People should not be afraid of their Governments.
Governments should be afraid of their People.
You hear that, Mr Lee? You hear that??
(I'm talking to the both of you. No-one takes your "elections" seriously anymore.)
You hear that?
Friday, March 17, 2006
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Incoherence
Eight more months. Just eight more months to emancipation.
And then the Restoration will begin.
It had been a good life, most of it anyway, before the conscription.
Now I'm just cast adrift in a web of drudgery and routine.
Yes there were moments that were memorable- firing all sorts of heavy weapon systems, being out in the jungles with a bunch of poor unfortunate sods in SISPEC, laughing at the bunk joker, etc etc- but now I am lost beyond description.
Memories alright. Many memories. More than memory itself can stand to remember.
Sitting in a training shed out in a Taiwanese plateau. A dark night curtained by heavy clouds. Lightning and thunder sizzle and threaten to boil over the heavens onto the black armoured hulls of our vehicles.
And there- there was Captain Andy, the Course Commander, standing on the platform and telling us in no uncertain terms about the burden of command. His face briefly illuminated by a flash, hard set and terrible, his voice harsh, his countenence uncompromising.
Counting flies by the flourescent lamps in the dark.
Rubbing away the recoil piston of the machine gun, trying to dig the damned carbon out of the little grooves and holes and bolt pieces.
Marching on and on and on into the jungle night with nothing save the stars in the sky.
Lots of stars, stretched out over the heights. I can only look with wonder at them. How they represent a freedom unattainable- yet so desperately wanted. The field pack is heavy. My rifle is heavy. And yet I go on and on and on.
The boots go crump and crump and crump.
I chatter in gibberish.
I can't form coherant sentences just yet. These memories have suddenly flooded into my consciousness. I cannot construct cogent language forms,I can only sit here and view the images in my mind's eye.
An unstoppable wave.
I can't control it.
Running the obstacle course. 10 minutes of breathless hell. And you dont see anything except the pavement 1 meter in front of you. Your head down, and tongue out, panting and gasping like a dog chasing a car or a fish out of water. Whichever you prefer.
Your heart is jabbing at your ribs from the inside, demanding freedom from its cage of slavery.
Mind over body. Body above matter. Whatever they say. I was too tired to tell the hierachy of those things.
The helmet is a stuffy thing. The strap cuts into your ear. You can't adjust it because the Sergeant is looking at you and even if you adjusted it now it would slip back into place five minutes later, sawing its way into your lobe.
Blisters and heat rash. An army of ants biting and nibbling and boring and tunneling into your skin. Whatever you do, do not scratch.
Sweat drips and mixes with the camoflage paint on your face. You lick the stuff off your lips and taste the vegetable oil in the camo paint. You wonder how long more before the sweat washes all the camo off your face and the Sergeant comes round to give you hell.
Lying in bunk, enjoying the breeze. The fan spins lazily. You think about the fact that its Tuesday night. 4 more nights to go. You wonder if you should go out on Saturday. Or would that 4km run on Friday take the stuffing out of you?
A green beetle flies in through the window and is promptly bisected by the whirring fan blades.
A crisp, cleaving action that leaves its head on the left side of your bed and its body on the right, and bug juice in between the two.
And the songs. Army number one hits, they call 'em. Countless war cries from the lips of boys who'd rather be at Ministry of Sound and not the Ministry of Defence. Countless shouts of false machoism and gung-hoism. Beating and bashing their way into your mind so that they play themselves unbidden in the depths of your sleep.
A is for Airborne, I is for in the sky...
Ad infinitum, ad nauseum.
Old Mr Harris wondered about the heroism and valour and sacrifice and the noble things of war and military life.
I suppose he was right in a way.
But he was talking about another kind of era.
That was World War Two when it was clear-cut good versus evil.
I guess things got a lot more ambiguous when the Vietnam War came along. Since then anything to do with the army has been a tricky idea, morally speaking.
Morally speaking.
Morally.
Yes.
Sweat and itch and the chemical smell of rifle oil and cordite.
The soil and dirt and sun.
Once in a lifetime.
And the people.
HAHA the people there.
You'll realise that the army is one fantastic microcosm of humanity.
One big ass freak show.
You've the big freaks and the small freaks. The tall freaks and the short freaks. The freaks who're nice and the freaks who're assholes. The freaks with big noses and small ears and who can run 2.4km in 8 minutes and can only do 1 pull up. The freaks with snotty nasal voices and those with harsh rasping guttural throats. The freaks who smoke and those who don't. The freaks who became officers and the freaks who became office clerks. And all the freaks in between.
I suppose the worse part is that you cant do anything about the freaks who're assholes and in charge of you.
So much for all that.
And then the Restoration will begin.
It had been a good life, most of it anyway, before the conscription.
Now I'm just cast adrift in a web of drudgery and routine.
Yes there were moments that were memorable- firing all sorts of heavy weapon systems, being out in the jungles with a bunch of poor unfortunate sods in SISPEC, laughing at the bunk joker, etc etc- but now I am lost beyond description.
Memories alright. Many memories. More than memory itself can stand to remember.
Sitting in a training shed out in a Taiwanese plateau. A dark night curtained by heavy clouds. Lightning and thunder sizzle and threaten to boil over the heavens onto the black armoured hulls of our vehicles.
And there- there was Captain Andy, the Course Commander, standing on the platform and telling us in no uncertain terms about the burden of command. His face briefly illuminated by a flash, hard set and terrible, his voice harsh, his countenence uncompromising.
Counting flies by the flourescent lamps in the dark.
Rubbing away the recoil piston of the machine gun, trying to dig the damned carbon out of the little grooves and holes and bolt pieces.
Marching on and on and on into the jungle night with nothing save the stars in the sky.
Lots of stars, stretched out over the heights. I can only look with wonder at them. How they represent a freedom unattainable- yet so desperately wanted. The field pack is heavy. My rifle is heavy. And yet I go on and on and on.
The boots go crump and crump and crump.
I chatter in gibberish.
I can't form coherant sentences just yet. These memories have suddenly flooded into my consciousness. I cannot construct cogent language forms,I can only sit here and view the images in my mind's eye.
An unstoppable wave.
I can't control it.
Running the obstacle course. 10 minutes of breathless hell. And you dont see anything except the pavement 1 meter in front of you. Your head down, and tongue out, panting and gasping like a dog chasing a car or a fish out of water. Whichever you prefer.
Your heart is jabbing at your ribs from the inside, demanding freedom from its cage of slavery.
Mind over body. Body above matter. Whatever they say. I was too tired to tell the hierachy of those things.
The helmet is a stuffy thing. The strap cuts into your ear. You can't adjust it because the Sergeant is looking at you and even if you adjusted it now it would slip back into place five minutes later, sawing its way into your lobe.
Blisters and heat rash. An army of ants biting and nibbling and boring and tunneling into your skin. Whatever you do, do not scratch.
Sweat drips and mixes with the camoflage paint on your face. You lick the stuff off your lips and taste the vegetable oil in the camo paint. You wonder how long more before the sweat washes all the camo off your face and the Sergeant comes round to give you hell.
Lying in bunk, enjoying the breeze. The fan spins lazily. You think about the fact that its Tuesday night. 4 more nights to go. You wonder if you should go out on Saturday. Or would that 4km run on Friday take the stuffing out of you?
A green beetle flies in through the window and is promptly bisected by the whirring fan blades.
A crisp, cleaving action that leaves its head on the left side of your bed and its body on the right, and bug juice in between the two.
And the songs. Army number one hits, they call 'em. Countless war cries from the lips of boys who'd rather be at Ministry of Sound and not the Ministry of Defence. Countless shouts of false machoism and gung-hoism. Beating and bashing their way into your mind so that they play themselves unbidden in the depths of your sleep.
A is for Airborne, I is for in the sky...
Ad infinitum, ad nauseum.
Old Mr Harris wondered about the heroism and valour and sacrifice and the noble things of war and military life.
I suppose he was right in a way.
But he was talking about another kind of era.
That was World War Two when it was clear-cut good versus evil.
I guess things got a lot more ambiguous when the Vietnam War came along. Since then anything to do with the army has been a tricky idea, morally speaking.
Morally speaking.
Morally.
Yes.
Sweat and itch and the chemical smell of rifle oil and cordite.
The soil and dirt and sun.
Once in a lifetime.
And the people.
HAHA the people there.
You'll realise that the army is one fantastic microcosm of humanity.
One big ass freak show.
You've the big freaks and the small freaks. The tall freaks and the short freaks. The freaks who're nice and the freaks who're assholes. The freaks with big noses and small ears and who can run 2.4km in 8 minutes and can only do 1 pull up. The freaks with snotty nasal voices and those with harsh rasping guttural throats. The freaks who smoke and those who don't. The freaks who became officers and the freaks who became office clerks. And all the freaks in between.
I suppose the worse part is that you cant do anything about the freaks who're assholes and in charge of you.
So much for all that.
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