The second tool used by the staff was the bayonet assault course 2.0. This course was absolutely ridiculous, twice as long as the one in Wagga, double the targets to stab and kill, deep pits, tunnels filled with water, barbed wire walls, fallen trees, trenches full of logs and a huge bear pit at the beginning. The first time we went through was our hardest physical test so far. It was midday, scorching hot, leaving two of the men treated for heat exhaustion. Even though my fitness was great, I was destroyed by the end and we were all sent in for a second time. We did not come close to the expected time for completion so once again we had punishments to do.
My time in Singleton was progressing at a rapid rate, with lots of time out in the bush learning how to survive on patrol and how to attack and destroy the enemy. Living in the bush came very easy to me after all those years camping with Mum and Dad in the outback and on the side of a highway. I also enjoyed learning ‘bushcraft’, which was how to move through forests, jungle or grasslands leaving no sign for the enemy. We were taught how to cook meals without making smoke and how to cover long distances in rough terrain, knowing exactly where you are at all times with nothing but a map. I enjoyed the training and passed every test. My fitness was at the highest level it had ever been and we could now pack-march for hours carrying 35-kilogram packs. Talk among the men started to turn towards our last two weeks and the final test we had to endure before we could call ourselves infantry soldiers. The staff called it ‘hardcore’. It was the last hurdle to finish the course, earn our infantry badges and get shipped out to an infantry unit, ready for deployment overseas.
Hardcore began with trucks dropping us off out in the bush at 4:30 am on a cold winter morning. It had started to rain and the weather forecast predicted more rain and sub-zero temperatures for the following week. The bush was grassland over rocky terrain with clusters of trees scattered throughout. The grass was ankle to knee height, just high enough to cover up rocks, causing trip hazards whenever we dropped to the ground or took a kneeling position. The trees were in winter mode and would provide very little shade from the sun during the middle of the day, however the temperature would be freezing until the sun poked its head over the horizon each morning. Our platoon commander placed us out on the ground in a large circular perimeter called all-around defence. He gave the order to ‘dig in’ and we went to work with our small fold-out shovels.
Digging in has three stages, stage one is called a shell scrape which is a hole in the ground about 40 centimetres deep with measurements long enough and wide enough for my body to lay in. The shell scrape is used to get my body below ground level for concealment and for some protection from rifle fire and fragmentation devices. Stage two is a pit big enough for two men to stand upright in with our chests at ground height. It takes solid work to get down to stage two depth and the trick was to start the pit wider at the top because we have a tendency to taper the sides in when we dig. This pit is a formidable fighting position as only the very top of my head would be visible to the enemy. It offers protection from small arms fire, fragmentation devices and artillery fire, everything except a direct hit from above. Stage three is the Taj Mahal of fighting pits. It is a pit above head height in depth, with sleeping quarters built into the walls and overhead protection made from sheets of tin. The sleeping positions however are small, cramped and vulnerable to flooding from rain. The overhead protection if built correctly and to the right standard will provide protection from mortars and artillery.
The order was given to dig in up to stage three and it was at that point we realised we would be digging for a week. The first swing of my little shovel made my heart sink, sparks shot up from the earth at the point of impact and I pictured the staff laughing at the look on my face. With all of my effort I broke out a piece of ground the size of a small banana. The earth was compact dirt known as shard and felt only slightly less dense than rock. We dug constantly in two-man teams, rotating in twenty-minute intervals. When we rested we were still required to be in defensive mode and on the lookout for the enemy. We dug for three days straight with no sleep and on the third night I was beginning to have hallucinations, seeing people and animals in the bush around us.
After the initial three days of sleep deprivation we were allowed to get four or five hours of sleep per night for the rest of the week, while maintaining our digging cycle. Completing stage three pits while sleep deprived was the main objective for the platoon that first week. To make conditions worse it was raining constantly and every hour we had to stop digging and bail out the water pooling up in our pit. At night the temperature dropped to two degrees and the only way to keep warm was to swing the shovel. Any time I stopped digging and tried to sleep shivers would grip my body and keep me awake. We managed to get down to stage three in eight days. I was hungry, tired, had lost a ton of weight and was feeling terrible.
During the second week we started to go out on patrols to practise all of the infantry skills we had been taught. Patrolling in different formations, learning to read ground signs left by the enemy, attacking enemy positions and lying in ambush on roadways and tracks. We had to know how to operate all of our weapon systems while in stressful situations. We laid trip wires, anti-personnel Claymore mines and called in imaginary mortars and artillery. The entire time we were being watched by the staff and assessed. The days and weeks were one big practical exam.
It was the last few days of the course and we were all trying to anticipate what was going to happen next. During our last night we came under attack by fifty soldiers playing enemy and using blank ammunition. The staff wrapped detonation cord around nearby trees and set them off to simulate enemy mortar-fire on our position. Mortars are short, smooth bore tubes on tripods utilised for firing shells onto an enemy. We needed to maintain communication throughout the attack, call in our own mortars and utilise all of the weapon systems effectively. We were using blank ammunition and even though there is no actual round going through the barrel the machine gun became scorching hot. I had to change out the barrel halfway through the attack because it was glowing red. The mock battle had lasted for over an hour before an order came over the radio to withdraw from our position.
We grabbed all of our waterlogged gear and retreated back under covering fire to a designated position and straight into a 10-kilometre pack march away from the area. It was dark, my pack was heavier than usual due to everything being soaked and the trail followed a series of hills which were steep and had me pushing hard to keep the pace. As I came up and over the largest hill I saw the platoon trucks waiting to pick us up in the distance and I smiled knowing it was the end of tonight’s march. Once we were all on board, the trucks drove us to another location where we disembarked and started congratulating ourselves for surviving two weeks of hell in the bush. The staff told us to eat and get some sleep because the following day hardcore was due to begin.
I was woken by the staff four hours later at four-thirty and felt like I had only just closed my eyes. We were told to eat something and be ready to move in twenty minutes. I ate three hard biscuits, drank some water and mingled with the other guys in my section noticing that for once it wasn’t raining. The platoon was divided up into our sections and once everyone was ready we set off on another march. I was carrying a full sodden pack, webbing full of ammunition, the F89 machine gun with all attachments, and I was feeling drained after only a few kilometres. A small hill rose up in the distance and we were told to attack the imaginary enemy gun pit on the summit. We had done mock attacks before so this was nothing new to us. We broke into formation and proceeded to take the hill. It took thirty-five minutes of crawling on our bellies, running and manoeuvring to clear the hill and regroup on the top. I was soaked through with sweat and feeling defeated under my heavy pack when the staff gave the order to move out again.
A few kilometres later we came upon a supply of big crates and ammo boxes. The ammo boxes were made out of steel with metal handles and weighed about 15 kilograms each, the crates were made
out of timber with rope handles and weighed around 40 kilograms each. Our task was to gather up all the boxes and crates between the section and bring them with us. As a section we had two men to a crate and one man per ammo box, with everybody having something to carry. About 2 kilometres down the road my shoulders and arms were burning with fatigue. Changing hands helped for the following 2 kilometres but after that nothing would ease the pain and I simply had to deal with it.
Six kilometres later we arrived at a firing range. This was a place we had been to before while we were learning to shoot all of our weapon systems. We placed the boxes and crates to one side and were told to get ready on the range for the targets to pop up. I was drenched with sweat, my hands were fatigued and my heart was racing from the effort of the day but I had to shoot straight. We all had to pass this shoot to carry on and finish hardcore. The shooting distances varied from 100 metres to 400 metres and we had to run between the different firing positions. Each interval caused my heart rate to spike, which affected my shooting. As the target came up I took a few seconds to calm myself, adjust onto target, and then began firing. I passed the shoot, however two guys from another section were not as lucky. They would need to repeat the entire two weeks again from day one with another platoon.
We walked off the firing range, picked up the crates and boxes and continued marching. It was only ten minutes later a guy from my section dropped to the ground saying he couldn’t go on. The staff only ask once if you want to carry on, if you say no then you get left behind. They asked him and he said no; off we went again, one man down. The next 4 kilometres went by in a blur of pain before we came upon bodies lying in a field creating a mock first-aid scenario for us to attend to.
The pretend casualties had bullet holes, broken legs, amputations and shock, all needing our newly acquired first-aid skills. We knew that all of these scenarios were treated as real and judged as such. First we secured our position on the ground in all-around defence and then tended to each casualty in order of most critical first. It took forty-five minutes to bring the scenario under control and radio for evacuations of the critical cases. The next scenario was radioed back telling us that no air evacuation was possible and we needed to carry out a critical casualty. We had two hours to get the patient to the landing zone or he would be confirmed dead and we would fail the stage.
The crates and boxes were left nearby and this time we set off with a stretcher weighing 90 kilograms. An object of this size is best carried between four men with the horizontal poles resting in between their backpacks and necks. Carrying duty is shared evenly between all of the men so that no single soldier does more work than the others. Carrying a stretcher is hard in the best of conditions and we had to move down a winding old track, knee-deep with mud and obstacles on either side to navigate around. It wasn’t long before this arduous task took its first real casualties. The pain was excruciating and continuous; the small rest we had while not carrying was only a few minutes, before we were back on and hurting again. Two guys couldn’t take it and dropped out within the first 2 kilometres, they were asked once but they didn’t get up.
My back felt like it was about to break, my neck burned and my legs pumped battery acid, I broke. With the stretcher pushing down on my neck I began to cry. First just a little sob then full tears, but I didn’t stop. Something strange was happening as I broke, I realised that I could keep going, I just told myself to put one foot in front of the other and don’t drop. As I was starting to pull myself together another guy dropped, he chose not to continue and it made me feel stronger. I know it’s harsh to say but seeing that person fail spurred me onwards; I was gaining strength from their weakness and as long as I stayed focused on the next step I wasn’t going to drop. After what felt like an eternity but was in reality just under two hours, we made the landing zone before the cut-off time where we dropped the stretcher and all fell in a heap for a well-earned drink break.
‘Get ready to move,’ came the call from the staff ten minutes later and our hearts sank. We had been going for almost six hours and my tank was well below empty. Up I rose and continued on the march trying to think what else they could throw at us today. I should have known what was coming. The obstacle course came into view and I nearly cried again, I heard ‘fuck off’ and ‘no way’ come from the boys behind me. We were told to line up at the start, given the cut-off time to complete the course and in we went.
After six hours of punishment and pain we attacked one of the hardest obstacle courses in the Army. At the tunnel section I got down on my knees to crawl through and was seized by the worst cramps I had ever had. I was dragged through by one of the guys and in turn I dragged someone else through who was in the same condition. Climbing over walls, swinging on ropes, up cargo nets, down wooden logs, it was a team effort to complete the course; we were all dehydrated and physically exhausted but we got it done. It was painful and there were no records broken but we all made it through without anyone dropping.
After a ten-minute drink break off we walked. If we all passed today we would earn ourselves the ‘skippy badge’. This is the infantry badge given to every soldier who marches out of this training centre at the completion of the course. We walked passed a huge replica of the infantry badge at the entry to our base and my chest swelled with pride as tears came into my eyes. This is what all the pain is for, to earn a place as a soldier on the frontline for Australia. We should have seen the next challenge coming as we pulled up to the start of the bayonet assault course. Our corporal looked at us and said that if we gave it everything we had we would only do it one time through. He then turned to me and said, ‘Richo, get these boys going.’ I exploded and began shouting to the guys to give it everything as we charged into the bear pit.
There was no pain, no feeling at all. I was running on the last bit of adrenaline left in my body. I was charging up from the rear screaming encouragement at the guys all the way until we were all standing at the finish line soaked in swamp water with steam coming off our bodies. The corporal came over and I thought for sure we were going to go through one more time as he said, ‘Well done men, you are now infantry soldiers’, and a cheer went up from the remaining guys and he shook all of our hands. It was seven hours from start to finish. Hardcore broke everybody who had completed it in some way, but we never dropped, and it turned me into a man at seventeen years of age. I learnt a lot about myself in those seven hours and I also realised that when the mind is willing the body will go through hell.
We started with thirty-one men that day but only nineteen skippy badges were given out. I was lucky enough to win awards for best shot and the fittest soldier. I was now a member of the Australian Army and I had received a posting to the 1st Battalion Royal Australian Regiment in Townsville, and so did a few of my closest mates on the course. We were heading up to a part of the country I knew well, sunny North Queensland, and I was ready to start my career as a soldier.
CHAPTER 3
EAST TIMOR
…
My first goal had been achieved; I was posted to the 1st Battalion part of the Royal Australian Regiment (RAR) and the 3rd Brigade as a qualified infantry soldier for the Australian Army. It was now time to become the best infantry soldier I could be. Our battalion consisted of four rifle companies, each company containing 100 men split into three platoons and each platoon broken into three sections. I was part of A company, 3 platoon, 8 section. The 1 RAR is based in Townsville in Far North Queensland and only 100 kilometres from my family, who lived further north in Ingham. With a population of 130,000 it was more like a big country town than a city.
Battalion life was like a dream to me: for a seventeen-year-old I was getting paid great money just to stay in perfect shape. The accommodation was provided, food readily available, medical and dental care was free and I had twenty-four hour access to gyms. The typical day involved a morning run, a pool training session around midday and then hitting the gym for weight training in the afternoon.
Ev
erything I had learnt in Singleton got refined and perfected with my new company. The ten men in my section became my new family and even though I was the new recruit and still had to earn the respect of the senior soldiers, my biggest strength being fitness made for a smooth transition. If you couldn’t pull your weight due to lack of strength or fitness it was very hard to get accepted by the team. So long as I stayed fit and strong and could do my job, there was no more yelling and it was a great place to be.
A journey to the Jungle Training Wing (JTW) was my first big military exercise as a new soldier. Twice a year for specific jungle training the battalion loads into buses and drives north from Townsville to Tully. It was a 210-kilometre drive to one of the wettest locations in Australia, averaging 4000 millimetres of rain per year and containing some of the thickest jungle in the world. This combination makes for a perfect environment of misery. Military units from all over the world come to JTW to get put through the hardships of living and navigating in this remote and unforgiving terrain.
JTW is a group of small wooden buildings at the end of a road in the middle of nowhere. The humidity hit me in the face as I stepped off the bus and I immediately started to sweat. It enveloped me like a wet blanket, whether I was in the sun or shade it was always present. The next thing that hit my senses was the vibrant smell of the jungle, a tropical greenhouse with a backdrop of birds and cicadas all fighting for an audience. Then it started to rain and a heavy deluge of the tropical rainforest soaked me to my core in a single minute.
One Life One Chance Page 4
