos called SEALs. SE is for Sea, A is for Air and L is for Land.) We could attack the enemy by air, land or sea. Even their deaths were a remainder of that capability. That�s something we could be proud of.
P.S. - Related article:
U.S. military personnel who died to impress V.I.P.s by John T. Reed
Hornet Attack
Every good citizen makes his country's honor his own, and cherishes it not only as precious but as sacred. He is willing to risk his life in its defense and its conscious that he gains protection while he gives it.
-- Andrew Jackson
Before this encounter, I had never experienced a hornet attack. I had watched television cartoon characters running hysterically from swamps of angry hornets. It was humorous. My lack of experience with a hornet attack would soon change, however, and I would find out it wasn�t so humorous. Soon, I would be one of those cartoon characters. Those terrifying hornets would also teach me a lesson about soldiering.
We were patrolling in a long single file in the dense tropical jungles of a foreign country, with triple canopy vegetation. I was the second last soldier in the line, with Jeffrey behind me. We had been walking for hours, encountering a few leeches. They would stick to our skin and grow fat, bloated from blood they had sucked. It wasn�t wise to pull them out. One, it was hard to pull them out. Once those leeches get carried away with the tasty blood, they were reluctant to let go. Two, even if you succeeded in pulling them out, a scar would be left as souvenir. The best solution was to burn them with a lighted match or a lighter. Burned, they would release their powerful grip and fall off the victim�s skin.
The leeches would not be our only companions in the deep jungle. Suddenly, a huge swamp of hornets buzzed above me. Jeffrey must have seen the menacing black mass too. We immediately froze. I dared not move a muscle. Any movement would attract their attention.
Somebody along the line in front of us must have disturbed the hornet�s nest. But everyone was safe except Jeffrey and me. The rest of the line moved on till Gordon, the man in front of me, realized that Jeffrey and I were not following him. He turned around, looked up and saw the huge black mass too. His expression turned to fear. He called out for help and the line halted.
I was afraid. Hundreds or perhaps thousands of hornets were buzzing right above me. If they attacked, I didn�t know what would happen. We commandos were trained to fight enemy soldiers but were totally hapless against hornets. I froze, not knowing what else to do.
Gordon crawled slowly towards me. �Raymond, two ponchos here," he said. "I�ll throw one at you. Give this to Jeffrey. Second one will be for you.� He threw the poncho right at me. My hand rose to catch the poncho, and in my haste, I threw much too hard and too high to Jeffery who had to jump to catch the poncho. As he did so, several hornets attacked and stung him. He screamed in pain. �ARRRHHH! F--king hell! Oouhhh! Oh, f--k f--k Ohhooo! Those bastard hornets aaahhrrr f--k aarrgggh . . . .�
Hearing him moaning and groaning and cursing and swearing terrified me. My turn would come soon. Did I feel bad about misthrowing the poncho? Of course I did. But now, fear was a far stronger emotion than guilt. I had plenty of time later to feel guilty. For now, all I wanted was to get out of this mess, this black hissing mass which was coming closer to Jeff and me because of our sudden movements. Although I hadn�t been stung yet, my movement had attracted the attention of those damned hornets. Instead of hovering above us, they were now all around us, poised to attack.
Gordon threw the poncho meant for me. I grabbed it, and pulling it over my head, I rolled down as quickly as I could down a steep slope. My rifle (with the sling slung around my neck) and the rest of the equipment caused pain and discomfort, as they pressed my body from all angles. The biggest discomfort was caused by my heavy and bulky signal set in the fullpack on my back. But I had to endure whatever pain they caused as I rolled rapidly.
To my dismay, I saw a hornet inside the poncho three inches from my face. I could clearly hear the buzzing noise it made and see it's deadly pointed stinger. It swiftly proceeded to sting my head. I heard other buzzing noises and knew this wasn't the only hornet inside the poncho. I was stung again on my head and three or four times on my right hand. I had to ignore the pain.
I rolled till I reached the base of the slope. The poncho was beside me, covering me partially. The hornets have disappeared. They felt threatened when we were near their nests; but once I was at the foot of the hill, they left me. Thank God.
Till today, I cannot remember what happened to Jeffrey or what he did after I rolled down the slope. My guess is that after he had gotten over the initial stings caused by my erratic poncho throw, he covered himself with the poncho and, like me, rolled down the slope to safety.
My head and hand hurt. A few minutes later, they swelled. The swelling on the head wasn�t so obvious, concealed by my hair. But my hand became like that of a baby's hand - soft and fluffy, except that it was huge and not cute at all.
Fortunately, I was given medical leave for two days to rest in camp. It was two of my most relaxing and enjoyable days in the army. It was a luxury being away from the thick tropical jungles and in the comfort of the army barracks by myself. The rest of the company was still in the jungle. I made frequent visits to the canteen where I ate lots of normal civilian fresh food. I felt like I was staying at a five-star hotel. I was grateful to God for the hornets. They had done me a great favor. (Ironically, I can�t recall Jeffery being with me in camp. Most probably, the medical officer judged that his stings weren't bad enough to warrant medical leave. Poor Jeff.)
But that wasn�t all the hornets did. They did exactly what we had been trained to do: defend our homeland. The disturbed nest was their homeland. When their nest was disturbed, they came out in full force to defend it. Not one skirted its duty. They all defended valiantly. They left us only when they thought we were no longer a threat to their colony.
This is a lesson we Singapore soldiers can learn from the world of nature. If insects can defend their home and colony so valiantly, shall not we human beings do the same for our country which includes our family?
...so I feel like my job is not just to defend my country, but also my own family.
-- Michal Ya'akov, woman Israeli soldier
Run for My Life
There is no problem that cannot be solved by the use of high explosives.
-- Bumper Sticker
Today, I would literally run for my life, and I knew it beforehand. Though apprehensive, I wasn�t too concerned. I felt more excited than fearful. The excitement was akin to what I felt when, as a kid, I had the chance to play with firecrackers during the Chinese Lunar New Year celebrations. Now this child in me still wanted to hear things go BOOM! But I hadn�t yet realized how close to danger I would be.
On this �live� firing exercise, I was assigned to carry the �live� Bangalore Torpedo for the company. The Bangalore Torpedo was a charge designed to clear a path of mines or barbed wire. (More about the Bangalore Torpedo). It was dark green, about five feet long and weighed thirteen lbs. Out of over a hundred soldiers in the company I was given this thankless task. I wasn�t keen to have the �honor� of carrying the torpedo. Even though it wasn�t heavy, it was long and clumsy. Also, what if it was damaged en route and didn�t work? The whole exercise would be a failure and all blame would be on poor me. Or worse, what if it blew up prematurely while I carried it? I would be at several places simultaneously. I shuddered thinking of that possibility. But I refused to dwell on that because such thoughts didn�t serve any useful purpose. I had to concentrate on the task at hand.
I became more acquainted with my five-foot �baby� during the long journey to the objective. Thankfully the �baby� remained quiet along the way. But it wouldn�t be quiet very long. Finally, to my relief we reached the assault location which was a barren hill surrounded by strands of barbed wire.
While the rest of the company took up their assigned positions for assault, I crawled forward and inserted the torpedo into the barbed wire. I�ve carried you this far, dear torpedo, don�t fail me! Right behind me was our respected CSM, Warrant Officer Two (WO2) Lim. He took over my position and started to activate the timer on the torpedo. A few other soldiers were squatting or proning about thirty feet behind me. They were the covering force giving the WO2 and me supporting fire should the enemy discover us. I squatted only a few feet away from WO2 Lim.
As I looked back, I noticed one of the covering soldiers waving to me with his hand to indicate that I move away from the torpedo. I nodded to him that I understood, but foolishly, I chose to remain where I was. I figured I had ample time to run when the torpedo was activated. Moreover, I was confident of my running speed: I was a former school sprinter. And I had carried �my baby," the torpedo, for a long distance. I wanted the thrill of seeing it activated up close. I wanted to be close to my �baby� for as long as I could.
CSM Lim shouted, �ACTIVATED!� CSM Lim, the covering force, and I scrambled for safety. Soon we would hear a sound much louder than even the thundering voice of our CSM Lim. No time to shout �hurry!� Everyone knew exactly what to do and that was to RUN LIKE CRAZY. I can�t remember exactly right now, but I think we had only about 15 seconds before the torpedo exploded. I dashed, regretting not heeding my friend�s wise advice.
Unfortunately, the ground wasn�t even. My scrambling feet came upon a slight depression. Because of my frantic pace, my upper body lost all balance when my feet hit the depression with great force. I knew for sure I was about to trip. Before I had the chance to get up, the torpedo would go off, and I would be dead, my body scattered in all directions. But somehow my unaffected legs continued sprinting. My legs were unaware of what was happening to the rest of the body. Miraculously, my upper body regained its balance, and I continued my frantic pace. Then my feet impacted another depression. I lost my balance again, but my legs kept right on running. As before, I regained my balance. At last I saw some huge rocks and took cover behind them.
My mad dash lasted only about twelve seconds, though it seemed much longer. I panted for a few seconds before BOOOOMM! My baby had made some noise. The company charged into the barbed wire gap created by the blast. I followed thereafter. Eventually, the live firing exercise was successful.
This incident made me realize what our bodies could do when called upon in life-threatening situations. Under normal circumstances, I would surely have tripped. But these weren�t normal circumstances. My legs seemed to have a life of their own. No matter what was happening to my upper body, my legs could go on and on, driven by adrenaline. I was glad they did; that was why I was unhurt and am still alive today. Thank God for legs and adrenaline. |
