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Army Reserve
This page is quite old (1999) and out of date. I keep, however, receiving a surprising amount of email from complete strangers who've read it and decided that either the ARes is not for them, or that I've described exactly what they're looking for. It takes all sorts, eh?
A Quick Overview
The Australian Army has recently decided that it wants fewer full-time Australian Regular Army (ARA) members and more reserves. That's probably just so it doesn't have to pay us as much money for running around and shooting at things all the time, but who cares?
I concluded my recruit course, or Common Induction Training, on the 14th of January 1999. Our company was the first to complete the new 6-week CIT course rather than the previous 2-week one.
Warning! Bad, foul, evil language follows!
Please do not read on if you are easily offended!
Remember, this is the Army!
So What Happened?
Our Lyrical Introduction
All 100 of us rocked up to the ADF Recruiting Centre in the Brisbane CBD on the 30th of November 1998 at 0800 and were very politely (no sarcasm!) escorted into the building where they measured our height, weight and checked our eye colour one last time. After the recruiting people were satisfied that nobody had coloured contacts on, we left for the Gallipoli Barracks at Enoggera.
On our arrival, we were asked to wait outside some hall (I still don't know the name of the place) for about three hours for our enlistment ceremony. Enlistment papers were produced, we signed and they promptly disappeared again. During the ceremony itself, we were praised for "taking the first step in the noble service of our country." Nobody took the speaker seriously - we were all expecting the.. umm... excrement... to hit the fan pretty soon. We were not disappointed.
After the ceremony, the Army's newest recruits boarded the company bus to be taken to our lines (dormitories, for any civilians bothering to read this.) The first meeting of the recruits of Recruit Company Enoggera and Sgt Chilcott was a very concise one. Four words, to be exact: "Shut your fucking mouths!"
Dead silence. The bus went from 100 smiling, waving, talkative recruits to 100 stunned, silent, terrified recruits. The same phrase was going through the mind of everyone on the bus: "Oh shit... what have we just signed up for?"
For the next five weeks, every command given was shouted and followed immediately by "Hurry up!" no matter how fast we moved. It's a kind of brainwashing, to make us instinctively follow orders in any circumstances, but when you're on the receiving end of it it doesn't matter how reasonable the rationale is behind it - the only thing you can think of is "Why does this bastard keep yelling at us?!"
Our first evening consisted of learning to make beds Army style, shave Army style, walk Army style (you only use your left hand to carry things when you march, BTW, so that you can still salute any officers you pass.) and talk Army style. The latter was more difficult than you'd first think - everyone instinctively answered "Yes, Sir," or "No, Sir." Non-commissioned officers in the Australian Army are addressed by their rank. For example, you call a Corporal "Corporal," and a Sergeant "Sergeant." A very well-used sentence was "Don't fucking call me Sir! I work for my living!"
One thing we all noticed as soon as we arrived was the bundle of magazines on the bed. No, you moron, not the paper variety. They wanted to make it abundantly clear to us that we were here to learn how to kill people, so they left our Steyr magazines in open view as we arrived.
We were issued with this beautiful frog-green tracksuit and red legionnaire's cap. Wonderful. Everyone else in the mess was wearing cams and boots, and here we are in bloody frog-suits. It was designed to humiliate us, and to a large extent I guess it worked. More on my attitude to it later.
At 0545 the next morning, peace was shattered by the shout "Hallway 2! Hurry the fuck up! Get into the fucking hallway! Go back and get your thongs on you stupid fucking recruit! Get the fuck out here NOW!" The 48 recruits of 2 Platoon were standing at attention in the hallway - wearing underpants, thongs and with our bottom bed sheet over our left shoulder - in less than 10 seconds, but this wasn't satisfactory. Nothing would have been - it was our first day and they were going to make it difficult. So there came another round of four-letter words. Then "Number!". "Number" means that the person on the right as we were standing was to yell "One!" The person to his left would yell "Two!" and so on down the line until we reached forty-eight. Then the NCOs yelled "Go!" That meant that we had fifteen minutes to have a shave, make our beds, get dressed and be formed up outside ready to go to breakfast.
Have you ever seen 48 people all try to shave using only 8 basins? Even using both hot and cold taps, that's still three people per tap, all in a screaming hurry and using these bloody horrible blunt razors the Army issued us. Not a beautiful way to start the morning.
The beds were fun, too. Hospital corners on every bunk had to be perfect, otherwise a strange wind would come through the lines while we were out and throw all the blankets everywhere.
Breakfast in the mess was always an interesting affair. A number of blokes smuggled in razors and quietly had their shave whilst waiting in line for food; others would be re-doing their boot laces, which they had not had time to put through all the eyelets. Some of us even ate food which was, incidentally, very good. No complaints about that.
It didn't look very good coming back up again after PT though.
The Curriculum
Have you ever been treated like a moron? I mean a complete moron, here. We were. It's not that any of us were that stupid (although a few had almost single-digit IQs), but that we didn't know the rules. There was no need for what they did, though.
Ironing and Shaving
Learning to iron was wonderful. Forget the fact that how bloody many of us have been ironing our own clothes for as long as we've been able to see over the ironing board; they still "taught" us all how. Bdr Galloway's ironing mantra went:
Position the fabric
Heat the fabric
Spray the fabric
Heat the fabric again
We all felt pretty damn stupid sitting in the hallway facing a junior NCO chanting that for half a bloody hour.
Learning to shave was wonderful, too. These Army types leave nothing to chance, do they? Although one of my room-mates (G'day, Deshon!) shaved for three days with his razor blade on back-to-front before any of us realised. :)
Weapons
Weapons drills were understandably segmented - it's kinda dangerous if you have someone not sure what to do and live rounds in his/her magazine. Not that slowly though, please!!
(WEAPONS INSTRUCTOR MODE ON)
To go from the Unload condition to the Load condition, you:
Physically turn the weapon over to the left and visually check that the safety catch is set to Safe. Like this; do that.
With your non-master hand, open your Steyr pouch and remove a magazine containing rounds. Like this; do that.
Visually verify that the magazine contains rounds. Like this; do that.
Insert the magazine into the magazine opening. Do not bang on the base of the magazine - you're not a bloody Yank, and this isn't an M16. Like this; do that.
With the non-master hand, physically verify that the magazine is securely placed on the weapon. Like this; do that.
With the non-master hand, close your Steyr pouch. Like this; do that.
Re-adopt the standing load position. Like this; do that.
(WEAPONS INSTRUCTOR MODE OFF)
How would you feel. It's ridiculous - all you need to do is to stick a new mag onto your rifle!! Oh well... At least we all know how to load our rifles - let's just hope we never have to do it in time to kill someone. Can you imagine what it was like to learn how to strip and re-assemble the F-89 Minimi (light support machine gun)?
Drill
Why do I hear chuckles from anyone who's ever had anything to do with the Defence Force? It's not that bad. Admittedly, we do get screamed at a great deal, but that's just because the DIs don't feel like they're doing their job unless they're scaring the hell out of some poor bugger who's already embarrassed the hell out of himself by stuffing up some simple movement. Whew. You can take a breath now.
The worst part about drill is that when everyone is doing the same thing, you look like an absolute numpty when you stuff up. (WTF is a numpty anyway?) I was lucky in that, having some kind of musical talent, I could keep in step with the DI's cadence and consequently have all of my movements called on the correct foot. (Yes, they have different instructions called on different feet. For example, in quick time you call "Halt!" on the right foot, but you get "Right turn!" called on the left foot.) If you're out of step, it really shows when they call an instruction on the wrong foot.
Of course, when the DIs make a mistake - and never admit it - you just stand there and get screamed at. Do not argue with a Drill Instructor.
New Year's Eve
Woohoo! We had New Year's Eve off from 1750, and no duty the next day until 1300. Woohoo! We went to dinner at the mess and then moved up to the Dalziel VC Club. Some people ate next to nothing as they were in such a hurry to go and have a drink. Me, well, as I don't drink, I had a nice meal at the mess and took my time getting up to the pub. A few phone calls to friends etc. later, I joined the fellas up there and had a great time.
The countdown to midnight was the "spew cue", if you like. 3... 2... 1... Happy New Year! [spew]. [spew more]. [really hurl]. [croak "Harcourt, can you bring my hat back?"]. [pass out].
Yes, that's right. Of the 98 or so people who went to the pub, about 20 ended up dumping most of their night's efforts into the toilets, showers, sinks, gutters, bunks, floors and even the bloody water cooler. That one was leaked on though, not spewed in. Oh, what a wonderful feeling...
It was, of course, pre-planned that our first lesson on New Year's Day was drill, out on the parade ground for hours. We sure saw some unhappy people that day.
The Challenge
This was probably the most anticipated event apart from our March-Out itself. We had stuff-all sleep the night before trying to get all our gear ready, and stuff-all sleep the night after, when 1 Platoon did theirs. It was excellent, though.
The course didn't sound that difficult; indeed, it's not. The point is that we knew it wasn't that difficult and went flat out the whole way through. Hence, it was still a very testing exercise. The fact that it was a race between all the sections in 1 and 2 Platoons made it a little more interesting.
7km march carrying a 4.1kg Austeyr, about 4-8kg worth of webbing and a 25kg pack.
1.25km carrying the above plus Nick Kelly and all his kit on a stretcher for our first-aid test.
A brief stop to assemble service radios, conduct a brief radio check, disassemble them and pack them away again.
1.5km carrying three boxes of ammunition, each weighing about 20kg, which we ran because we had almost caught up to 1 Section and were going to try to overtake them. This was still carrying our packs, remember.
Practical navigation exam involving taking bearings to some landmarks and judging some distances by eyeballing it.
The Obstacle Course. We were allowed to take our packs off for this one. That was good. There are some fun photos of me doing it, too - I'll scan them when the Army finally gets around to sending me my copies. Without going into too much detail, the main obstacles were the 12' wall, the barbed-wire trenches (leopard-crawl under the wire) and the bear-trap. The bear trap was an innocuous little wall to jump over - with a bloody great hole full of water on the other side. Don't get your rifle wet!
The Bayonet Assault. This was the final part of the Challenge, and it was two minutes of sheer agression and adrenalin. Run screaming through some tunnels full of water, up the creek bank, stab hell out of some tyres, jump some logs, stab some tyres, crawl under some barbed-wire, stab some tyres, back down into the creek bed, back up the bank, under a fence, stab some tyres... you get the picture.
As the Bayonet Assault was the very final point of the Challenge, we put absolutely everything into it. We threw ourselves down for the leopard-crawling like we were seriously being shot at and went straight for the next set of tyres like nobody's business. Nobody had a voice left; we screamed anyway. Everyone had gone through the pain barrier kilometres before; we had no feeling left at all. Everyone found something they didn't think they had; everyone gave it all.
There was no more pitiful sight than a recruit - no, soldier - who had just finished the final Challenge. Almost three hours of constant, hectic effort with constant time pressure and screaming muscles, and then it was over. People were too tired to collapse - we just removed our bayonets, handed them to an NCO and slowly stumbled over to where the rest of the platoon was cheering for those who hadn't finished yet. It did wonders for the platoon's morale, and was the final step before March-Out itself which showed the difference between recruits and soldiers.
Feeling started to return in all our muscles about half an hour later. Ouch. I had a 3cm diameter blister on my back from the pack, and didn't even notice the blood on my webbing belt or cams until afterwards.
The weeks roll by...
One day ran pretty quickly into another, and most of the time we didn't really have time to think about how many we had to go until the evening at about 2140. Lights out was 2145 so that really didn't leave much time at all, until...
March Out!
This is it. Everything we'd learnt; everything we'd done, and nobody would see anything of it except the few photos we'd managed to take and the March-Out parade itself. All through the rehearsals, we were more scared of the Parade Commander (no names mentioned - the Major knows who) stuffing up than ourselves. It's not the done thing to present arms for the Company Sergeant Major! (Civvies: he's a non-commissioned officer; enlisted the same as a regular grunt. You salute - yes, presentation of arms is a general salute - commissioned officers only.) Oops :) And he stuffed up innumerable other things which made all of us wonder what the hell was really going on.
The night before March-Out, we had no sleep. Some of us managed to doze off for a while, but most of us were up well into the morning polishing boots and brass, ironing uniforms, ironing civilian clothes for afterwards, finalising packing and doing millions of other tiny tasks which had to be done.
The morning itself, I was up at 0330 to have a proper shower and take my time with shaving. This is a separate issue, shaving, and I'll get to it some other time, BTW. Our rehearsal was from 0900 to 1030 and we had the CSM almost having a fit because some people still couldn't count 15 paces then halt on the correct foot. Shit...
Back to the lines; a quick shower, then getting dressed into Polys. If you haven't worn dress uniform in the Defence Force before then you don't know how involved this is. You put your trousers on first but don't do them up. Then you put your shirt on, tuck it into your underpants, then do your trousers up. Then bend over very carefully - don't sit down - and lace up your boots. Better still, have a mate do them up while you do his. Your belt has to be perfect; the brass buckles like mirrors. Your lanyard must be just so, and your hat must be ironed completely flat before having the side put up. Everything must be perfect.
We had 15 minutes.
Can you imagine the pandemonium? Looking back, it was fun. Looking forward from where we were, all we could think was "OhshitohshitohshitI'mgoingtodie!"
Surprisingly, the parade itself went off without a hitch. Only one person had the cocking handle of his rifle catch in his pocket; only one other forgot to count his 15 paces, but we fixed that by standing on his heel on the 14th. So much for shiny boots, you stupid bugger.
The Aftermath
The Army likes to think that its Induction Training changed us. It probably did, but not in the ways it expected. They believe they taught us self-discipline, initiative and responsibility. What we learnt was how to get along in spite of bureaucracy, micro-management by NCOs and conflicting orders caused by lack of communication between NCOs - which, of course, couldn't happen because they were so well organised :)
Most of us had to consciously stay out of step with our civilian friends and resist the urge to swing our arms at breast-pocket height whilst walking around the city, but on the whole I don't think it's changed me much. It's amusing, for example, to leave my watch set on military time and annoy hell out of my civilian friends, but (after the first few days, anyway) I was back to thinking in civilian time. I don't stand at attention when talking to people any more, either, and I use both hands to carry things. So there.
Recommendations
So... should you join? Is it worth it? Is it really that bad? Do you make lots of friends? Do you get really fit?
Yes, it's really that bad. Worse if anything - I've glossed over all but the most amusing nasty bits.
Yes, you make many good friends. You also meet heaps of numpties, but you don't have to stay in contact with them.
You don't get that fit. I put on a little more muscle - not that much - and some of the less fit blokes lost some weight. Generally, if you're reasonably fit you won't have a problem.
I can't answer the first question. My reason for joining was that I'd always wondered what it would have been like, and if I hadn't I would still have been wondering. For me then, it was worthwhile just for that reason. You can't judge if it's worth it until you've been.
Let's get one thing straight. This is NOT a recruitment advert for the Army. I'm not advocating that you join or even consider it. All I'm doing with this page is recording some of my memories from CIT and passing them on to others who might find them interesting or amusing.
Hopefully I've achieved that.
Regards,
Andrew
Photo Gallery
There will be some photographs of our platoon staff, recruits and everyone else up here as soon as I get access to a scanner agan. Until then, the quotes below will have to do.
I promised my friends I'd make this page and include on it all the quotes and gems we heard from our Section Commanders, platoon staff and Platoon Sergeant. So, here goes...
Gems from the staff of 2 Platoon, Recruit Company Enoggera
"Tuck that fucking chain in! You're not a fucking toilet!"
- Cpl Jerome
"Don't fucking look at me! I'll think you want to fuck me and then I'll kill you!"
- Cpl Jerome
"If you want to fucking skip you should have joined the Navy or Air Force - then you'd skip away with someone's penis up your arse!"
- Sgt Chilcott
"You've got the brains of a fucked-out ant!"
- Bdr Galloway
"I'm fucking this chicken! Shut the fuck up!"
- Bdr Galloway
"You sure fucked that cow well! You must be from Texas!"
- Sgt Chilcott
"You people move like old people fuck!"
- Cpl Jerome
"If you don't swing your fucking arms I'll rip them off and beat you over the fucking head with them!"
- Cpl Jerome
"If you don't lock your fucking arms by your sides, I'll rip them off, stick them into your ears and ride you like a bicycle!"
- Sgt Lennon
"What are you smiling at, Recruit? If you keep smiling I'll stick that fucking apple up your arse and that'll make you smile!"
- Sgt Chilcott
"You're a fucking idiot, aren't you, Recruit?"
"Yes, Corporal"
- Cpl Schmidt & Rec Dave Ryan
"Why don't you fuck each other up the arse and then see who's wearing what shit!"
- Sgt Chilcott
"Am I talking to you? No, I'm talking to your fucking twin!"
- Sgt Chilcott
"The next person I see doing drill in thongs is going to wear them as an upper lip!"
- Cpl Jerome
"My mother can yell louder than that and she's fucking dead!"
- Cpl Jerome
Those shiny boots will stick out in the bush like a third nut in a greyhound."
- Bdr Duffy
"I don't like the word bleed. I prefer haemorrhage. Women bleed because they deserve to."
- Cpl Maher
"Reed, you fucking freak!"
"Yes, Corporal!"
- Cpl Schmidt & Rec Ben Reed
"You're a fucking spastic, aren't you, Recruit?"
"Yes, Corporal!"
- Cpl Schmidt & Rec Dave Ryan
"Happiness is a head shot at 300 metres."
- Bdr Galloway
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The problem is that they probably have the skills (5k1llz??)
to do it. Oh well... I can always escape to Brisbane at the end of the
year