Mockery of the Air Force Man
Our platoon was at the compound of an old Air Force administrative camp near our own commando camp. Our purpose was possibly to visit an Air Force exhibition.
Huge spaces of grassy fields and roads separated many single-storey buildings. The buildings, built before World War Two by the British military, looked like they used to be white but had turned to gray.
Some of us needed to go to the toilet. Not knowing the location, we decided to ask for directions. At first hardly a soul could be seen. But soon an Air Force private or lance corporal strolled by. Most probably an administrative clerk, he was attired in a neat navy blue Air Force uniform. He was thin, had hair short and was well-groomed with plenty of hair cream on his head. His thick black square glasses made him look nerdy. Nothing unusual about him.
A platoon mate called out to him. "Hello, where's the nearest toilet?�
To our surprise, the Air Force man answered in a feminine voice, exactly like that of a woman. "There�s a toilet two blocks away. Walk along this path, turn left and --�
While he was still in mid-sentence, many of my platoon mates interrupted with their impersonations. "There�s a toilet two blocks away . . . .� They mocked in an exaggerated feminine manner. Loud derisive laughter followed.
I almost asked them to stop the mockery, but it was too late -- the damage done. Looking very humiliated, the Air Force man turned his head away. He could have been in tears. Like a dog with its tail between its legs, he strode away hurriedly with his head facing down as the mocking and laughter continued behind him.
I felt sorry for him.
He was probably born that way; he couldn't help it. In any case, I believed it was better not to make fun of the manhood of others. We commandos were supposed to be elite soldiers, but soldiers from other units deserve our respect too, no matter their orientation.
A Day with New Zealand Soldiers
A tug-of-war. The two teams grabbed the rope and faced each other. One team comprised ten big muscular New Zealand soldiers. The opposing team comprised five big muscular NZ soldiers and five small but tough Singapore Commandos. Both teams were determined to win. Losing wasn�t acceptable. Who would prevail?
Telematch
We Singapore commandos were guests at the camp of the 1st Royal New Zealand Infantry Regiment stationed in Singapore. It was a friendly telematch. For once, we were having fun instead of training. For once, it was not a death-and-life struggle. If we won, great. If we lost, well, never mind. Our sergeants wouldn't scream at us. We felt relieved for the break.
Moreover, the camp had a carnival atmosphere, helped by the friendliness and warm hospitality of the New Zealand soldiers. They were excellent hosts who made us feel at home.
Tug-of-War
The well-organised telematch had many events. But I remember only the tug-of-war. Some teams comprised only NZ soldiers while others had a mixture of NZ and Singaporean soldiers. (As the hosts, the NZ soldiers outnumbered us.) None of the teams were all-Singaporean. Such a team would be everyone's whipping boys. I considered this arrangement fair. It wasn�t a Singapore versus NZ telematch but a friendly telematch.
Obviously, I was in a mixed team. The leader of our team was a NZ soldier, who was most probably a warrant officer. He was bald, stout even by Caucasian standards, and older than most of us, possibly in his early to mid-thirties. What struck me most about him was the enthusiasm in his attitude and voice. As he spoke, he waved his arms and clenched his fists to emphasize his points and to spur us on. His instructions were clear. "Now mates, once you hear the word 'GO,' pull straight away with all your might. No delay at all. We are smaller than them, so that�s our only chance: to win with the first momentum. Got it, everyone?�
We understood. We had five big fellows and five small ones, but most of the other teams had ten big fellows. Our only chance was to be the first to pull quickly. In military terms - a quick first strike! In a protracted struggle, we were at a disadvantage.
The opposing team appeared. An all-NZ team: ten big guys. But we were ready. �Remember what we are supposed to do, men!� our leader reminded us.
We grabbed the rope; they did the same. The teams faced each other. I was in the middle of our team. The referee, a NZ soldier, raised his arm, held it for a few seconds, and brought it down swiftly, shouting, �GO!�
We pulled immediately as planned, without hesitation, like a sprinter off his or her blocks. The sudden momentum pulled us backwards a few inches. Our tactic was working! The other team appeared to be startled by the sudden strong pull. However, being stronger, they quickly recovered. We started losing ground slowly but surely; we lost the few inches we had initially gained. I continued to pull with all my might, but it was no use. Overpowered, we eventually lost.
But our great leader hadn�t lost any of his enthusiasm. �Did you see how effective our first pull was? It caught them off guard. We still have another match coming, so don�t lose heart. We still have another chance. We�ll do the same thing but let�s pull even harder at the sound of 'GO'.� His optimism and confidence were infectious. He was a great motivator.
We shouted confidently, �YES, W.O.�
The second team arrived -- another all-NZ team. �GO!� We pulled hard and this time our tactic worked perfectly. The opposing team hadn�t had time to recover. A great upset victory, like Portsmouth beating the mighty Manchester United.
As we shook hands with the opposing team, I met a muscular man whose massive hand dwarfed mine. Later, I asked a teammate, �Did you see that muscular guy?� My teammate had noticed the man�s huge muscles too. �I wondered how we were still able to win,� I said. I felt satisfied that we had beaten a team that had one guy so muscular. We must have done something right.
But the third match was similar to the first. We lost and were therefore out of the competition. �Good effort, men,� said our leader.
Going Home
When evening came, the telematch ended. I wish it could go on forever. I wish we weren't going back to the Home of the Commandos. Why wasn�t the telematch a week long instead of only a day?
As I sat in our 3-tonner heading back to our camp, I gazed at the beautiful setting sun. I recalled the various games we played, especially the tug of war. I felt the hospitality of the NZ soldiers again. I heard the enthusiastic pep talk of the NZ warrant officer. I saw him waving his arm to spur us on. I felt his confidence permeating my body again.
All these occurred only hours ago. But now I felt as though they had occurred ages ago in a faraway land, in New Zealand itself. The 3-tonner rolled on, along a long lonely dusty rural road. The sun had set; darkness was descending. Shadows of trees and telephone poles lengthened. I thanked God for the merry men of the Royal New Zealand Infantry Regiment, the enthusiastic warrant officer, and the fun break.
P.S. - Video of the 1st RNZIR departing ceremony. So sad to see them go.
The Night A Corporal Shouted at Officers
On this night I, a lowly corporal, shouted at officers. Not only once, but throughout the night. And not only at one officer, but several. Moreover, it was in the presence of their men. What gave me the audacity to shout at them? Was I drunk? Was I crazy? Was I suicidal? What was the resulting punishment? Detection barracks? Or something worse?
It happened during a joint night exercise with another battalion (not a commando battalion). I shall not divulge the identity of this battalion; we�ll call them the elite 1st Orchard Road Battalion instead. We commandos were an advance party tasked with securing a Landing Zone (LZ) for the helicopters of this battalion. My job was to marshal their soldiers as they exited the helicopters.
The LZ was a grassy clearing spacious enough for a helicopter to land. At the edges of the LZ were huge trees all around. The forest was all dark and quiet. The LZ location was supposedly in enemy territory. So the soldiers were supposed to show some urgency upon exiting the helicopter, or so I had thought. We commandos always sprinted upon exiting the helicopter in enemy territory. That was important because in actual war, we didn't know what to expect, having just arrived at the LZ. The LZ and the surrounding areas may be hot, that is, infested with the enemy. Moreover, being open spaces, LZs normally lack natural cover. We never walked from a chopper. It had become second nature for us to run.
We had set up markers to light the LZ so that the chopper pilots could see where to land. Armed with an M16, I stood alone waiting for the first chopper. Soon the silence was shattered by the sound of whirling rotor blades. I peered up and saw a chopper descending over the LZ. As it landed, I was hit by a gush of wind from the rotor blades. The wind could have blown off my soft light jungle hat. Fortunately, I had pulled the strap under my chin, securing the hat.
Although it was very dark, I could still see the dark silhouette of the first soldier as he exited. The figure strolled nonchalantly. I expected him to speed up so the others behind him could follow. But he continued leisurely as though he was walking with his girlfriend along Orchard Road (a famous road in Singapore where shopping centers abound). The others behind him were walking at the same snail�s pace. Agitated, I ran towards them and shouted above the sound of the chopper blades, �Hurry up! RUN to those trees over there!� as I pointed at where they were supposed to go. They picked up speed grudgingly, and it was only at a jogging pace, till they disappeared from view.
When the chopper left, all was still and silent again. While waiting for the next helicopter, I mused on what had happened. I felt something strange about me barking loud commands. At first I didn�t know why I felt strange . . . . Then I understood. Until then, I had been used to our sergeants barking orders at me. Now I was the one barking orders. Just for this night, that was something I had to get used to. I also hoped the soldiers from the next chopper would show more urgency upon exit from the chopper.
Again, the silence was broken by the sound of chopper blades as the second chopper landed. The soldiers likewise walked as though the LZ was Orchard Road. Again, I shouted at them to double up their speed. The same thing happened for the third and fourth chopper. I was annoyed.
What kind of training did these soldiers receive? Can�t they see that this isn�t Orchard Road? Must I shout at them the whole night long? Maybe they think that nobody can see them walking since it is dark. But I am here and I am watching!
Oh yes, that's it. They can't see me, they can only hear my voice. Some of these shadowy strolling figures must be sergeants and even officers since this is a battalion exercise. This is the only chance for me -- a lowly corporal -- to shout at officers and to command them!
From then on, I no longer felt agitated. Instead, I had fun. As chopper after chopper landed, I shouted at the leisurely strolling figures, knowing very well that among them were officers and sergeants. �MOVE FASTER! . . . . DON�T WALK! RUUUNNN! . . . . DOUBLE UP! . . . . QUICK!�
So what punishment did I receive? None of course -- just doing my job. I was glad the officers and men of the 1st Orchard Road Battalion received a taste of commando training -- training we commandos took seriously. Since then, I never had another chance to shout at officers.
Help! I Can�t Move
We had planned an amphibious attack on a beachhead. Well-trained, confident and armed, we were ready for anything. But we would soon find out just how helpless we could be.
We were in an assault boat, about to practice an attack on a remote island beach. We knew what we were supposed to do when the boat halted. At the command of our lieutenant, we would jump out of the boat simultaneously � the ones on the right would leap to the right side of the boat while the ones on the left would leap left. We would sprint forward, form into a line and charge the beach. After overcoming the imaginary enemy, we would set up a defensive perimeter and secure the beach. Everything would go according to plan.
When the boat halted, our lieutenant shouted, "GO." We eagerly jumped out as planned. I was on the right, and so I jumped to the right. The water was at my thigh level. I tried to move my right leg. But my leg refused to budge; it wouldn�t move an inch. I tried my left leg, but it too wouldn�t move. I tried again with all my might, but my legs remained rooted. What was happening? My feet were stuck to the sea floor as though the floor was quicksand. Puzzled, I looked around and realized that the same thing was happening to the others. I was reminded of the toy model soldiers I used to play with as a kid. Their feet were firmly attached to a base, so that the figures could stand. I felt like those toy soldiers.
Our lieutenant, who was still standing comfortably in the boat, shouted at everyone to move, even threatening punishment. He hadn't yet realized what was happening. Moments later, he came to his senses and figured that none of us could move. So he, along with the boat pilot, tried to pull us out of the water. Even then it was a struggle. The sea floor was reluctant to release its firm grip. Added to the difficulty was the gear we were carrying - fullpacks, weapons, ammunition etc. The stuck ones and their helpers needed Herculean effort. Those who managed to get aboard in turn helped the others. Eventually, everyone got aboard, exhausted.
The lieutenant ordered the boat pilot to back away from the beach. We would find an alternative beach to attack. "See the importance of military intelligence?" said the lieutenant. "Because of poor intelligence, we landed here. If this were an actual war, we would all had been sitting ducks for the enemy -- wiped out even before reaching dry sand.� My lieutenant was right. Intelligence is so vital to a military operation. Without good intelligence, the fighting soldiers, even commandos, would count for nothing. Worse, many fine men would die as a result.
As the boat beat a hasty retreat, I sat thinking, still catching my breath from all the exertion. Another lesson we could learn was the power of nature as seen through the �sea quicksand." We had our attack plans. We were young, fit, cocky, and full of vigor. But we were no match for nature. I felt so helpless when stuck. Here was I, a commando, supposedly armed to the teeth with weapons and ammunition but not even able to lift a leg. The terrain, not the enemy, had defeated us. I now had an even greater respect for Mother Nature. It was a humbling experience for me and, I believe, for the rest in the boat.
P.S. In this video clip, a similar thing happened to other commandos. One difference: we were from knee to waist deep in the water, while the commandos in the clip were already on the sandy beach when they were stuck.
P.S. Here are two examples in which faulty intelligence hampered commando operations.
Son Tay Raid - Intelligence indicated that POWs were held at this camp. Commandos raided the camp but found no POWs. They had been moved.
U.S. Military Blunder Put SAS Heroes' Lives at Risk - Intelligence indicated no enemy in the insertion area. They were wrong.
The Three Vices
Our company, the 5th, was the most notorious company in our battalion. We were often wild, pugnacious, unruly, and fond of breaking army rules. We perhaps came close to the public's stereotypical image of commandos. What�s more, we were proud of the notoriety.
Events one evening in particular would enhance our notorious reputation. On this evening, we had no training and therefore had some precious free time. That didn�t apply to me, though, because I had guard duty. Since I wasn�t in camp when the following happened, I only heard about it.
Every night, a Duty Officer (D.O.) maintained camp security and general discipline. On this particular night, the D.O. made a spot check on our company barracks. He entered the barracks of one of our platoons and caught them red-handed. They were drunk; drinking was prohibited in the barracks. The D.O. then checked another platoon and found them gambling, another nefarious activity. He then checked the third platoon: they were watching a pornographic movie.
So all three platoons were caught, each with a different vice. I can imagine the teasing. One platoon to another, �You are a bunch of drunkards." Came the reply, �And you are porno kings." We found the whole incident comical. As far as I knew, nobody got into serious trouble. At most, they were given a verbal warning by the D.O., for nothing more was heard after the incident, except the mutual inter-platoon teasing and laughter.
The Spirit of a Commando
The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience,
but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.
-- Martin Luther King, Jr.
I don�t remember much about the following race. If I recall correctly, it was a five km relay event. But I will always remember the courage of one runner.
The race had ended; no more runners crossed the finish line. Any time now, we would be ordered to assemble before heading back to camp. With the tension of the race over, the cheering had stopped and everyone was engaged in private conversations.
I was talking to a section mate sitting next to me when, at the corner of my eye, I noticed that more and more men were turning their heads at a certain direction. Conversations stopped. Fingers pointed at the finish line. I glanced towards the finish line and, to my surprise (and everyone else�s), one runner was still running.
He was obviously injured, having sprained his ankle badly, most probably in a stumble. He was limping, face contorted in auguish -- obviously in great pain. But he kept going � one step at a time. At first there was a momentary silence, as everyone absorbed and contemplated the scene before them. Everyone was in awe. Then, almost simultaneously, people started cheering him on. When he crossed the finish line, applause broke out. Some even stood for a standing ovation.
Harry, a singer section-mate of mine, was touched by this runner. A few nights later, at our unit�s talent night, he sang a song dedicated to the runner "who did not give up." The song was �Country Road, Take Me Home," originally sung by John Denver. (Even today, I can still recall hearing Harry practicing that song with a guitar in his hand during our precious free time, while the others were resting. I admire his dedication to music.)
The runner reminds me of John Stephen Akhwari of Tanzania. In the 1968 Olympic Marathon race, he severely injured his knee, but he did not give up, finishing the race. Even though he was dead last, the small crowd (most had already left) applauded and cheered him. When asked by a reporter why he did not quit the race, the marathoner replied, �My country did not send me to Mexico City to start the race; they sent me to finish."
The commando runner had the same spirit as the marathoner. He could have said, �My unit did not send me to start the race; they sent me to finish."
All I have to do is Dream
Hardened commandos (or commando trainees) can be sentimental too. One day, I discovered that some were not afraid to show their softer side.
At first, I thought maybe something was wrong with me. Why did I feel maudlin at times, especially during particularly hectic training? For example, lying on my bunk bed (after a crazy day�s training), I get teary eyed when I sing in my heart in the dead quiet and stillness of the night. I felt great relief, an unburdening of all my emotions of despair. Many were Christian songs about God�s love and comfort. Some were love songs. Others, such as "Where Have All the Flowers Gone?", were about the sorrows of war.
I can�t remember exactly how they found out. "Hey, Raymond, I heard you know the song 'All I have to Do is Dream'," a platoon mate said. "Do you have the lyrics?" I said no, I didn�t have the lyrics on paper. But I could write them. I explained that when I was a kid, I had often heard this song by Donny Osmond. (The original singers were the Beverly Brothers.) My sister was obsessed with the Osmond Brothers; she always played this song on our record. (Remember, those were pre-CD days.)
Then another asked me for the lyrics to the same song; then another. So one fine weekend at home, weary from the past week's training, I took a pencil and paper and wrote the lyrics, singing and recalling the song in my mind as I had heard it during my seventies childhood. (Those were the pre-Internet days. Today, you can google and get the lyrics to this song in less than five minutes.) I was momentarily transported back to my carefree and innocent childhood days. Oh, if only this trip could go on forever . . .
I didn�t know if the resulting lyrics were a hundred percent correct, but I believed they were accurate. Fortunately, it wasn�t a rock song in which lyrics could hardly be heard but a pop song in which Donny Osmond pronounced the words clearly.
After the weekend, I was all excited with the lyrics in hand. How amazing it was for me to get excited about going back to camp. One night we had some free time in the bunk after an exhausting day. I congregated with three of those who had requested the lyrics. We sang out loud with the lyrics I had written.
The scene wasn�t anything unusual or spectacular. But I would always remember it - four tough, fit commando recruits, who earlier in the day had been screaming, "KILL! KILL! KILL!" while charging with fixed bayonets, now huddled at the corner of the bunk singing peacefully.
"Dream, dream dream dream, dream, dream dream dream
When I want you in my arms,
when I want you and all your charms
Whenever I want you, all I have to do is dream"
We felt a great release of pent-up emotions from the stress of training. Commandos are trained to advance, but this time we retreated from harsh reality into a land of dreams. It was a cathartic expression of our innermost desires. Perhaps my friends were dreaming about their girlfriends as they sang strictly according to the song�s lyrics. But most probably (and I felt it strongly) they were dreaming of being somewhere far away where there were no sorrows or sufferings or danger. Whenever the training got too much for us, all we had to do was dream, dream, dream . . .
In this place where men try to maintain a facade of toughness, my fellow commando trainees weren�t bashful about being sentimental. They eagerly requested the song. I knew why they wanted the song, and they knew that I knew. We were not afraid to sing in the presence of others.
Though the words of the song spoke much, the words unspoken between us spoke volumes. We did not say, �What a great emotional release� or �I always dream about a land somewhere far from here." Perhaps this was pushing our expression of unashamed sentimentality too far. But there was no need for such words because of mutual understanding of longings, bonded we were by shared adversity.
Since this singing episode, I no longer felt ashamed for feeling mushy. I no longer felt ashamed of longing for a faraway land, a land far from the commando lifestyle. I then sang another song,
"Somewhere over the rainbow
Way up high
There's a land that I heard of
Once in a lullaby
. . . ."
All I have to do is Dream
By Everly Brothers
Dream, dream dream dream, dream, dream dream dream
When I want you in my arms,
when I want you and all your charms
Whenever I want you, all I have to do is
Dream, dream dream dream
When I feel blue in the night,
and I need you to hold me tight
Whenever I want you, all I have to do, is dream
I can make you mine,
taste your lips of wine,
any time, night or day
Only trouble is, gee whiz,
I'm dreamin' my life away
I need you so that I could die,
I love you so, and that is why
Whenever I want you, all I have to do is
Dream, dream dream dream, dream
I can make you mine,
taste your lips of wine,
any time, night or day
Only trouble is, gee whiz,
I'm dreamin' my life away
I need you so that I could die,
I love you so, and that is why
Whenever I want you, all I have to do, is
Dream, dream dream dream (repeats out) |
