Saturday, October 09, 2004
Happy birthday to Philip, our beloved King of the Pipilanders!
* * *
Day seven (and eight, once passed 2359) of my former Parade Four. Some people are beginning to complain about the smell that is emitting . . .
* * *
I'm outfield today for the live-firing. My detail, being the last in the entire company, has been selected to help collect the ammunition, since we are only shooting on Monday. This means waking up at 3:30am in the morning.
It rains heavily. Boon How and I, in one of the two tonners going to the ammunition depot, forget to bring down the canvas flap at the front of the truck. The raindrops are blown into the passenger compartment as the driver sets his vehicle at a rather high speed. One side of my pants are wet; the other dry. Think Two-Face.
It's pretty exaggerating: two tonners and a whole lot of explosive warning signs just for a few crates of gun rounds.
Inclement weather delays the exercise. By the time the first group takes off for a dry-run, it is near lunch.
The beginnings of (by far the most fucked-up) exercise.
* * *
The largest wretch has to be OC Lieutenant Teo aka Doraemon. From comments by the Platoon Sergeants, he seldom takes their advices - which are time-and-tested anecdotes. Until Big Fuck Ong comes in and tells him EXACTLY the same thing that the Platoon Sergeants had told him earlier, and Doraemon has to waste time correcting his errors.
Also some other big fuck screws up our time by demanding that ALL sentries along the perimeter to the Live Firing Area be secured. This means placing people all the way to areas like the Tuas Second Link, which is like damn freaking far from where we are. We're not even dealing with explosives, but just rounds that even recruits at BMT have to face. Furthermore, for those exercises or live firings involving explosives, no such thing has been done before.
So the first group sets off to fire the live rounds at dinnertime.
PS John complains and bitches about throughout most of the later part of the afternoon. I think he has a valid reason for acting this way. Nobody- including himself - knows what exactly is going on at every one moment. As dinnertime approaches and he sees no group leaving to fire the live rounds, he becomes sceptical that a second group can go, and proceeds to remove the rounds from all the magazines. But Big Fuck Ong wants the second group to go as well; we will not stop until daylight has completely vanished. From this we derive that he has no bother for our book-out. These sign-on officers are only interested in their work; I wonder if they have a life outside. Even if they don't, for God's sake don't be selfish pigs and steal away our enjoyment of the civilian world. You are here on your own free will, because you chose to make the army your career, but we are merely Serve-And-Fuck-offs (SAF). While doing guard duty I've seen how these sign-on people return on a Sunday when there is nobody in the camp to work. How committed. I'd rather be staying and resting at home.
Back to the situation at the ammunition point: we have to put everything back again.
* * *
It is getting darker. Group 2 still has not yet returned. The others begin to dismantle everything and load the stores into the tonner to prepare for the return to camp. Everybody guesses that there is no possibility of booking out tonight. We have to declare ourselves free of ammunition and return our weapons to the armoury. Before all these, we have to return to the firing site to pick up the cartridges that have been dropped from the rifles during firing.
Bad news: a cartridge has been lodged into the machine gun situated on top of the tank, jamming the whole thing. The exercise has to be cut, and the men return with the exact number of rounds they'd been given, having not shot anything. PS John curses and swears as he has to remove all the rounds for the second time that day. The tank cannot be driven, in case the vibration causes the cartridge to shoot out. The armourer has to be called and driven to the site. We have to wait for the cartridge to return before we can get to the ammunition depot and return the rounds. I am instructed to sit inside the tonner and guard the ammunition that has been loaded onto it. I think I sit there for two - close to three - hours. I cannot sleep because I have to keep an eye on the precious cargo. Bored, I ask for an extra box of rations to munch on.
By the time we set off for the depot it is close to midnight. We spend ages there while the personnel count and weigh the rounds to determine the amount we return. We doze on and off several times.
Return to camp: 3am in the morning. Sleep: 4am, after shitting and bathing.
Sucks.
¶ 10/09/2004 01:31:00 pm * * *
Day seven (and eight, once passed 2359) of my former Parade Four. Some people are beginning to complain about the smell that is emitting . . .
* * *
I'm outfield today for the live-firing. My detail, being the last in the entire company, has been selected to help collect the ammunition, since we are only shooting on Monday. This means waking up at 3:30am in the morning.
It rains heavily. Boon How and I, in one of the two tonners going to the ammunition depot, forget to bring down the canvas flap at the front of the truck. The raindrops are blown into the passenger compartment as the driver sets his vehicle at a rather high speed. One side of my pants are wet; the other dry. Think Two-Face.
It's pretty exaggerating: two tonners and a whole lot of explosive warning signs just for a few crates of gun rounds.
Inclement weather delays the exercise. By the time the first group takes off for a dry-run, it is near lunch.
The beginnings of (by far the most fucked-up) exercise.
* * *
The largest wretch has to be OC Lieutenant Teo aka Doraemon. From comments by the Platoon Sergeants, he seldom takes their advices - which are time-and-tested anecdotes. Until Big Fuck Ong comes in and tells him EXACTLY the same thing that the Platoon Sergeants had told him earlier, and Doraemon has to waste time correcting his errors.
Also some other big fuck screws up our time by demanding that ALL sentries along the perimeter to the Live Firing Area be secured. This means placing people all the way to areas like the Tuas Second Link, which is like damn freaking far from where we are. We're not even dealing with explosives, but just rounds that even recruits at BMT have to face. Furthermore, for those exercises or live firings involving explosives, no such thing has been done before.
So the first group sets off to fire the live rounds at dinnertime.
PS John complains and bitches about throughout most of the later part of the afternoon. I think he has a valid reason for acting this way. Nobody- including himself - knows what exactly is going on at every one moment. As dinnertime approaches and he sees no group leaving to fire the live rounds, he becomes sceptical that a second group can go, and proceeds to remove the rounds from all the magazines. But Big Fuck Ong wants the second group to go as well; we will not stop until daylight has completely vanished. From this we derive that he has no bother for our book-out. These sign-on officers are only interested in their work; I wonder if they have a life outside. Even if they don't, for God's sake don't be selfish pigs and steal away our enjoyment of the civilian world. You are here on your own free will, because you chose to make the army your career, but we are merely Serve-And-Fuck-offs (SAF). While doing guard duty I've seen how these sign-on people return on a Sunday when there is nobody in the camp to work. How committed. I'd rather be staying and resting at home.
Back to the situation at the ammunition point: we have to put everything back again.
* * *
It is getting darker. Group 2 still has not yet returned. The others begin to dismantle everything and load the stores into the tonner to prepare for the return to camp. Everybody guesses that there is no possibility of booking out tonight. We have to declare ourselves free of ammunition and return our weapons to the armoury. Before all these, we have to return to the firing site to pick up the cartridges that have been dropped from the rifles during firing.
Bad news: a cartridge has been lodged into the machine gun situated on top of the tank, jamming the whole thing. The exercise has to be cut, and the men return with the exact number of rounds they'd been given, having not shot anything. PS John curses and swears as he has to remove all the rounds for the second time that day. The tank cannot be driven, in case the vibration causes the cartridge to shoot out. The armourer has to be called and driven to the site. We have to wait for the cartridge to return before we can get to the ammunition depot and return the rounds. I am instructed to sit inside the tonner and guard the ammunition that has been loaded onto it. I think I sit there for two - close to three - hours. I cannot sleep because I have to keep an eye on the precious cargo. Bored, I ask for an extra box of rations to munch on.
By the time we set off for the depot it is close to midnight. We spend ages there while the personnel count and weigh the rounds to determine the amount we return. We doze on and off several times.
Return to camp: 3am in the morning. Sleep: 4am, after shitting and bathing.
Sucks.
