Unfortunately, the singing didn�t keep everyone awake. I saw a platoon-mate right after he fainted. He was lying off to one side of the road, only two meters from me on my right as I marched past him. But we had been ordered to move on. Medics would tend to any fallen soldier. I glanced at him, hoping that his condition wasn�t too serious and that medics would get to him soon. He was on his side with his arms bent at the elbows in front of him; his knees raised towards his abdomen as in the natal position. Strangely, he looked as peaceful as a baby sound asleep.
What I remembered most about the forced march wasn�t the march itself but the breaks we had along the way. We were given five-minute breaks at regular intervals. Overwhelming was the temptation to sleep, so the instructors went around kicking us, making sure that we didn't fall asleep. "Don't fall asleep, or you'll never wake up!" I heard a swift kick, followed by groans. They kept yelling at us. I understood. Once you fell asleep, waking would be impossible. And I didn't want to be the next kicked. POWWW! I heard another kick a few meters away.
I spent much of the break tending to the blisters on my feet. There were too many blisters and too little time, so I tended to the more severe ones, pasting plasters (bandaids) over them. That helped but not much. Had to endure the pain.
Also, my groin was bleeding and blistering red, caused by friction as a result of the incessant chaffing of the army slacks against my groin. After the march, I had to walk bowlegged with my thighs spread wide like a cowboy about to draw. It was comical seeing others walking this way, but then you realized that you were walking like that yourself.
Day of the Tiger
Early the next morning, we finally arrived at Changi Beach, our destination. The cool sea breeze lifted our spirits, drying our perspiration. The white sands felt soft and easy on our feet after a long night pounding on the solid road. The pleasant smell of the beach and coconuts replaced the ordour of dried perspiration. The soothing rhythmic rustles of the waves rolling over the gentle beaches replaced the screams of our trainers.
The serenity of the beach brought my mind back to World War Two when the Japanese Imperial Army, under the command of General Yamashita, nicknamed �Tiger of Malaya� by his troops, occupied Singapore. I saw hundreds of men and women, young and old, mostly Chinese, hands bound behind their backs, at the water's edge. Facing them was a machine gun. A Japanese officer raised his sword and swiftly brought it down shouting, "FIRE!" RACK TAK TAK TAK! One by one the prisoners fell till not one was left standing. The waters became red. The beach was no longer serene. This beach was a regular execution site for the Sook Ching Massacre in which thousands of Singaporeans died. This was a poignant reminder to me about why we trained - so that such massacres wouldn't happen again. The week's suffering had not been in vain. I owed it to those who had fallen on this beach.
My trip back to World War Two was interrupted when our Commanding Officer (C.O.), known as the �Smiling Tiger," arrived. When subordinates greeted him, he always acknowledged with a nod and a warm smile. What about the �Tiger� in his nickname? Someone who had worked closely with him warned me not to mistaken his gentle demeanor for weakness. He could be extremely mean when he chose to be. After all, he did not become a commando C.O. by smiling all day long. Fortunately, I never personally saw the �Tiger� in him, but I was glad that this �Tiger� was on our side.
Smiling and looking pleased, the "Smiling Tiger" shook our hands quickly, congratulated us on our promotion and disappeared. The promotion ceremony lasted only about fifteen to twenty minutes as far as I could recall. Thus, I was a corporal, the lowest rank in our commando unit, which essentially made me like a private in another unit. But I was just happy to have survived the crazy week.
Later in the afternoon, we celebrated our promotion with a BBQ. We had already finished with logistics and administration such as cleaning and returning our weapons, and had taken our showers. We wore comfortable army green vest and dark blue sports shorts.
After a while at the BBQ pit, I walked to my bunkroom a short distance away to retrieve something (now I can�t remember what it was) from my cupboard. Beside my cupboard was my bunk bed. The clean white bed sheet was neatly pulled taut exactly as I had left it nearly a week ago. I hadn�t slept at all since. The bed looked so inviting. �Lie down on me . . . . Lie down on me . . . . I have been waiting for you for a week . . . ."
Yeah, why not lie down for a while. I did so, and you can guess what happened. Next thing I knew, all was quiet. All was dark except for the dim lights. Night had fallen. I must have been asleep for a few hours at least. I blinked a few times and rubbed my eyes to shake off drowsiness, then got up to see if others were still around. All the lights in the bunkrooms were off. But the dim lights along the hallway (separating the two rows of bunkrooms, one platoon occupying each row) were on, illuminating the bunkrooms.
At the corner of our bunkroom, a platoon-mate lay spread-eagled on the floor. Smell of beer permeated the air. An opened blue and yellow beer can with the Tiger (again this animal!) logo was still in his right hand, though not firmly grasped. A foot away from this can was another can, also opened and empty, with some of its contents spilled on the floor. His eyes weren�t completely shut, but it was obvious he had passed out from drunkenness and exhaustion. The atomic bombs of Hiroshima and Nagasaki couldn�t have woken him. I stepped out to the hallway, entered another bunkroom and found another platoon-mate in a similar state.
We had already been given permission to book out of camp for the weekend, so I changed to my civilian clothes -- a plain white collarless T-shirt and a pair of Levi's blue denim jeans. I signed the personnel book and started walking out of camp. Automatically, I walked like a cowboy again because of my groin pain. I had forgotten about this pain for the past few hours. I would look weird walking in the streets like a cowboy, so I forced myself to walk more normally, ignoring the pain.
Not a soul was in sight. The rest must have either passed out like the two I had seen or had left camp. The stark silence was surreal and almost eerie. I heard only the distant mating sounds of crickets. The smell of BBQ meat entered my nostrils. Must be some leftover food. The night was windless; I missed the beach sea breeze earlier in the day.
The Final Scene
The week had been torturous, hectic, wild and loud. Ironically, now I was walking out of camp alone and in total silence. It was as if the silence itself was in awe of our recent ordeal. I also felt like I was the protagonist of a movie. (Note: protagonist, not hero. I was no hero. I merely endured the week as did my company-mates.) The action-packed movie was almost over, and now it was the quiet final scene in which the protagonist exits the screen.
But back to reality. I would be back the next day, and the cycle of training would begin again, but I hoped that none would equal �torture week."
Today, whenever I can�t get enough sleep, either because of studies, work, or any other matter, I remember that week. Nothing could be worse than �torture week." |
