by Neryl Joyce
I returned to my platoon and packed up all my kit. The chit had sealed my fate: I was sent to Digger James. I hugged and kissed my friends goodbye and headed over to Reject Platoon. I sat there for the rest of the day, wallowing in self-pity, polishing my boots and ironing my uniforms.
The next day moved just as slowly. I stayed in my room making everything perfect. I couldn’t control my foot, but I could certainly control how my uniform looked and how clean my room was. After lunch, I was called to attention by surprise and told that I had been given special approval to attempt the 4-kilometre run, but that it would be my final chance. If I passed, I would be allowed to return to my original platoon and complete the final stage of training. If I failed, I’d be watching my friends march out of Kapooka from the spectator stands before going back to my spotlessly clean, but very lonely, room.
One of the Digger James staff members came over to say that she’d run with me. She was adamant she’d get me over the line in time, no matter what. She was going to keep to a schedule and get me to points along the course by certain times. I was taken aback by her generosity, and a little jolt went up my spine. My foot was feeling rested and not at all sore; I had someone to motivate me along the way; and there was a strong incentive to pass: I was ready for this.
The physical training instructor (PTI) pulled out his timer as I lined up at the start of the course. Ready. Set. Go! I was off. The first part of the run was downhill, so I put on some pace. My motivator stayed close. One kilometre down. “Keep it going. You’re ahead of time,” she panted. The road flattened out and I made it to the halfway point. Two kilometres. “You’re doing good. Turn around and go back. Don’t slow down,” she said. I turned at the halfway point and started to head back for the final leg.
Three kilometres. “You’re almost there. You’re still ahead of time. Push hard and lean into the hill.” Running down the hill at the start of the test had been great for pushing ahead of time, but to finish the run by going up it sucked severely. “Shit. I’ve stuffed up: you’re about twelve seconds behind. Pick up the pace, Joycee. You’re not going to make it if you don’t.” It was like a punch to the guts, but I steeled myself. I had to make it. So I ran as though my life depended on it. I could see the finish line in the distance.
My lungs were killing me. My legs felt like lead. I was going to explode. I could feel myself slowing down. Five hundred metres to go. All of sudden I heard yelling and screaming: my platoon was cheering me on. They were training at the nearby obstacle course when they saw me make the turn at halfway. Harty had allowed them to come over and show me some support. “Go, Joycee, go!” they shouted out at me. They screamed out words of encouragement as I raced past them. I felt an incredible force from within, pushing me towards the finish line. I didn’t want to let them down by failing. I didn’t want to let myself down by failing. I was breathing so hard that strange sucking noises started coming from my throat. And then I sprinted over the line.
The girls jumped on top of me as I gasped deeply for air. I was ecstatic that they’d come over to cheer me on, but I still didn’t know if I had passed the test. I needed to have finished the run in less than twenty-one minutes. Everyone quietened down and turned to face the PTI. He looked at us all intently, savouring his time in the spotlight. He cleared his throat, then said: “Twenty mins and fifty-nine secs.” I’d done it! It wasn’t a pretty pass, but it was a pass nonetheless. Everyone cheered loudly, especially me. I’d achieved something that I was proud of. My mates had supported me and I would have done anything for them in thanks.
The girls were then whisked away to complete their obstacle course, while I returned to Digger James to pack up my gear. I turned and began hobbling away. My foot was throbbing now and my ankle had blown out to twice its usual size. I knew it would be okay, though. I just needed to put some ice on it. I didn’t even feel the pain by the time I returned to my platoon. The girls congratulated me on my ‘Chariots of Fire’ finish, and hugged me as I walked in the door.
I learnt an important lesson through all the difficulties I faced with my fitness: never give up. Never give in when things start getting tough. Don’t take the easy way out. Nobody respects a quitter. If you can’t keep up, then keep going until you can catch up. That lesson has stayed with me ever since: if you quit, then you are a failure (and Harty will kick your arse for it!).
I was happy to be back with my platoon and among my friends again. There was a concert that night. Each platoon was to put on a performance, and the best act would win $100 for the group. Ours was the only female platoon at Kapooka at that time, and we decided to use our feminine wiles to win the cash. We would put on a fashion parade. On the catwalk, we first had girls dressed conservatively, a representation of how we were when we commenced training. Next, some girls came out dressed a little more daringly, representing the mid point of training. Finally, the really brave girls dressed scantily in bikinis, underwear and night attire: a representation of our confidence levels at the final stage of training. The guys in the audience went crazy at this point. There was never any doubt that we would win the money!
Our act was talked about for days until a rumour started circulating. A guy from another platoon had attempted suicide. He had decided that he didn’t want to be in the army anymore, but he was not permitted to leave. It is extremely difficult for a recruit to leave during army training. They won’t let you out unless you have a really good reason, and most times you have to be psychologically assessed first. This particular recruit had been discovered slumped over his desk with his wrists slit. We had all heard about people deliberately hurting themselves during PT or even going as far as drinking Brasso cleaning fluid to get out of the army, but this was quite different and very confronting. What made this story even more shocking was that I knew the man: it was the redhead from the enlistment ceremony.
I felt pity for him, but suicide is a loser’s way out. There’s no thought or regard given to the family and friends left behind. Things can really suck at times, but why would you want to give in? Dig your way out! If you need help, then ask for it. The guy was removed from training and he never returned to his platoon.
The final test before graduation was almost upon us. The ‘final fling’ was to be the culmination of all our training. It was a three-day field exercise that would test all facets of our military training. The exercise would conclude on the third day with the completion of ‘the challenge’, which comprised a 15-kilometre forced march, a stretcher carry, an obstacle course, a section attack, a river crossing and the bayonet assault course. It was going to be tough.
As I was in one section, our group would be the first to leave on the challenge. The second, third and fourth sections would leave at ten-minute intervals after us. Harty told me that, if I couldn’t keep up with my section, I could drop back and finish it with two section. If I couldn’t keep up with them, I could fall back to three section. But if I couldn’t finish with four section, then I would fail. I had no intention of falling back at all. I was going to start with my section and finish with them.
I knew my fitness was crap when compared to the other girls’, but that was only really evident during running PT sessions. During forced marches, where we marched at a fast pace, I could sort of get by. I knew the girls with shorter legs would struggle during the march, so there was a chance I would be able to keep up. As for the stretcher carry and other military fitness exercises, I was just as strong as the other girls. So I just had to focus on keeping up with the group during the forced march – all 15 kilometres of it.
Meanwhile, the seccos were secretly placing bets on who would pass the challenge and who would give up. Rush Var overhead them talking about it, and came back to report what she’d heard. The seccos had bet that Putt Putt wouldn’t make it: she had “short legs” and tended to “psyche herself into failing before she’d even started”. Another ‘fitness-challenged’ girl, Libby, was also pitted to fail, as they thought she “lacked guts” and wo
uld give up easily. Then the seccos discussed how they thought I would go.
They could not decide on the outcome. Two of the seccos thought my fitness would let me down, but the other two reckoned my determination would get me over the line. They had been debating it for a little while when finally Harty put her money where her mouth was. She bet that I would make it. I knew inside that she was right: I could make it and I knew there was no way in hell I was going to give up. This was my big chance to prove it to myself and everyone else.
It was five in the morning and I was freezing my butt off. I scoffed down a breakfast bar from my field rations and crammed all my sleeping gear into my pack. We’d been out in the field for two and a half days, practising and being assessed on our military skills. It was now time to begin the challenge. My adrenaline was pumping and I was eager to get going. The quicker we started, the quicker we’d finish.
We all dumped our packs in the truck, but kept our webbing, which carried ammunition, food and water, and our weapons for fighting the enemy. We lined up with me at the front. The weakest person was always put at the front so that they could set the pace. We took off, walking the first 5 kilometres in the dark. They were easy. I had no problems keeping a good pace. As I watched the sun rise, I realised I was actually enjoying myself.
At the 7-kilometre mark, things were still going okay. I’d made it through the stretcher carry leg, and still had enough energy to keep going. It was at this point they changed the pace setters. I was told to go to the back; the extremely fit and long-legged Rush Var would now set the pace. I started to falter but kept in there. I saw other girls beginning to struggle as well. For some reason this made me feel good – not because they were suffering but because I could see that I was not the only one hurting. We were all in this together. The realisation gave me the strength to keep going.
Then the bitching started. I was used to struggling during fitness training – it had been the story of my life during recruit training – but this was not so for the other girls. I could hear them from within the ranks, muttering and cursing Rush Var for going so fast. They even told her to slow down (without the section commander hearing), but she wouldn’t decrease her pace. I guess she didn’t want to get in trouble. Putt Putt couldn’t keep up and eventually dropped behind. We were told to leave her: the other section would catch up to her, and she’d finish the challenge with them.
Ten kilometres. We were nearing the finish. We completed the section attack drills and then went on to do the obstacle course. I was really hurting by now. We made our way over a small but steep mountain and the pace didn’t seem to lessen. My legs felt like jelly and my foot was aching. I pushed through the pain: we were almost finished. There was just the river crossing and bayonet assault course to go, then a short walk to the finish. The river water was cool and refreshing. I welcomed the relief. Getting onto the bank was quite tricky. I slipped in the mud three times trying to get out of that God-dammed river.
Next was the bayonet assault course. This was going to be the hardest moment of the whole challenge. I was physically exhausted and soaking wet. I had to muster all my anger and energy to propel myself along this course. Without them, I would not make it. It was wet and muddy and there was coloured smoke everywhere as simulated battlefield explosions went off around me. I gathered myself for the final assault.
“Arghhhh, die!” I yelled as I pushed my bayonet into the target, a rectangular hay bale with a corflute picture of the enemy attached to it. I ran towards the next target and plunged my knife deep into it. Everything became a blur: the yelling, the screaming, the explosions. I leopard-crawled my way through the mud, jumped over the wire obstacles and stabbed all the targets I came into contact with. Finally, I caught up to the rest of the section. Excited and happy, we were all stepping up the pace now. We rolled across the finish line as a team.
We waited for the other three sections to come in. I hoped that everyone had made it, but it was not to be. Putt Putt had started hyperventilating around the 10-kilometre mark and had to be taken to the med centre. Libby hadn’t even reached the 3-kilometre mark. I couldn’t understand why. I was the platoon’s slowest runner and the weakest in terms of cardio fitness. If I could make it, then surely everyone could. I guess it came down to whether you psyched yourself up, or psyched yourself out.
With that, recruit training was over. I’d passed everything and would graduate in a week’s time. The hardest part of my army life was done; everything would be downhill from now on. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Recruit training was a cakewalk compared to what I would eventually have to deal with, although it did help to prepare me for some tough obstacles I would face later in life.
WE HAD BEEN MARCHING all week, practising our drill movements until everyone had a ‘Kapooka smile’ burnt onto their faces. The Kapooka smile was the result of standing in the hot sun all day, every day in our wide-brimmed slouch hats. The hats protected most of the face but somehow the chinstrap area would always be exposed, leaving a suntan mark that stretched across both cheeks. I was proud of my Kapooka smile, as were the other girls. It signified that we were almost bona fide soldiers.
Drill week had been long and exhausting. During the day we practised formations, weapon drill, marching in time and standing still for long periods of time. Of an evening, we would busily prepare our uniforms. Our brass belt buckles had to sparkle, our boots had to be polished until you could see your reflection in them, and our uniforms had to be starched and ironed to perfection. The girls were thrilled at the thought of soon seeing their families who would be coming to watch them officially graduate and march out of Kapooka. I was excited about finishing too, but the parade was just a formality for me. My family wouldn’t be there. While I’d been in training, my parents had moved to Cairns. It was just too far away for them to come.
Graduation day arrived. There was anticipation in the air. We dressed carefully and inspected each other for faults. We had to be particular about our appearance and ensure our mates were also immaculately presented. We filed through the armoury to get our weapons, then lined up in three ranks to await inspection. Harty picked over my uniform one last time. I had to be perfect. We all had to be perfect. We were Australia’s newest soldiers.
Satisfied that we were up to scratch, Harty took command and marched us down to the parade ground. The spectator stands were full. It wasn’t just our female platoon marching out today; there were also four male platoons. I was excited and happy to be leaving. I knew that I had achieved something great. Physical fitness was my biggest challenge, but I had overcome my weaknesses and passed. I knew I deserved this day, although I was a little disappointed not to be able to share it with my family.
It was about 28 degrees Celsius on the day of our graduation in April that year, but on the hot bitumen parade ground, it felt about 40 degrees. During the ceremony everyone was sweating profusely. The girl standing next to me, Smithy, leant over and whispered, “Joycee, I think I am going to pass out.” Oh, no, I thought. We weren’t even halfway through the parade. We still had to stand at attention for some time yet; there were many more speeches to listen to. I had to keep Smithy on her feet. There are not many things that are more embarrassing for a soldier than passing out on parade, especially when it’s your own graduation.
Smithy started to sway. “Wriggle your toes and take deep breaths,” I whispered to her. It was the standard thing to say, but I hoped it would keep her upright. For the rest of the parade I did my best ventriloquist act. I didn’t want to be obvious about talking on parade (a big no-no), but there was no way I was going to let her fall. After all the moral support and encouragement my mates had given me during those harsh physical training sessions, the least I could do was to stop Smithy from fainting on parade. I whispered all kinds of stuff to her. I tried to keep her focused on what I was saying, quite a feat when you can’t move your lips.
Smithy made it through all the speeches and got her composure back once we started mar
ching around the parade ground one final time. At the end of the ceremony, we headed over to the boozer for a barbecue and drinks with the families. A few of us congregated at a small table to down Southern Comforts and Coke. We were the orphans, the ones with no family or friends present. We consoled each other over numerous drinks and shared horror stories about our time as recruits.
Smithy came over later that day and bought me a drink. She thanked me several times for talking to her on parade and stopping her from fainting. She then told me that her mother wanted to know why the girl standing next to her daughter had talked the whole way through the parade. I guess I was no ventriloquist after all!
The rest of the day was a haze. I went to bed early that night. I had packed up all my kit and was ready to leave the next day for my next lot of army training: I’d be attending a dental assistant course. I’d be the only one from my platoon; the rest were going off to be army medics, truckies and clerks. I don’t know how I ended up choosing that course. Who joins the army to be a dental assistant? I wanted to do all the cool stuff I’d seen soldiers do in action movies, but was instead destined to suck the slag out of people’s mouths.
The next morning I walked outside my building to where four buses were lined up. They’d be taking all the newly promoted privates to the sites of their initial employment training: technical schools in Puckapunyal and Portsea in Victoria. I waved goodbye to my friends and watched the buses until they disappeared around the corner. It was hard watching everyone leave.