The Cadet Sergeant Major

by Christopher Cummings

  “Morning CSM. How was the exercise?” CUO White asked.

  “Good. But it is still going on. I don’t think Four Platoon appreciate it yet.”

  “Humpf. They like to think they are tough. Let them prove it,” CUO White replied.

  “How are things here?” Graham asked, looking around. It appeared normal: groups of cadets sitting eating, or cleaning mess tins, a couple filling waterbottles from a jerry can.

  “Apart from Clayfield, fine,” Sgt Rankin replied.

  Graham groaned. “What’s he done now? Not crapped his pants again?”

  “No. He has improved on that. This time he did a giant turd beside the sentry post and just left it there. Made no attempt to cover it! Poor old Cactus stood in it later and spread it around,” Rankin replied.

  They laughed, but without humour. CUO White gave a wry grin.

  “Cadet Clayfield is not popular in Cpl Gallon’s section.”

  “Poor little bugger! What can we do to help him? He must be hating the camp,” Graham said.

  “I think he is, but he does keep on trying to do the right thing and he isn’t pooing his pants as much,” CUO White replied. For the next few minutes they discussed what might be done to help but neither knew enough about the problem to decide.

  “What about Cpl Goltz?” Graham asked, seeing her peeling off her pullover in the distance.

  “Slept most of the night- and let her sentries go to sleep for a few hours; till I went round and stirred them up,” Sgt Rankin said. He obviously wasn’t impressed by her. CUO White made no comment.

  After more discussion Graham went on his way. He was happy that Rankin was trying hard and was doing the right thing. Apart from Gallon’s section, 3 Platoon appeared to be in as good a shape as could be expected on Day 6 of a camp. ‘Day Six!’ he thought sadly. ‘Only three more days to go.’ He was conscious that he was really enjoying himself and felt very alive. He breathed in deeply and wished the camp could go on for weeks.

  He stopped to talk to two nice Year 9 girls: Debbie Wallis, nicknamed ‘Superbabble’ for obvious reasons; and Sharon Morrow. Graham thought Debbie was a lovely kid, having a nice personality and a pretty face with a cute little turned up nose. On the other hand he considered Sharon was on the verge of blossoming into a heart-breaking beauty.

  “Enjoying the camp?” he asked. They had only joined a few weeks before and it was their first camp.

  “Oh yes sir,” Debbie cried enthusiastically. “It is really interesting; different from what I expected though.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “Oh, you know, a lot more of that drill and shouting stuff, like you see on TV.”

  They discussed aspects of the training for a few minutes before Graham excused himself and continued on.

  He moved around to 2 Platoon and chatted to Roger for a while. ‘Poor old Roger. He’s got the most difficult section in the company. What a mob of ruffians!’ He looked at them: Anderson, the disgruntled malingerer; Walsh, full of jokes and dry humour; Szelag who played practical jokes; Arthur who was always pilfering things; Lazarus who never wanted to work. ‘At least he’s got a good 2ic,’ Graham thought, watching LCpl Pat Sheehan at work. ‘Pat will make a good corporal. I wonder if he is going to stay in Cadets?’ The vague idea of trying to have Pat as one of his own section commanders the following year formed in the back of Graham’s mind. ‘If I get to be a CUO of course,’ he reminded himself.

  He was already clear on who he would ask to be his platoon sergeant: Roger.

  Graham continued his tour. There was Barbara’s ginger hair shining like polished copper in the morning sun. As always Graham felt his heart turn over when he saw her- half lust- half affection. Deep down he knew it was no good trying. She was not his sort of girl.

  Even as he wistfully formed the thought his eyes met those of another girl: Margaret. She smiled. He smiled back and felt he had to walk over to talk to her. ‘Speaking of my sort of girl,’ he thought. Deep in his heart Graham sensed that he was a fool; that all the beauties he fell hopelessly in love with were not for him. But, being stubborn, he would not readily yield to the obvious. ‘Margaret is just a good friend,’ he told himself.

  For the next few minutes he spoke to Margaret and was impressed by her cheerfulness. Then he moved on to speak to Sgt Copeland.

  “How is Cadet Lake getting on Gwen?” he asked.

  Sgt Copeland looked at Margaret and smiled. “She tries very hard, but she will never be a real soldier. She is very willing- but...”

  “I know she is very willing,” Graham quipped with a wry grin.

  Gwen laughed. “Don’t be hard on her Graham. She worships the ground you walk on.”

  Graham sighed. “I know. That’s why she joined the cadets. She’s been like that for years. She is a good kid. And I like her, but.. Oh well. Anyway, how are things in Two Platoon?”

  “Apart from the love chain in Cpl Brassington’s section things are fine,” Gwen replied.

  “Love chain!” Graham cried. That gave him a jolt. “What is it this time?”

  “Oh, it’s not critical yet, but it is becoming a problem,” Gwen replied. “It seems that Barbara is in love with CUO Grenfell. But he doesn’t like her at all and he has told her to get lost. But that is only the beginning. (Do I detect jealousy here, Graham thought. He had often wondered about CUO Grenfell and Gwen; they had now been three years together in 2 Platoon.) Barbara’s 2ic, LCpl Greg Wakely, is desperately in love with her. But she thinks he is a real dork and has given him the cold shoulder.”

  Graham groaned and eyed the gangling Lance Corporal. Gwen grinned and went on. “That’s not the end of it. Believe it or not but Leslie Reid, that freckly girl next to Margaret, thinks that Wakely is the most wonderful man on earth. And guess what? He can’t stand her. He has been very rude to her several times. And, still in the same section we have the tail end. See that little Year Eight boy, Richardson? You guessed it. He adores Leslie, but she won’t have anything to do with him.”

  Graham laughed, a deep belly laugh that echoed along the Canning and set the cockatoos screeching. Heads turned to stare, then smile.

  “Keep me informed,” he said. “It sounds better than ‘Days of our lives’!”

  He then continued on to 1 Platoon. By 0715 he had made a circuit of the complete company and spoken to most of the corporals and some of the cadets. ‘The camp seems to be going well now,’ he decided. He pulled a face at the memory of Brown’s incident but already that seemed a long time ago. ‘Let’s hope nothing else serious happens,’ he thought.

  By 0730 the whole company was ready to march, except for the few who had not filled their waterbottles. Graham gathered the platoons together, sitting on their packs behind their section commanders.

  Amazingly no-one was sick, beyond a few blisters and headaches. ‘And probably a few people with upset stomachs and constipation who haven’t plucked up courage to tell the medics,’ Graham thought as he wrote down the sergeant’s reports. He then handed over to the OC and moved to one side to study the ‘problem children’.

  Capt Conkey briefed them and also congratulated them on doing a good job during the night. The CUOs had their orders so it was simple to get them moving. At 0800 the company began moving in single file; 1 Pl, 2 Pl, 3 Pl. They first had to crawl under a barbed wire fence. Then, packs on backs they headed down a track slashed through the rubber vines to the bed of the Canning.

  Capt Conkey watched them for a few minutes, took some photos, then nodded to Lt Standish who was walking with the cadets. He called Graham and Peter to join him and Lt Maclaren.

  “We have to move. Pancho the Fat has a rendezvous with destiny at zero nine hundred.”

  “Are we driving sir?” Graham asked.

  “Only as far as the junction of the two rivers. We will then walk along the bank of the Bunyip to the ambush site. I want to check the condition of the track we cut last year through that blasted rubber vine,” Capt Conkey explained.

>   Graham experienced a vivid flashback. As a corporal he had led his section on a patrol exercise up the dry bed of Dingo Creek and into those rubber vines. It had placed him right under the captain’s eye. He remembered sweating the whole time as he was sure he was doing poorly.

  They walked to the vehicles, hooked on the trailers and helped the CQ and Bert load the jerry cans. A few minutes work and they were on their way, the officers driving and the boys in the back. They drove back down to the Canning Road, turned right past the shed, over the grid and through the dip, to turn right on the dirt track which went to Canning Junction. This led back over the shoulder of Black Knoll and down across a stony spur dotted with thorn bushes to an open area amongst large trees on top of the river bank.

  Below was a triangular wedge of country dotted with tall trees inside the junction of the two rivers. The vehicles were parked here. They debussed and hoisted on webbing. Capt Conkey told them to take their packs.

  “You can leave them at the bivouac site. Sgt Bronsky, grab that box. Mel, would you mind carrying the army radio?”

  “I do, but I will,” Lt Maclaren replied with a dry smile.

  Graham hauled his pack on and wiped perspiration from his face. It was already quite hot and the clear sky promised it would get even hotter. Capt Conkey led the way, followed by Lt Maclaren, Lt McEwen, Graham and Peter. The two ‘Q’ were left to guard the vehicles.

  The group followed a cattle pad through knee high grass and weeds down onto the dry sandy bed of the Canning. Fifty metres to their left was a deep pool of water where the two rivers joined. Beyond was the wide expanse of sand extending across to the dun coloured bluffs of Ruin Island.

  Graham screwed his eyes up against the glare reflected off the sand. Was it only a few hours ago that he and Peter had been over there? He could just make out the tops of the Burdekin Plum trees at the ruin. They showed as dark blobs above the greyish belt of thorn bushes.

  Waiting in the shade in the bed of the river were the remainder of the Control Group: six, led by Sgt Crane. Graham noted Brown looking surly. All wore a greenish foreign camouflage uniform and looked tired and dirty.

  “How is the track through the rubber vines Sgt Crane,” Capt Conkey asked.

  “OK sir. We had to do a bit of cutting but you can get through alright,” Crane replied.

  Capt Conkey gathered them into the shade and quickly gave instructions. Sgt Crane’s team were to be the Apaches. They were to follow along the track but ensure they weren’t caught in the first action. When the ambush had been sprung and the re-org was under way they were launch a rapid counter attack. While the OC spoke Graham noticed Brown giving him a sour look. It made him angry.

  ‘Serves the silly bugger right,’ he thought.

  Capt Conkey dug in a haversack and handed each of the Control Group a yellow cloth to wear as a headband. “Sorry, no feathers, but here is some face paint courtesy of the Art Department.”

  The six ‘Braves’ soon had white, yellow and red war paint daubed in patterns on their faces. They laughed and clowned a little self-consciously.

  Brown sneered. “We are a bit old to be playing Cowboys and Indians!” he commented.

  “You don’t have to,” Capt Conkey rejoined. “You can go and guard the vehicles if you like.”

  That shut him up, but Graham could see he was ‘off side’.

  Capt Conkey next produced a large crumpled straw hat, a long multi-coloured beach towel and a drooping, black false-moustache. In moments he transformed himself into ‘Pancho the Fat’.

  They all laughed heartily at that and the OC joined in. He pointed to Graham and Peter. “Now, you two, you can pay for getting some amusement at my expense. Pick up that box. It is the treasure and you are the mules. Now, let’s move. We are late.”

  Sgt Crane led the way. It took them between a belt of bent-over young paperbarks in the bed of the Canning and larger, older trees which overhung from the bank. A long muddy backwater caused them to pick their way along the bank over or under the overhanging trees for a hundred paces till they came to the mouth of Dingo Creek. They skirted a muddy pond and entered the creek. Dingo Creek was dry. Its course flowed through a deep gully eroded in the river bank. On both sides the banks were an all but impenetrable tangle of rubber vines and weeds. The bottom was a thin layer of dry mud over sand. The whole place had been extensively rooted up by wild pigs.

  Graham enjoyed the sensation of the hard ‘plates’ of mud scrunching and snapping beneath his boots. As he walked his eyes explored every bend. Yes, that was where he had to cope with a contact front. Half his section had gone astray in the rubber vines. ‘I wasn’t even able to climb up to join in,’ he remembered ruefully.

  A huge fallen tree draped with creepers blocked the creek bed. They clambered awkwardly up over the obstacle, trudged around a bend and encountered another. This time they crawled under it.

  “I hope we don’t meet a bloody big pig in here,” Lt Maclaren offered as he unhooked the radio from an ensnaring vine.

  “There are plenty around,” Graham replied. “We heard a lot across the river last night.”

  “They will soon clear out when we arrive,” Capt Conkey said. “They get hunted frequently in this area by the local lads, so they are pretty wary of humans.”

  “Our smell will drive them out when a hundred unwashed cadets come through,” Lt McEwen suggested.

  Sgt Crane grunted. “Clayfield could do that on his own,” he said. This made them all laugh but Graham felt bad about it. Capt Conkey snapped angrily at them to stop the teasing. That made Crane say ‘Yes sir’ but later Graham saw him scowl. By then they were ducking under another fallen log at the next bend. Ahead was a straight stretch of creek. Graham recognized it as the site of an ‘Enemy camp’ during the previous years exercise. He had done a hastily planned and not very well co-ordinated attack on it. He blushed at the memory of his shame at the mistakes he had made.

  ‘How did I ever get promoted?’ he wondered. He studied the place with the eyes of greater experience and could clearly see what he should have done. He mentally kicked himself and resolved to learn from the mistakes and do better. ‘If I ever become a real soldier I want to make sure my troops don’t suffer from my bad planning,’ he thought.

  They climbed under a fence strung loosely across the creek bed and turned up an animal pad which went up the steep bank into the rubber vines. Many of the vines had been freshly cut and oozed white sap. The pad led onto a level area dotted with large trees and clumps of rubber vine. This area was surrounded on three sides by a dismal green tangle of rubber vines. By this time Graham was panting and sweating as the OC maintained a rapid pace.

  Peter tapped him on the shoulder. “Give me that box for a while Graham,” he offered. Graham passed it to him thankfully. The path now wound down through a massive belt of rubber vine and head-high spiky weeds. The whole area was a gloomy forest. Graham looked nervously at the surrounding tangle. No place to meet a pig!

  After about a hundred metres they emerged on the bank of the Bunyip. The bank sloped steeply down for ten metres to the water. It looked very inviting. The water flowed waist deep and crystal clear. A small tree-studded island covered with rocks and grass looked very cool and pleasant. They were on the outside of the big bend in the river opposite Ruin Island.

  Their route now went to the right along the top of the lower bank, winding around trees, thickets of thistles and other thorny weeds and rubber vine clumps. The whole place made Graham think of the ‘Murkwood’. This went on for about a kilometre. Several times they were alarmed by the sound of grunting and crashing in the thick undergrowth on their right as wild pigs scented them and objected.

  Lt Maclaren gestured towards the freshly dug up soil. “You weren’t wrong about the pigs,” he commented.

  “Plenty of snake tracks too,” Capt Conkey added.

  Graham and Peter kept taking turns at lugging the ‘treasure chest’. After 15 minutes of rapid walking the group arriv
ed panting and perspiring at a point where a large dry flood channel curved into the river. The channel was about 25 metres wide. The bottom was either sand or short green grass of the sort found on lawns. On either side were long parallel sand dunes about 5 metres high. These were cloaked in tall trees, weeds and a thick growth of rubber vines. The view along the flood channel was closed off by a wall of paperbarks about a hundred metres along.

  Capt Conkey stopped and allowed them a chance to get their breath and have a drink. “OK Apaches, you wait here. There are several more sections of this flood channel, the same as this. 4 Platoon should be hiding beside one of them but I don’t know which one and they may have a cut-off; should have if they do it right. You know what to do?”

  The members of the Control Group nodded and assured him they did. Graham took the box back from Peter as they resumed their trek. They passed through two more lengths of the flood channel before reaching a longer section with a higher, but more open dune on the left.

  As they strung out in single file CUO Bates’ voice rang out: “Halt! Hands up! You are under arrest. Surrender!”

  As pre-arranged the group did anything but that, except Pancho. Graham dropped the box and tried to bolt into the rubber vines on his right. The cadets hidden in the bushes ‘opened fire’ with a fusillade of loud yells: “Bang! Bang!” Graham struggled on the edge of the vines and saw no way through. Instead he fell ‘dead’ and lay where he could watch.

  CUO Bates did very well. She stopped the firing and sent forward search parties covered by groups still hidden in the scrub. She had deployed cut-off groups and one of these blocked the ‘Apache’ counterattack. Doyle’s section was deployed to cover her flanks and rear. Graham conceded it a good effort.

  Once the battle had died down and the prisoners and ‘bodies’ searched Capt Conkey called an end to the exercise. Everyone was called in and sat in the shade.