by Barry Heard
Eventually the pies arrived and we dutifully paid for them, rushed to the VW, and jammed in, giggling and carrying on like delinquent children. For most of us, I guess it was our first attempt at grand theft. A hot pie, a can of beer, and free sweets: life was great. Twenty minutes down the road, with me driving, the VW went up on its side, over a bank, back on the road sideways and, amid much noise, came to a grinding halt. We crawled out the top through the driver’s window. No one was hurt. Whew! I made a quick excuse that there’d been a sharp bend and dense fog. Utter crap. I had been driving too fast, and simply panicked when the VW hit the gravel. Thankfully, we had eaten our pies, including Beebop, who was supposed to be a vegetarian. ‘Pies only contain 5 per cent meat’ was his claim, so Beebop allowed for 5 per cent of accidental intake of beef a day. The battered and bruised VW got shoved back onto four wheels. The poor bloody thing looked badly shaken. We were able to continue on to Melbourne, slowly. Knackers held in the rear side window with his forehead; Blou, the rear window with the back of his head, yet he continued to sing all the way. Naturally, I was banished to the back seat and never invited to drive again.
In the city, three of us took our dates to see The Sound of Music. Yes, you read it right. The Sound of Bloody Music. This was the swinging sixties? Being hardened infantry soldiers, it’s difficult to admit, but that’s how things were back then. It was great to get out of army uniform whilst on leave. There was no weight on our back and no dirt mattress. But even in Civvy Street there was a code of dress for the movies back then. Blokes usually wore a shirt and tie, along with a sports coat. The last thing you would put on would be a pair of denim jeans. Only farmhands wore that stuff. Girls shaved a part of their bodies that I’m too polite to mention, and took the razor to their eyebrows as well. They then put a bit of black texta in its place. Their hair rarely went down. It poked up in the air, held together by some glue-like stuff called lacquer; it ponged. Their hair was very springy; even rain used to bounce off it.
After the flicks we took the girls back to their hostel. Great night. We were just leaving when Blou turned up, an hour late. Whoops, curfew at the hostel was at 10.30 p.m., and his girl was getting her knickers in a knot. So we had to hoist this young woman with her soft-serve type hairstyle up to the second floor and get her through a window. No worries. Easy. The plan was well thought out.
‘We’ll join hands, then lift you up … just stand on Turd’s head, and your mate inside will pull you in.’
Operation ‘Up the Brick Wall’ was going very well until her foot slipped off my head, and her frigging stiletto heel went through my lower lip. I zipped backwards into some bloody roses, and Blou’s flam’n sheila landed on my stomach. I got abused quietly for farting. (Try having a sheila drop on your belly from six feet.) But not a sound came from my mouth. I was proud of that. The next plan of attack was to have two blokes grab a leg each (don’t look up) and lift her up. Operation complete. There’s no doubt about grunts: we are planners.
What a great weekend. I received the odd lifted eyebrow for my swearing and drinking. Suddenly it was Sunday morning. All back in the Zephyr, Blou’s bus, a quick nap, then we headed back to Singleton. We arrived at the Lions with 26 minutes to spare. The next day I looked like I had a banana implanted in my lower lip.
But the driving record for the weekend’s leave was for Ditzy. He drove to Adelaide, ‘got laid, mate … twice,’ and drove back. Ditzy blamed his brother’s VW for his pending wedding some months after that leave. He claimed his foot got stuck in the glove box at a critical stage during the heavy petting session and, bingo, Ditzy was a dad.
The training now turned to a lot of rifle range work. We fired at three-ply human-shaped targets with both the SLR rifle, and had a brief fire on the M60. Then something strange started to happen. For some reason, our platoon was being given extra drill after we returned from the range. Every afternoon around 4.00pm, just before sport, we would find ourselves on the parade ground practising some drill procedures that had already been hammered into us during recruit training: Open order march. Right dress. Shoulder Arms. Present arms. But, worst of all, we were drilled by the high-pitched, screaming voice of the formula-one RSM. This was pretty scary stuff. We were bewildered as to why our platoon had copped this extra drill. Perhaps we had been reported for the grand theft in Albury? Or maybe for painting concrete lions? Sure, in camp we had stuffed around, but no worse than any of the other platoons. Our answer came on the following Friday afternoon after a drill rehearsal. We were still lined up in formation on the parade ground. Would you believe, the RSM actually spoke a sentence to us? Yes, several words strung together that made sense. What a privilege. We beamed.
‘22 Platoon,’ barked the RSM, ‘I have selected you smart arses as you seem a tight-knit bunch and will do the army proud.’
This sounded like a bit of a set-up. I hoped he’d break it to us slowly.
‘Air Vice Marshall Burger is to retire shortly. The army wants a well-drilled outfit to be at his parade. 22 Platoon, you will be representing the army. The parade is in Canberra. You will be flown there in Caribous, rehearse, do the parade, have some time off, and return to 3TB. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir!’ we roared like lions.
This was for real. RSMs definitely had no sense of humour. They took great pride in honour, the regiment, and eating hearty meals made up of soldiers’ body parts. The other platoons were browned off when they heard the news. Earlier they had heaped loads of crap on us as the dickheads from 22 Platoon who painted lions.
The parade was two weeks away. We trained enthusiastically every afternoon after our normal day’s work until we operated like clockwork. Other grunts would come to the edge of the parade ground to watch us drill. On the last night, there was a large turn-up for our final rehearsal at Singleton. They clapped as we marched off the parade ground. Our platoon sergeant told us we were ‘pretty shit-hot’ — one of the highest compliments in the Australian vernacular.
During those weeks of drill training, one movement really impressed the onlookers. To explain, when a platoon is first marched onto the parade ground, it halts and then receives the command, ‘right dress!’ A ‘right marker’ steps out alone, and then the other troops line up in three straight lines, using the right marker as a guide. Each soldier then holds up his left arm horizontally to measure the correct distance to the next soldier. At the same time, the head is held sharp right to determine if the line is straight. After much shuffling, a straight line and correct distance between each soldier is usually produced. It is a difficult movement, and is even harder to end with gun-barrel-straight rows. In our case, after much shouting and endless rehearsals, we were not only string-line straight, but we were able to judge the distance to each soldier without putting our arms up. This was quite a feat.
At last, the waiting was over. The army provided aircraft to take us to the nation’s capital. The two Caribous landed at Singleton. Then, with sausage bags on our shoulders, and finding it hard to contain our excitement, we were ferried aboard. We strapped ourselves into the webbing seats. For most of us, it was our first-ever flight in a Caribou. Some had never flown at all. I will never forget the powerful surge as the plane took off; it was reputed to have one of the shortest take-offs of any aircraft. Once in the air the pilot lowered the rear-loading door, so we would have a better view and see our mates in the other plane. It was a great flight. We were bedded down at Duntroon army barracks, Canberra.
The next morning, at ‘sparrows’ fart’, as he called it, the RSM gave us a little pep talk before the first rehearsal. This was getting exciting: the RSM was actually talking. We dwelt on every utterance that came out of his mouth.
‘Listen in, men of 22 Platoon. You are grunts, considered by many to be the scum of the army, if not the earth. To the other services, the air force and the navy, you are illiterate gun fodder and have the brains of a stunned mullet. The smartest of you would have a vocabulary of ten words or even less, most of
which can’t be repeated in public. To top this off, you’re all frig’n ugly.’
He paused. Sure it was great to hear him speak, but we were getting concerned, hoping it would get better.
‘Well, I say to them, pig’s arse. Now, listen in, men. The navy is the senior service, and a high-ranking naval serviceman will be taking the parade. There will be selected men from each of three services on this farewell ceremony. I want you to shit on them. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ we roared like lions.
‘Good. Show them dopey bastards how to do it, men.’
He called us men, three times in fact. We were pumped with pride, and would do anything for this man of metal.
The first combined rehearsal went well. The naval parade commander had a puny, cultured voice and used a microphone. When he gave the order to ‘open order march and right dress,’ his reaction was curt.
‘I say, army,’ he said to the RSM in his cultured British accent, ‘don’t you put your arms up?’ The RSM beamed. His solid steel jaw jutted with grunt pride, and he replied, ‘They don’t need to. Check the distances if you like.’ He was so, so proud.
Somewhat flustered, the navy brass continued, pointing out many short cuts in our drill. We were good. So good, the RSM almost smiled — for a millisecond, I admit, but what an honour to see that fleeting smirk on his tungsten, leathery, iron-bark face. Many of 22 Platoon on the parade ground that day will treasure the moment.
We were ready.
The farewell parade was a big affair. Politicians and all sorts of top brass were there. We marched in the middle. Naturally, the navy led the parade.
That night, back at Duntroon barracks, the RSM glowed with satisfaction and superior delight.
‘Well done, 22 Platoon. Even the toffs from Duntroon were amazed. You’ve put grunts and Singleton on the fuck’n map. You were the best. The drinks are on me, you bloody rippers.’
Someone reckoned during the night he could be heard saying to the navy bod, ‘No training, those young buggers, ya know? We just pulled them straight out of the bush, ya know?’
It was a great trip. Back at Singleton, the word of our success quickly spread. We returned to an extended celebration in the boozer. In fact, going to the boozer, swearing, playing pranks, and nursing sore heads in the morning were becoming the norm. We were well on the way to becoming seasoned drinkers.
Towards the end of our training at Singleton, we decided that, for once, we should go to one of the movies on offer. This was a rare occurrence, as we would normally gravitate to the boozer after a day’s work. The army seemed to condone this. Apart from the movies, we had no other form of entertainment or distraction whilst locked up in camp. This night, very tipsy, we arrived when the show, a World War II epic, was well under way. On the screen, a chunky, square-jawed Marine with his dog tags on frolicked in the surf. He was flicking water. Now, I realise that Yanks are prone to this strange behaviour, but he had company. The flicked water was meant for the gorgeous blonde-haired woman, but he kept missing. He was a rotten shot. She was giggling. Her hands were on her knees, squeezing her well-proportioned breasts together. Quietly, leaning in my direction, Snoggons suggested, ‘Nice blouse?’
‘Yair,’ we all chorused. Snoggons was considered the most intelligent among us. This dazzling, voluptuous blonde was a nurse from a small hospital on a tiny pacific atoll. The Marine had just been discharged from her ward. The poor bugger, he seemed to have copped about fifty rounds in his torso in the act of saving his platoon. He’d blown up a machine-gun post, shot down a Zero, sunk a sub, and killed countless Japs. Then, carrying two wounded buddies, he’d managed to crawl (still full of bullet holes, remember) two miles back to his foxhole. Fifty Japs killed, two Americans wounded: the humble Marine performed these incredible feats with the chinstrap undone on his helmet, and chewing gum without missing a beat. (Still, he couldn’t flick water very straight.)
He was shipped in a Red Cross boat to this small island. Single-handedly, the nurse had healed his horrendous wounds. Miraculously, there was not one scar on his bulging, hairless, brown chest. They were all alone in the ocean, and a wave knocked them over. Emerging from the salty brine, soaked, our battle-hardened Fort Bragg graduate held her at arm’s length, staring into her soft green eyes. She stared back. He appeared stuck for words (unusual for a Yank), and they continued staring into each other’s eyes. They do a lot of staring, those Yanks.
She was wearing a short pair of shorts with the bottoms frayed and a thin white blouse on top, unbuttoned and held together with just a knot. I was glad to see it was a reef knot, because I’d learned in Boy Scouts years before that reef knots are easy to undo when wet. Interesting to note, underneath the blouse were two beautiful, white-porcelain pointers. That’s what Grunter called them. The square-jawed Marine was well muscled and tanned, his lithe frame glistening in the sun. During this prolonged staring segment, bloody Snoggons, the bastard, interrupted this spellbinding vista. He again leant in my direction and suggested quite seriously: ‘You know, Turd ol’ fellow, tad embarrassing, but I reckon that Yankee bastard has an erection.’
‘More than a tad embarrassing,’ I thought. Hell, the hall was full of men, mostly privates like us; but there were officers as well, and a comment like that was a bit rich, really. Officers demanded our respect, even if every second one I met had the leadership qualities of a Labrador pup.
In response to Snoggons’ rude remark I pathetically replied, ‘Good point, Snog.’
‘Bullshit. Those Yanks don’t get one til’ they’re in their bloody thirties. They wouldn’t know where to put it,’ barked Stacka, sipping from a can he had hidden under his seat.
‘Well, I’ve got one,’ said Grafter.
‘We’ve all got one, you moron, Grafter,’ said Grunter.
‘I’ve had one since I was a two-year-old toddler,’ said Knackers.
‘We all have,’ the group echoed.
A period of silence that induced some deep thought followed, and then Ditzy added, ‘I bet our frigging officers are totally drooped, eh?’
‘Yeah!’
They all agreed on that one. By now, Booster was in the mild stages of alcohol-induced giggles, and things were deteriorating just a smidgen at this stage. A bloke in front of us turned around and said, ‘Crites, yor’a noisy pack’a pricks.’
He then looked at Booster. ‘What’s bloody wrong with him?’
Booster was just about in convulsions with laughter, bent over, his head between his knees, and shaking uncontrollably.
‘He’s a recent devotee of the Mountain Ash Worshippers. It’s prayer time, and they stare at the floorboards during their religious chants and incantations,’ piped up Grunter, not turning from the screen, with a face displaying a look of knowledge and wisdom.
‘Shit, that’s amazing,’ said the bloke in front. My guess was that he was probably an ex-dairy farmer, a regular, and definitely officer material. This enlightening intellectual discussion was suddenly interrupted by the movie. At long flaming last, our two heroes had stopped staring at each other. The theatre went quiet.
Zoom! Suddenly a Jap Zero interrupted this idyllic scene. The pilot, the most repulsive-looking Japanese I had ever seen, glared, sneered, and chuckled through dirty, nicotine-stained teeth. He had a repulsive dangle of green snot hanging off one nostril. The two youthful sun lovers dashed up the beach towards the jungle for cover, her magnificent breasts bouncing in perfect timing, in a scene that ended all too soon. Bullets sprayed across the sand. The nurse was hit in the back as they dived for cover. The bloody Yank didn’t even dive on top of her. This could have had several interesting outcomes — maybe it could even have stopped her from getting shot.
Sad, soft music and a humming chorus in the background saw our warrior kneeling in the sand. The handsome Marine had this drop-dead gorgeous blonde in his arms. Somehow, her hair was dry, she had makeup on, and eyelashes so long you’d have to duck under them to give her one on those pulsat
ing lips. Anyhow, she was about to pass out, gracefully fading fast from a serious wound in her back. Naturally, with her being a film star, there was no blood. From nowhere, the bloody hero produced a dry cigarette, and placed it between his teeth. A dry match lit the Marlboro Red. He blew smoke over her. She opened her mouth and those beautiful, full, red, pouting, moist, soft, voluptuous, round, O-shaped, kissable lips moved like a ballerina sucking an icy-pole. Her heaving chest brought primitive groans from the audience. She whispered his name.
‘Churrrrrck’ (the first words spoken in this 20-minute scene). Then, flapping her very long eyelashes and giving him a most erotic look whilst lingering on the edge of death, she faded away gracefully. Our warrior looked up to the sky with an expression of deep hurt and forlorn hopelessness, and said: ‘What will I do with her?’
Snoggons, stunned at this unbelievable statement from the Yank, jumped to his feet in disgust.
‘What a dumb bloody question. They’re got no flam’n idea, those baseball-playing gum-chompers.’
Wow! How to create crowd hysteria! Side-splitting lurid suggestions came from every corner of the theatre. The place was in an uproar. Snoggons, the leader, was on his feet and in fine form. Booster was at the point of vomiting from laughter, and could only say,
‘For crites sake, shud’up, ya prick.’
There are some funny bastards in this world. Not so, thought the army. The movie stopped, and the lights went on.
‘Stand up, those men,’ demanded an officer with a pathetic moustache who looked like he had worms. Tape worms, I think. Was this bloke serious?
