Monday, October 04, 2004
Day two of my former Parade Four.
* * *
This morning I've been dispatched to the road that leads to the main entrance of the camp to direct traffic.
The guards at the gate are performing vehicular checks, so there is a long snake down the road. There are reservists returning for their in-camp training; newly-posted privates; regulars and NSFs like me, all entering the camp. Not to forget the staff, who arrive on shuttle buses. My job - specific job - is to signal to the taxis to stop before a barrier some distance from the main gate. If they drop passengers as close to the main gate as possible, they will jam up the whole place.
I focus on the taxis. When I see one approaching, I signal for it to keep left and stop before the road barrier, behind which I'm standing. The other vehicles are none of my business.
Not until some irate driver winds down his window and calls me over.
"How can you let that car cut me? You're not even alert!" he demands angrily. Apparently a car had rounded the roundabout prior to the camp gate. This roundabout is behind where I stand, so I have no view of what is going on there.
I try to find an answer to appease him. "Well, Sir . . ." I stammer, "I've been instructed to direct the taxis-"
"Fuck you!" he spits angrily. "Private Lum," he continues, having glanced at my nametag, "you'd better be more alert!"
He winds up his window; I return to my post, feeling very bitter and angry. I don't even know how to direct traffic. Precisely due to my ignorance, I refuse to provide directions, because any misunderstandings may lead to an accident. But since he expects me to be a complete traffic controller, fine. I'll direct ALL the traffic. Don't blame any accidents on me. If one happens and I'm hauled up for questioning, I'll say that man told me to keep an eye on all aspects of the traffic.
The drivers are all mad. The shuttle buses cut through the lanes that are meant for traffic going in the other direction in order to reach the guardhouse at the quickest time possible and to avoid the pile-up. Motorcyclists weave between cars on a single lane. Taxi drivers try to cut the lane and U-turn immediately after they drop their passengers before the road barrier where I'm standing - there are many near-misses. To solve this problem, I end up conducting the vehicles - my right hand signals those on the left-most part of the road, while the left is meant for those on the inner lane of the road to follow. Most of the time I will stop the taxis and vehicles that drop-off their soldiers by the side of the road to let the vehicles of staff members travel through first.
Then there are parents whose kids have just been posted to become Armoured Infantry Troopers. They sport the usual field packs and - *gasp* - the new duffel bags, no more called "Ali Baba bags" but now (coined by me) "air-stewardess bags". Like me when I first came, they look lost, bewildered, anxious and scared. They look at me with koi-like mouths and stiffened eyes, like they're afraid I might eat them up. Perhaps it's due to my hardened (in reality, extremely bored) face. Anyway some parents are even more anxious than their kids that they ask if they can enter the camp to speak to the officer - "because my son has problems, so I'd like to inform the officer about his case . . ." Please do not ask me for permission to enter the camp; I'm merely a lowly private; please go the guard room to ask for a visitor's pass.
Ronald tells me similar stories of scared privates. He's stationed at the pedestrian gate beside the guardroom. He tells me that some of them actually QUIVER when asked for their 11B and mobile phone to be produced for inspection. We wonder why they behave like that . . . it's privates speaking to privates.
* * *
No guard rest for us, because we have to attend the lectures that are important towards our live firing this week. By right we're supposed to be allowed four hours or so of undisturbed rest to recuperate from the previous night's duties. Then again, company standing orders dictate that no one is allowed to sleep during office hours; it contradicts the principles of guard rest.
¶ 10/04/2004 01:26:00 pm * * *
This morning I've been dispatched to the road that leads to the main entrance of the camp to direct traffic.
The guards at the gate are performing vehicular checks, so there is a long snake down the road. There are reservists returning for their in-camp training; newly-posted privates; regulars and NSFs like me, all entering the camp. Not to forget the staff, who arrive on shuttle buses. My job - specific job - is to signal to the taxis to stop before a barrier some distance from the main gate. If they drop passengers as close to the main gate as possible, they will jam up the whole place.
I focus on the taxis. When I see one approaching, I signal for it to keep left and stop before the road barrier, behind which I'm standing. The other vehicles are none of my business.
Not until some irate driver winds down his window and calls me over.
"How can you let that car cut me? You're not even alert!" he demands angrily. Apparently a car had rounded the roundabout prior to the camp gate. This roundabout is behind where I stand, so I have no view of what is going on there.
I try to find an answer to appease him. "Well, Sir . . ." I stammer, "I've been instructed to direct the taxis-"
"Fuck you!" he spits angrily. "Private Lum," he continues, having glanced at my nametag, "you'd better be more alert!"
He winds up his window; I return to my post, feeling very bitter and angry. I don't even know how to direct traffic. Precisely due to my ignorance, I refuse to provide directions, because any misunderstandings may lead to an accident. But since he expects me to be a complete traffic controller, fine. I'll direct ALL the traffic. Don't blame any accidents on me. If one happens and I'm hauled up for questioning, I'll say that man told me to keep an eye on all aspects of the traffic.
The drivers are all mad. The shuttle buses cut through the lanes that are meant for traffic going in the other direction in order to reach the guardhouse at the quickest time possible and to avoid the pile-up. Motorcyclists weave between cars on a single lane. Taxi drivers try to cut the lane and U-turn immediately after they drop their passengers before the road barrier where I'm standing - there are many near-misses. To solve this problem, I end up conducting the vehicles - my right hand signals those on the left-most part of the road, while the left is meant for those on the inner lane of the road to follow. Most of the time I will stop the taxis and vehicles that drop-off their soldiers by the side of the road to let the vehicles of staff members travel through first.
Then there are parents whose kids have just been posted to become Armoured Infantry Troopers. They sport the usual field packs and - *gasp* - the new duffel bags, no more called "Ali Baba bags" but now (coined by me) "air-stewardess bags". Like me when I first came, they look lost, bewildered, anxious and scared. They look at me with koi-like mouths and stiffened eyes, like they're afraid I might eat them up. Perhaps it's due to my hardened (in reality, extremely bored) face. Anyway some parents are even more anxious than their kids that they ask if they can enter the camp to speak to the officer - "because my son has problems, so I'd like to inform the officer about his case . . ." Please do not ask me for permission to enter the camp; I'm merely a lowly private; please go the guard room to ask for a visitor's pass.
Ronald tells me similar stories of scared privates. He's stationed at the pedestrian gate beside the guardroom. He tells me that some of them actually QUIVER when asked for their 11B and mobile phone to be produced for inspection. We wonder why they behave like that . . . it's privates speaking to privates.
* * *
No guard rest for us, because we have to attend the lectures that are important towards our live firing this week. By right we're supposed to be allowed four hours or so of undisturbed rest to recuperate from the previous night's duties. Then again, company standing orders dictate that no one is allowed to sleep during office hours; it contradicts the principles of guard rest.
