Recruit Night

One evening, that NS reality program on TV, Every Singaporean Son, showed the recruits preparing for Recruit Night... an end-of-course function.

It reminded me of own BMT end-of-course event. But it was called OC's Evening back then. We were, of course, happy that our BMT had come to an end. For Echo Company Platoon 17, the relief was more than welcome. We had an especially tough training course when almost every other recruit company was having theirs easy. Yup, it was that obvious.

So, even though we were glad that OC's Evening was coming up, we didn't feel very liberated at all. We were still in that goddamn 'torture' camp of ITD in Sembawang, probably the second last batch to still train there before BMT training was later moved on to a redesignated Tekong Island. 

Needless to say, what everybody looked forward to that evening was the buffet. Recruits in any generation of NS could never seem to get enough of food! And during my time, food was still quite bad: the 'barb-wire' morning beehoon, the yellow-green 'bleached' veggies, the oily veg-stewed chickens, etc. Only food served in the Muslim section of the cookhouse offered any semblance of good grub. Some of us would even pretend to be "potong kia" (circumcised kid) and sneak over to get a bite of the delicious curries and such. Our NCOs were always on the lookout for such 'instant' Muslims.

I was never one to complain about food in general, thinking it's better to have the necessary calories than not. Besides, our meals were often accompanied by that jar of yellow sweet plum sauce on the table that made everything taste better! Thank goodness for those little scoops of golden salvation!

During Recruit Evening, I remember my platoon's PC acting like some bigshot. (It's true. A full-Lieutenant was like king in Recruit Camp. In OCS, a full-Lieutenant would be just a shoe-shine boy; nobody gave a damn! Throw a stone up in OCS and it would most likely land on a Captain or Major. In terms of rank, a 'full-Left' was just a tiny bit of bi-sai (boogers)!)

Our farewell evening function was conducted in camp - in a large theatre-like hall with a stage at one end.

That Evening's program was punctuated by singing on stage and sketches put up by the various platoons. The highlight of the program was that all important 'Miss Recruit' beauty pageant. A beauty pageant? Where come the ladies?

Well, we learnt that the pageant was a sort of tradition. The participants were all us recruit guys dolled up as sexy contestants for the occasion.

This kind of thing always makes me go "Hmm". I wondered why we couldn't have something creative instead, like performing a play based on something famous or well known. But no. We MUST have the beauty pageant, our NCOs told us. I think it was their one final not-so-secret prank on us. A final joke on us before they kiss our asses goodbye forever.

I don't think I would miss any of them NCOs aside from commando Corporal Raja who left us early for another posting. We hated one fair Chinese guy in specs. He had a plump face but was very cold in the heart. Of all the NCOs, he was the cruelest because he treated us like dirt. None of us could talk to him. For him, he was the emperor and we were his nobodies.

He was literally the one guy we would beat up if we met him outside, why I guess he never booked out of camp alone. That was how bad he was. Even our strict platoon sergeant had his redeeming ways.

That evening, sitting outside the barrack bunk and eating biscuits with my partner in crime Kum Fatt, I wondered about my BMT stint.

A sweet moment was when my eldest sister visited me during Visitation Day after the mandatory two-week confinement period.. She bought me a radio, one that could receive TV channels. I think she thought I could listen in on those HK serials that was popular on TV at the time.

But I don't think any of us missed home. Our batch was enlisted straight after our A-level exams. The reporting date was usually the 21st of December. So our three weeks of confinement was interrupted by the soon-to-come Christmas and New Year public holidays; we all got to go home. So that compulsory three-week confinement was mostly in name only.

But I loved that radio that my eldest sister bought. It kept me and buddies company in the bunk when civilian life seemed so remote, and in the past tense. I still have that radio in my collection of NS memorabilia. It still works!

Kum Fatt and I got along because we were both Cantonese and importantly, outgoing types. There were a few others in our clique too, all good guys. Another clique in the platoon sought to find trouble. It was led by a guy called Tuck Foo, who liked to always be the center of attention. He would pick on me or Kum Fatt. Kum Fatt less so because he was tall and big sized. I was skinny and a bit more introspective. Or maybe he just didn't like my face. Anyways, we almost came to blows on time. But it was one of his guys who came forth to be peacemaker. His name was Kwong, whose family owned a photo studio in Geylang, near the lorong where I grew up. We thus had some connection and as we spoke more, he came to realise that we weren't so much the threat as Tuck Foo was sensitive.

In any case, the altercation did not get worse and was soon forgotten. I would later meet Tuck Foo in OCS and was supposed to fight him in a boxing match. Unfortunately he was disqualified because he wore specs. I went on to be champion in my weight division.

Lucky him.

But that's the thing. BMT threw together very different people going through some very arduous training, mostly for the very first time. Some folks would crack, cause trouble, over worry, make the best of it, etc.

My only regret from that time was not knowing more folks intimately, make more friends.

But that is the nature of BMT or our sort of BMT. We had a hell of a torturous time and was glad for it to be finally over. For those of us going to OCS, it was another big question mark. Would it be a case of "out of the fire and into the cauldron"? Can we make it? Can I make it?

I had made my choice and decided to face it head on. So, goodbye ITD, hello OCS at Pasir Laba Camp!

Next story: Fatigue Milestones
Previous story: On Leadership

Mad Dog Wee

When training soldiers, there is a fine line between training them for toughness and training them for fitness. If you want them to be tough, there are the Ranger or Pathfinder courses. A ranger or pathfinder can survive any combat situation, especially if left stranded in enemy territory or that area between two hostile forces called the No Man's Land (aka DMZ or demilitarized zone). Rambo in that First Blood movie was a Ranger.

If you want to train a soldier to be fit, send him to PTI school where  physical training instructors are educated and trained.

Our dear Mad Dog platoon commander seemed to have the two confused, or mixed up more likely, why we of Platoon 17 were needlessly pushed beyond our limits. We found out his intention later, when he told us his objective was to prepare ALL OF US for OCS (Officer Cadet School). The thing is, not everyone was of officer material.

Mad Dog and his corporals and sergeant conspired to tweak our BMT training in such a manner that we were both mentally and physically stretched. We knew because recruits in various companies tended to compare notes, especially between ex-JC mates. The other companies/platoons did the bare minimum. The reason was that the SAF was trying to change. They wanted to be a kinder, gentler NS provider, more attuned to the needs of its men. Perhaps complaints from parents of my brother's tough-going cohort had finally gotten through to the authorities. Or perhaps the incidence of in-camp suicides was starting to mount. In any case, my batch of recruits was to be treated with kid gloves. But apparently our Mad Dog PC did not get the memo.

He made us run farther, did more calisthenics and had prolonged sessions of combat training. We had less time than the rest for lunch in the cookhouse even. We endured old-style military harassment that by right, should have been outlawed. One of these involved carting a metal cupboard from our barracks to the centre of the parade square all because there was some imaginary dirt inside.

Physical abuse was inflicted upon us through making us leopard crawl (crawling on our bellies) in our PT attire across an entire field. He didn't care that the field was filled with mimosa or were bare in patches. We ended up with bleeding at the knees and elbows.

He made us fireman-lift our buddies (i.e. across the shoulders) round that long and circuitous camp road. Many collapsed before they could reach the final stretch - a 30-degree slope - that made finishing the course even more improbable. A fellow recruit's back problem was aggravated because of this. But Mad Dog did not care. He simply assumed the worst of him, that he was "keng-ing", i.e. pretending to be sick.

We checked with our friends in the other companies. NONE of them did what we did.

On other occasions, we were harassed whilst doing the standard obstacle course or SOC. We had to repeat and repeat the whole thing if someone failed to do one obstacle satisfactorily - from the low wall all the way to the barbed wire jump. On many occasions, we returned to the SOC in slacks and tee. Maybe Mad Dog's intention was to have all of us ace the course. But were we really that slow?

At other times, when we were at one of the firing ranges at Pasir Lebar SAFTI camp, he would take us on a run to Peng Kang Hill, which was famous as a locale for making grown men cry. It's a steep hill with a bald patch strewn with gravel. Already slippery and difficult to run up in PT attire, the slope was doubly, if not tripley difficult when in full battle order. Because many soldiers slipped and injured themselves (and sadistic platoon commanders liked to punish their men on it), Peng Kang Hill was actually banned for such exercises. But Mad Dog did not care. I can understand the tourism and nostalgic value of the Hill, but to make us do it more than once was just being mean.

I am all for tough training, but there has to be a reason for it. And it is no substitute for building up fitness. When you train a soldier to be tough, it is more a psychological thing. And not all of us got into BMT on the same level of fitness; the same can be said for psychological toughness.

On other occasions, Mad Dog's actions were retributive. When something was not up to par, he would prolong the exercise. It came often during combat training (see previous blog). It also often happened just before lunch time. Mad Dog, in his tantrum, would forbid us to spend more than 10 minutes in the cookhouse.  With just 10 minutes to collect your tray, queue up, get food, eat, wash your tray, return it to the rack, we often had to gobble it all down. And he would station his corporals along the way to make sure none of us skipped the meal.

I think denying an NS man his meal is one of the worst thing an officer can do. If you ask your men to give their all during training, at least have the courtesy to let them enjoy a meal and fill their stomachs. ITD was not a concentration camp.

Yet on other occasions, our platoon sergeant would order us to descend from our barracks in the middle of the night (while we were sleeping) to lay out items from our fullpacks in the parade square. If it was unsatisfactory, we would have to pack up, unpack the items on our beds, repack on command again and run down to the parade square again.

Up to this point, you might think I am a complaining soldier. But the thing is, none of the other platoons in ITD at the time had to go through such harassment. 

The reason Mad Dog gave us was that he wanted us all to be fit for OCS. If BMT was this bad, think how bad OCS must be. That's how some of my fellow recruits thought. 

When OCS officers finally came round to conduct their assessment exercises to determine who was suitable for officer training, many of my mates opted out, even those I thought would make stellar officers. For them, NS was just a two-year thing, why push so hard or subject yourself to such cruel and unusual punishment?

My own drive was to become a better officer than Mad Dog and those who had no respect for their fellow men. NS training was essential. It's officers like Mad Dog who give it a bad name. There was another officer in Echo company (a short fella) who also gave SAF officers a bad name. He was worst than Mad Dog because he came across as amoral. At least Mad Dog was driven by his OCS goal. This other officer took perverse pleasure in "tekkaning" some of the recruits.

If such a person could be an officer, I thought I could definitely be a better one. So I set my sights on being an officer and tried my best during the assessment trials.

In the end, what Mad Dog set out to do, it all backfired on him. One by one, my recruit mates told the OCS recruiters, "No, we do not want to take part in these trials." Mad Dog was left flummoxed. In fact, he held a meeting to find out why and to persuade some of them to change their minds. None of them did. It would reflect badly on his record.

Basically, Mad Dog forgot the most rudimentary principle of military leadership: Men must want to follow you to their death. With Mad Dog, we wouldn't mind "blanket partying" him instead. He could go and be "saio on" all he wanted on his own. I think we could have trained ourselves better. My personal motto has always been: Be a good soldier, but be an even better comrade.

There was one occasion when Mad Dog Wee showed his good side. The final IPPT (the standard army fitness test) was on the next day. I could ace all my other stations that involved shutter run, chin-ups, sit-ups and standing broad jump. But when it came to running, I was always just short of the gold standard (which few could do). The next morning, when he saw me in those China-man black shoes issued by the Army, he asked if I had not a better pair of running shoes. I said no. Actually the reason was that I was into badminton all my life and did all my running/training in badminton shoes. Mad Dog then asked me for my shoe size and told me to wait. He mumbled something about me not being able to do well in those shoes and off he went. Five, ten minutes later, he was back holding a pair of jogging shoes. Use these, he said. I tried them on. They fitted.

That day, I ran a different test race. My strides were longer and my feet did not feel as hot. The China-man shoes were notorious for their lack of cushioning and arch support. We often joked it was a shoe for amahs than foot soldiers. And they made a "plop-plop" sound each time we ran.

Mad Dog was naturally there with his stopwatch at the finish line. He was beaming with satisfaction. I had achieved gold in just the nick of time. I took off the shoes and handed them back to him. I said my grateful thanks.

Mad Dog just pulled his mouth into that wicked grin of his. I could not tell if he was happy for me or with himself. With Mad Dog, one never knew. His eyes were single-lidded, half-closed giving him a poker-faced look. They never really opened up even when he laughed, which always sounded like a sneer. It would seem that everything was a private joke with him.

Mad Dog's methods might have been extreme, but when we arrived at OCS, those of us from his platoon found the training a breeze. We could "switch off" even. And it did not come as a surprise that one of us emerged as the best cadet for Physical Fitness. It was not me, but Ling, a skinny guy with a congenital little beer belly. Till this day, he wonders why I gave up my BCPF contest slot to him. I have had enough of exercise machismo... no thanks to Mad Dog Wee.

Related stories: Tough Cadet Training and A Platoon of Characters
Next story: Pool of Courage

Becoming a Nobody

The day finally arrived for me to report to CMPB (central manpower base at Dempsey Road) for pick up to start my National Service. The night before was spent deciding what to pack. My brother - who went through it before - had advice to offer. "Just bring the essentials. You won't have time for anything else," said he. That was rather spartan but true. In the end, I actually did just bring the bare essentials: a cup, toothbrush, towel, bath soap and washing powder (with brush). My brother also said there was no need for shampoo. "You are going to be botak for a while." My mom she was more concerned and made me bring along medicine for diarrhea (as well as Axe brand oil for headaches. She also threw in Anthisan cream (for mosquito bites) for good measure. A week ago, she had also asked her medium friend to give me a "fu" or protection amulet - a piece of yellow paper printed with Taoist symbols and blessed with a red-ink chop. It was then folded into a small triangular shape. She also gave me a token bit of a duck's bill (flat and dark brown) that was supposed to be a symbol of tenacity. I took both the fu and bill and kept them pressed in my wallet. I was never the superstitious sort but did not wish to be disrespectful for her blessings. And I've always humored my mom like that over the years.

For clothes, a pair of sportive shorts and tee; a set of formal clothes for booking out; and of course, plenty of used underwear (faded but still good for the family jewels. But as I found out later, it is difficult to fight a war in loose underwear!) My brother said good underwear was often stolen from the clothes lines, so it was better to leave them at home. He also advised me to bring along lots of rags (to clean out dust and dirt from the bunks and cabinets and for de-oiling rifles). It turned out to be the best advice of all.

I also brought along a favourite white sports jacket (with blue trim and woolen cuffs) in case the weather turned cold. It was bought from Katong Shopping Centre while I was dating a girl from that area. This garment would accompany me throughout my NS journey including my maiden training trip to Henchun (Taiwan) later.

My mom is not a person given to histrionics on farewell occasions. She looks upon farewells as temporary - a chance to say hello again, so my going to NS, though notable, was essentially a non-event. Her attitude has always been: If something needs doing, just get it done. She is efficient and practical like that. And as I was often the family's errand boy who always somehow manages to get things done and return home in one piece, that gave her confidence. I think my mom worried more for my brother during his NS time. He was after all the elder son.

In any case she did assure me that "leong lin pun wui ho fai chow kor" (two and a half years will pass very quickly). Deep down, I knew she worried like the rest of the moms there that morning, but I was also trying to put on a brave face so as not let her worry. I ended up looking nonchalant. My mom's final parting advice was to stay away from those who smoked or took drugs. That's her standard riff during that time. After all, the 70s and early 80s eras encouraged those habits! So I gave her the standard "Hai ler, chi toh ler" (Yeah, I know already), took my bag, climbed onto the back of a three-tonner, waved goodbye and was soon part of a convoy out of CMPB on my way to somewhere. No tears, no wayang. It was 7+am in the morning. The sun was shining and the weather seemed to be in a good mood for the rest of the day.

The army trucks took us to a supply depot in Choa Chu Kang where we got our hair cut and later given our NS wardrobe of uniforms, caps, PT shorts, green socks and shoes - all still in their clear plastic bags. The PT (physical training) shoes were the China-man type: black and green soled - more popular with Boat Quay coolies and trishaw riders than say, top performing soldiers! It would take the SAF some 10-12 years later to switch to Dunlop joggers (or some house brand). We would later get our SBO (skeletal battle order or what the army fellas call a "soldier bra organiser"), backpacks, water bottle, mess tins, toggle rope, etc. from our respective BMT camps.

Our hair was cut in an empty room that had a barber, his wall mirror and stool. We queued, got sheared by an electric shaver and out we went the other way. No one (at least in my queue) made a big fuss. We actually found it quite amusing. Most of us simply rubbed our new "durian heads" and snickered. Actually "durian head" is quite an apt term because a freshly crew-cut head is somewhat green in colour. Somebody I recognised remarked how much I looked like a monk. I know. Fortune tellers have been telling my mom that since I was young.

When we arrived at our BMT camp, we spilled out from the trucks and found ourselves in a huge parade square. All around were three-storey high colonial buildings. Our names were called and we moved to the company and platoon that we had been administrated to. I was secretly hoping to see more of my pre-U classmates in my platoon but the persons I watched were heading somewhere else. I myself was assigned to Platoon 17, Echo Company. 'Echo' I would later learn, was the letter E in military code-speak. Altogether, there were seven companies in my cohort, Company H (Hotel, which turned out to be quite apt) being the last. No one knew what to expect: if their platoon commander or NCOs (i.e. the corporals and sergeants) were nice or the unreasonable sorts. I would later find out that Echo Company was the toughest of them all, with my platoon commander being the chief "siao kow" or Mad Dog.

When we next turned out in our PT kit (blue shorts, green mesh-like tee, woolen socks and black shoes) we knew "civi life" as we knew it then was now in the past. Instead of being nicely spoken to, we would be shouted at; instead of being asked for cooperation, we would be made to run and jump at will or do inexplicable things like cart your metal cupboard three stories down to the parade square in double quick time. We essentially became nobodies and, that was precisely what our platoon sergeant told us in no uncertain terms that very first day. "Recruits, do you know why you are called recruits?" he'd asked in his Chinese-accented English. He was a fit, shortish fella with straight hair and who was surprisingly fair and smooth complexioned. In that aspect, he was quite the "gu niang". But as he was a sergeant (going by that Combat! TV character stereotype) he should be quite the troop leader and also gung-ho! Sergeants are supposed to be tough like that.

"Recruits, do you know why you are called recruits?" he asked again.

We looked at one another, uncertain if to answer or not. In my head I knew we weren't recruited but sent there by law. The first rule of BMT training - my brother had warned me - is not to be "garang"  and stand out too much. And more than that no one likes a smart-aleck, so I kept quiet.

The sergeant continued, immaculate and smart in his crisp No. 3 uniform and looking very much the parade commander with his pace stick tucked under an arm. "You are called recruits because you have no rank. You are nobodies. Even a private is higher ranked than you!" That I found to be disconcertingly true. Imagine being ordered around by a neanderthal low-life of a private soldier.

"From today onwards, when we ask you to jump, you jump. When we ask you to Drop 20, you Drop 20. Is that clear!" A nervous lone somebody shouted "Yes, sir!" and afterwards looked sheepish. A few guys found that funny and snickered.

"And one more thing. You will not call me sir, I am not an officer. I am Sgt Wong. IS THAT CLEAR!"

"YES, SIR! SGT WONG SIR." Clearly, we needed time to get that right.

A corporal standing by the side drawled, "Sgt Wong, lah. Not sir...."

"I SAY AGAIN, IS THAT CLEAR!" Sgt Wong bellowed one more time, face showing red. We did our best to shout back "Yes, Sgt Wong!".  But Sgt Wong would have none of it. He teased us in a low voice instead. "I can't heeear you...."  It took another three YES, SGT WONG! before he was satisfied. So, life as a recruit was going to be like that.

I looked to my right and found a kindred soul; he seemed to be thinking the same thing. We later spoke. His name was Kwong and he, like me, was a troop commander of a uniform group during junior college time (we both were from CJC). But he was in the NCC uniform group though.

Before we were dismissed, Sgt Wong introduced us to our respective section corporals. Present were two of them. Apparently a third would join us later. He turned out to be Cpl Raja: a square-jawish Indian with a head too big for his small, sinewy frame. He wore a red beret which sent out alarm signals. Uh-oh, don't commandos wear red berets? My life as a fresh recruit at that instant took another ominous turn. First, we became nobodies; then we got a commando as a section head. My life in BMT seemed to have gotten off on the hard track! Am I going to have as tough a time in NS as my brother did? Maybe worse! I wasn't far wrong.