Touched by his authenticity, two other recruits and I applied for corps transfers that evening. If the army thing didn’t work out, I wanted a safety net to land in. Once you were in the army system proper, changing jobs was tantamount to a tiger changing stripes, so I got in early. I chose the Medical Corps, inspired by my belligerent but highly admirable section commander, without putting too much thought into the decision. The ideology of helping people appealed to me but, on the whole, this was another one of my snap decisions. So I ended up leaving boot camp as a medic prospect – I’d have all the fun and adventure of an infantry soldier, but also earn some qualifications for later civilian life.
Far removed from the boot-camp stories of old, my 2002 basic training was a piece of piss. The instructors technically weren’t even allowed to swear at recruits anymore, or force them to do something they didn’t like; my ancient grandma could’ve beaten half the recruits’ PT scores. Overall, I have to say that the whole experience was about as much fun as being ass raped by a big dicked donkey an invaluable exercise that no doubt saved my life on numerous occasions during my later deployment to Afghanistan.
After a two-week period of intense weaponry-based awesomeness known as Singleton (the school of infantry), the paperwork for my corps transfer was processed by the Green Machine and came into effect in April 2002. I was a little bummed out over the timing of my successful corps transfer; I’d already started my infantry training and really wanted to finish the course. But a short-notice spot had opened up on a Basic Medic course, so I had to cut the infantry training short and relocate to Latchford Barracks near Albury/Wodonga to learn the skills of a Baby Medic. Over the ensuing nine months, I learnt first aid, anatomy and physiology, pathology, drug administration, cardiac protocols, venipuncture and intravenous cannulation.
My Baby Medic course was a melting pot of interesting characters, consisting of both army and air-force personnel. I was taught very early on at boot camp to choose a more senior soldier as a role model and emulate their behaviour in a bid to become the type of soldier that I aspired to be. My choice on this course was easy. Dan was about ten years older than me and had a wealth of operational experience under his belt. He was roughly my height and build, he loved sports and steaks, and was one of the most likeable blokes I’d ever met. Some people even said that Dan and I looked alike, except that I suffered the Ledgard bum-chin curse and had massive wing-nut ears. Dan had controlled aggression with a balanced sense of empathy that typified the person I wanted to be when I finally grew up, so we quickly became good mates.
We had a weekly ritual where we’d drive into town with our gang and have a T-bone steak and a few beers before heading back to the grind of army student life. Drinking piss by the Murray River was our favourite pastime, but the laid-back atmosphere was always marred by the stress of an imminent weekly exam or practical test demanded by the Baby Medic program. So much for my ‘sick of learning’ philosophy.
Having graduated from the lowly rank of recruit at boot camp, my formal title during Baby Medic school was Private Ledgard, which sounded a bit too much like a discreet protective undergarment. So, in the larrikin spirit of brevity that only Australians can possibly understand, my buddies bestowed a new nickname on me and I became known as ‘Leggy’.
NICKNAMES
The uniquely Australian thirst for brevity is a time-honoured phenomenon that lies at the very heart of our national heritage. Unlike British rhyming slang, which involves perhaps one or two layers of abstraction, the Australian abbreviated nickname has sheer simplicity and laziness at its core.
This is how my nickname of ‘Leggy’ came to be. Think ‘Lead-guard’ spoken really quickly. Make the ‘d’ silent so it sounds like ‘Leggard’, and then make that word into the laziest single syllable that could possibly be formed, so you get ‘Leg’. Add the obligatory Australian suffix of ‘o’ or ‘y’ (which actually makes it longer, but who’s counting?), incorporate the reference that I’m a lanky fucker and you finally end up with my new nickname: Leggy.
Housed in dormitory-style accommodation for the duration of the course, I came to know all sorts of amazing and interesting people, none more so than the ‘re-treads’. Re-treads are soldiers who’ve transferred from other corps in the army to become medics, and most of them on my course had seen a bit of action in their time. I found the re-treads a little bit weird, a little off-colour – not in a sinister way but in a unique and fascinating sense. They didn’t seem to care about the military or societal traditions that consumed the headspace of the rest of us. They had perspective; they knew a little something about life that I didn’t.
WAR VETERANS
War veterans are unique and eccentric creatures. Their houses are adorned with obscure artefacts from their time on active service, and they tend to favour the smell of burning incense and wearing Thai shawls around the house over the smell of disinfectant and wearing tracksuit pants.
Veterans have usually encountered situations where the difference between life and death is measured in milliseconds and millimetres, so they understand how fragile the distinction can be. They have very little time for bullshit because they possess a hyper-developed sense of priority and perspective. If you ever feel like you’re having a bad day, talk to a war veteran. If they like you, they might open up and share a few war stories that are guaranteed to make you walk away feeling like simply being alive is better than winning Powerball.
I looked up to one of the older re-treads. He was a Cambodia veteran who experienced all sorts of shit during his war. He was a ridiculously cool cat who would habitually answer his dormitory door completely naked. (I’m guessing he did this for shock value or to discourage visitors.) I’d always draw the short straw to knock on his door.
‘What do you want, Leggy? I was just on the vinegar stroke,’ he’d joke (or maybe he was serious; fuck if I know, dude).
‘Shit, man,’ I’d utter, shielding my eyes. ‘Me and the lads are heading into town for a feed. You in?’
‘Um, righto. Just let me clean up in here – there’s DNA everywhere,’ he’d jest.
‘Make sure you wash your hands, bud,’ I’d say from the hallway, visibly shuddering.
Tony, one of the older re-treads who was married with kids, was in fine form – happy to be let off the leash, away from his family. ‘Hey, Clarkey!’ he bellowed.
No response.
‘Oi, Clarkey, give us a wave!’ Tony persevered, to no avail. ‘Clarkey, Clarkey, Clarkey, Clarkey, Clarkey . . . I can do this all day, mate!’ Tony nagged, channelling the most annoying red-headed stepchild of all time.
Clarkey yielded, and gave us a flippant, backhanded acknowledgement.
‘Whooo!’ the group cheered.
Michael Clarke, the future Australian Test cricket captain legend, was fielding on the southern boundary of the Sydney Cricket Ground. While many of the green, plastic hometown seats were empty, the ground had an electric buzz about it, due in no small part to the Barmy Army, whose presence more than made up for the lacklustre attendance.
We were close by to Clarkey, and the Barmy Army, sitting thirteen seats deep and watching an Australia A versus England cricket match from the sidelines during one of our Baby Medic clinical placements, in November 2002. Dressed in Santa hats and with a skinful of piss under our belts, we harassed the cricket ground without mercy. The Barmy Army, of course, could not abide being outdone in the drunken tomfoolery stakes, so our groups battled. Clearly more practised, the Barmy Army decimated our rag-tag band of drunkards with very clever and pointed chants.
Before long, we were back at the local pub, which the Barmy Army was known to frequent for post-match celebrations (or, in this case, commiserations). After walking into the bar to a frosty reception, we realised that we were outnumbered, out-practised and outmatched by the semi-pro Pom alcoholics. Never eager to admit defeat, we small group of Australians waged war against our drunkenly superior opposition. Our medical platoon leader, an adult by age b
ut child by spirit, stood atop a dinner table singing the Australian national anthem. Without warning, a Pom broke through our lines and pantsed the senior soldier. Not to worry. Standing on the slippery circular table, dacks around his ankles, tockley and balls on full display, our fearless leader didn’t drop a single bloody note. Twirling his cock around like a helicopter, he projected the national anthem with a gusto never before witnessed by anyone in the bar – he did Australia proud.
After the shock of the spectacle had worn off, the Barmy Army had a new-found respect for Aussie pride, and we soon found ourselves drunkenly exchanging ‘God Save the Queen’s and ‘Cheerio’s before retreating back to base – following a short stop at a Macca’s drive-through, of course.
The Baby Medic course clinical placements were a real eye-opener for the unassuming junior health-care professional. The training on the Baby Medic course was incredible but no substitute for dealing with the real thing. While ambulance ride-alongs were usually uneventful affairs, typified by ‘old loves’ and ‘old lads’ experiencing shortness of breath or minor heart troubles, a real gem of a job would crop up from time to time. On one particular sultry summer eve, my crew were called out to a high-priority ‘chest pain’ gig in the Dregsville outer suburbs of Dodgytown, Sydney. As we approached the scene, the dilapidated dwelling and towering pile of rubbish adorning the front porch sent a foreboding chill down my spine. I sensed that something was awry. So did my infinitely more experienced paramedic partners, who thrived on messing with a newbie’s head.
‘Hey, why don’t we let Terry take the lead on this one?’ the senior paramedic suggested to his partner, a sly grin creeping across his face.
‘Well, sure. He’s done a great job so far. I think he’s ready,’ replied the junior partner, trying her best to disguise her relief at no longer being the newbie.
‘What do you think, Terry? Are you keen to step up to the plate?’
Butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths.
I knew I was up for a serious paramedic-style hazing from these battle-hardened veterans. I tried to gather my bearings and calm my racing pulse as we made our way through the unlocked door, past the hard-drug paraphernalia on the coffee table and the century’s worth of dishes piled in and around the sink. The smell was biblical. I didn’t know what to expect, so I mentally prepared for anything from an ice-fuelled knife attack to a lifeless junkie corpse, but nothing could have equipped me for the scene that unfolded. A quick scan of the premises found the patient lying on his bed completely naked with just a tea towel covering his nether regions.
The first thing that struck me was the unnatural ashen-grey colour of his skin. This middle-aged bloke looked like death warmed up. The next thing I noticed was the sound of the snowy television at the end of the bed, closely followed by the mountains of gay-porn DVDs spread across the carpet. This bloke had suffered a mid-porn masturbatory heart attack! Summoning every ounce of professionalism that I could muster, I dutifully conducted my primary and secondary survey, ECG confirming that his heart was giving up on him at that very moment. After the long and very awkward transfer to hospital, we learnt that he’d died in the emergency room later that night. Whenever I’m struggling for motivation in the daily grind, I just remember this dude’s enduring life lesson: live every day like it’s your last; you don’t wanna die with blue balls and a sink full of dishes. Words to live by.
Far removed from the high-octane pressures of the paramedic world, clinical placements also saw us being rotated through nursing homes. For this, I was dressed from head to toe in military-mandated white garb (even down to the blindingly white shoes that you’d find lawn bowlers wearing on ABC television). During one graveyard shift, we were hastily ushered to a code-one emergency on the ward. One of the elderly dementia patients had soiled herself and, in a scene resembling a Jackson Pollock masterpiece, flung and finger-painted a shit-stain mural across the entire bedroom. Walls, floor, ceiling, adjacent rooms – you name it, it was smeared in shite. Trigonometry experts couldn’t explain the trajectory of this splatter. I spent the next hour or so cursing the genius who thought a white uniform would be a good idea for this job as I scrubbed away all traces of the elderly artist’s latest creation. She was a very nice lady, though, so I cleaned the mess with a smile on my face.
Over the course of the month-long clinical placement, I learnt that nursing homes are a Real World school in the art of paradox, and dementia patients are the teachers. But the very first aged-care patient I ever treated was the goddam headmistress. As I strolled down the sterilised corridor of the nursing home for the first time, brimming with naive confidence, I happened across this sweet old white-haired lady in a wheelchair. Her creased face was a picture of nirvana – she sported wrinkles next to her eyes that suggested she’d enjoyed a life of happiness and laughter. I approached the angelic old duck.
Anyone would be proud to call this saintly sweetheart Grandma.
But, as I drew closer, her demeanour sharply changed.
‘Fuck off, you tuck-hole. I’ll tell my dad and he’ll give you a good whut-fur!’ screeched the sweet old lady suddenly turned demon.
I reflexively reeled backwards, caught unawares by the volume and pitch of the old lady’s shriek. After the shock subsided, two things kept me on edge. First, I wasn’t entirely sure what a tuck-hole was, but I was certain it couldn’t be good. Second, this old broad was pushing ninety-five years old and, while I was confident she couldn’t back up the claims that her dad would fuck me up, inciting a paranormal vendetta was extremely low on my list of priorities. So I got the hell out of Dodge.
Over the next week, the nurses told me that the ancient angelic demon was suffering from dementia and was trapped in a mental space where she thought she was still a schoolgirl. Like everyone else, I grew a thick skin to her outbursts of Tourette’s that exploded between feeding her mouthfuls of puréed pumpkin at dinner time. Not even her family were immune, copping torrents of abuse during visiting hours.
As my time at the home was nearing an end, she once again caught me off guard – sitting by herself in the common room with tears streaming down her ancient face. I approached her again, expecting the worst. But in a moment of rare lucidity, she explained that she couldn’t understand why people were so stern and cold with her. She was herself again – for a brief moment, anyway. She gave me a hug and I swiftly left the room before the situation inevitably turned sour. As I walked away down the corridor, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the poor tormented nurse who’d witnessed the whole drama and also tried to get a hug from the old sweetheart in her moment of vulnerability, only to be met with a resounding, ‘Fuck off, tart. Do you even know who my dad is?’
The nine-month Baby Medic course flew past at light speed. There were only a few short weeks after the clinical placement before graduation. I couldn’t really tell you what I’d learnt on the course, but if you snapped your fingers and told me to do a basic cardiac protocol, I could do it without thinking, while reciting all the reasons I was administering a certain treatment. The training had hit the mark.
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THE BOREDOM BEGINS
Upon graduation from medic infancy, a piece of legitimate-looking military paper known as a Posting Order dictated that I move all my worldly belongings to within walking distance of the 3rd Combat Service Support Battalion (3CSSB) in Townsville in 2003. Being such a good little soldier, that’s precisely what I did.
There was nothing cool about the next twelve months. Nothing at all. I was overflowing with excitement and enthusiasm as I began my first stint at a real army unit. But not long after arrival, I was relegated to the dreaded ‘cages’, which is where a young medic’s hopes and dreams go to die. When the medical teams were deployed into a warzone, the equipment in the cages would transform the space into a M*A*S*H–like establishment, and medics would treat all kinds of emergency trauma cases and enjoy hilarious, light-hearted shenanigans, just like the TV show. During peacetime, however, the cages represen
ted nothing more than oppressive boredom, pointless disciplinary practices and a culture of keeping up appearances. The cages were a holiday in Hades.
My new unit did not have a complete skeletal structure; it was missing the funny bone. Fun days sucked ass, family days seemed very unfamiliar, and PT sessions resembled a group of unfit and uncoordinated intellectuals trying to fornicate with an upturned turtle. Not only did 3CSSB shun fun; it didn’t name things well, either. In my new world, a tent was a ‘canvas-olive drab’, a spew bowl was an ‘emesis bowl – green, kidney shaped’ and a slouch hat was a ‘hat – khaki fur-felt’. With so much boredom and weirdness afoot, is it any wonder that people started running their own show? One dude created his own secret hideaway three stories high in the floor-to-ceiling storage shelves, where he’d sleep for hours on end, whiling the boredom away. I discovered that carrying a clipboard around with an intense look on my face insulated me from counting, re-counting and re-re-counting all the medical equipment for the third time in the same day.
With forty uninspired medics occupying the cages, youthful exuberance stood precisely zero chance of seeing the light of day. So, instead, we dreamt up all manner of shenanigans to pass the time. Office-chair jousting, the three-litre-milk challenge, expired dirty needle dart wars and nut-kicking contests provided the much-needed spice to an otherwise boring workday. All was fair in love and the cages.
If the cages had anything going for them, it was definitely the people – incredibly amazing and interesting people. Billy was in his forties and had spent his colourful early years as a mixed martial arts boxer on the Brisbane fighting scene. He had an impressive win–loss record and millions of cool stories to tell. He was also nuttier than squirrel shit. Billy suffered from chronic pain due to his early life as a bare-knuckle fighter so he chugged a whole bottle of vodka every night to numb the agony. He was infamous for his hilarious pranks. His trademark move was to hide in the closet of an unsuspecting victim, stark naked and brandishing a tube sock filled with loose change as a baton. As soon as the defenceless prey switched on their room light, Billy would leap out of the closet, beat the living crap out of the victim with his tube-sock weapon and then disappear into the night, giggling like a schoolgirl as he fled the scene.
Bad Medicine Page 3