To give you some perspective of life in July 1980 in Australia, Azaria Chamberlain had just been taken by a dingo, there was mass unemployment across the country, every government either state or federal was Liberal, it was the start of the “greed is good” decade, both the WA and Qld megalomaniac Premiers wanted to build a highway from Perth to Brisbane (presumably with a tunnel through Uluru) to separate the “haves” from the “have nots”, and John Lennon was a few months from being murdered by a crazed gunman. It was a time of no political correctness and whatever happened within the walls of an army base, stayed behind those walls. Verbal abuse was rampant and sometimes funny. Being called words beginning with F & C became the norm after a while so my favourite became the simple, “Mrs Wilson’s mistake.” One staffer used to get me and my friend from home, Kevin Casey, mixed up and would say to me, ”Casey, get your arse over there now.” “It’s Wilson Sir.” “Casey, Wilson, you’re both slugs.” Thankyou so much.

The demographic of 25 Platoon was mostly career soldiers, many of whom described by the staff as “weekend warriors” having been former members of the Army Reserve and they were serious about their respective destiny’s in the armed forces. There was quite a lot of ex-national serviceman or “NASHO’S” who  having returned from Vietnam 5 years earlier, either couldn’t find work or struggled mentally fitting back into civilian life. These guys were real men, generally nice enough but they had been here before albeit Puckapunyal when they were initially drafted, and had little time for anything other than getting out of Kapooka asap. The rest of the platoon was made up of virginal, “green” numbskulls like myself and the odd (pardon the pun) psychopath, but I’ll get to that later. 

Day 2 at Kapooka meant the haircut but before that, you shaved, whether you needed to or not. The military issue razor was one of those old 1940’s style ones with the blades that come wrapped in greased paper and you screwed the blade into a housing on the razor. Everyone, except the NASHO’s, was marched to the barber with band aids covering their faces that morning. Only the NASHO’s knew the danger associated with those razors and had wisely brought their own. The shaving of the head with a “number 1” is simply symbolic of everyone being reduced to the same level, no exemptions. These days it’s a standard cut for many but when 50 blokes do it at once it looked like the ugliest Hari Krishna convention ever! 

The next day we got “kitted out” with greens, GP boots, socks, jocks, singlets, jumper and slouch hat. You were pushed through a conga line and issued your stuff after you called out your size but I had a hiccup at the issuing of the slouch hat. I have a huge bonce you see, and the hat they told me to take was too small. I tried to remonstrate but I copped a “move it on recruit!” so I was stuck with a ceremonial hat, a tradition steeped in history, that looked like a giant pimple on my head! I was shattered and a couple of years later whilst working in aviation and no longer needing it because we wore pale blue berets, I sold the slouch hat for $50 to a very happy US soldier on an exercise in North Qld.

Most of the time in the first 2 weeks was intensive drill practice on the parade ground or monotonous weapons instruction and then shortly after, I started feeling unwell.

Apparently as an infant I spent time in the Princes Margaret Hospital in Perth with pneumonia. It struck again at Kapooka but every time I went to the RAP (Regimental Aid Post) they wouldn’t send me to a doctor and just threw aspirin and cough medicine at me. The coughing got worse and at night the tickle in the throat wouldn’t go away. The NASHO’s down the hallway were yelling at me to stop or I was dead, so I coughed into my pillow for as long as I could but struggled to sleep. In the ensuing days this turned into blood noses and vomit. Coinciding with this was week 4, which was “work duty week” whereby we all had to get up at 4.30am and go and “bash dixies” (clean pots) in any one of the mess kitchens on the base. One morning I was so drained I left my locker open which contained my rifle..…a cardinal sin. When I returned, the Commanding Officer, Lieutenant John Tolmie wanted me charged and had the form on his desk. In the first bit of defiance I ever displayed, I took him to my room and pulled back the sheets of my bed to reveal the ungodly mess. He decided not to charge me and sent me to the RAP again where I received more pointless medication.

A couple of days later we were given a  4 day break. It happened to coincide with my sister Pam’s wedding in Melbourne and she and her husband Bruce kindly invited my Medina mate Kevin also as he wouldn’t have had anywhere to go. I spent most of the wedding and the 4 days lying down with a cold compress on my head. Upon your return to Kapooka, you do what’s called the “piss run” because you’re deemed to have been drinking for the duration of the time away. It’s a 9km route march (run/march) with pack and rifle. Ordinarily a walk in the park for me but after 300m I could barely breathe. 

Crook as a dog at my sister’s wedding with my Medina mate Kevin Casey

Corporal “Junior” Gotwaltz looked like David Boon except he was approx. 6ft 4inches tall and weighed approx. 120kg. His shadow loomed large over us few teenagers in the platoon and he focussed much of his attention on us with the blessing of Lt Tolmie, a soft ex-grammar boy from Melbourne. For 9km he terrorised and humiliated me. Heading up the cliché-named “Heartbreak Hill” I could barely stand let alone march or run, so when Kevin ran over to take my rifle off me he pushed Kevin away and made the entire platoon come back to where I was, abuse me and head back up the hill. Later, with the rest of the platoon finishing the run a few hundred metres ahead of me, I fell to my knees and started dry retching with Gotwaltz cursing my existence above me. He struck me on the back of the head and I finally found something to bring up and deposited it on his lower leg. He pushed my face into the dirt and as I looked up he was storming off wiping the bile off his leg with a small bush. That would be the last time I’d see him for 12 months. A few minutes later I shuffled to the finish line where Lt Tolmie ordered me to go to the RAP where I was admitted to the base hospital with pneumonia and given a jab in the butt immediately. 

For the next 10 days a physiotherapist popped in and lay me face down on her bench at a  30 degree angle, before chopping her hands on the back of my bare shoulders until I had brought up all the poison off my chest and into a stainless steel mug.

There were 2 x options post getting out of hospital. Go home to nothing in Perth or spend a few days in what’s called ‘company holdovers” and return to a new platoon to continue training. C Company holdovers was a dozen bunk beds above the quartermaster store run by Staff Sergeant Dennis Donovan. The quartermaster store is where the Company’s vital equipment such as weapons are kept securely. Some of the other recruits in holdover were dubious characters at best. I remember one guy who slept with his eyes open which freaked me out a bit but there was one guy especially whose “belt didn’t go through all the loops” if you know what I mean. When a pistol was discovered to be missing, he was the prime suspect but he lagged me in so I had to go through 2 days of robust investigation. It was insane. Do you choose the crazed, gun loving nutbag who is being discharged because of his homicidal fantasies, or do you choose the hapless, numbskull pacifist who gushes at the sight of a puppy? Case closed. He was gone the next day. 

Dennis Donovan convinced me that staying the course of the training would be the best thing I could ever do. A veteran of the Battle of Long Tan, Dennis was the first person of rank that spoke to me like a human being. I am indebted to him to this day and upon graduating Kapooka I bought him an engraved Parker pen and pencil set.

This has gone a bit long but I do want to tell a disturbing story, the likes of which I have never heard and I doubt you have either. It is incredibly embarrassing but I hope you will see the funny side of it as I always have. It’s not bawdy or anything like that, give me some credit. It’s just difficult to write that’s all…..

Deep Breath I’ve mentioned that we were housed in a block with 48 recruits, and we were named 25 Platoon. The block had a long hallway down the middle with rooms either side and the ablutions/showers down one end. Whenever one of the staff (Tolmie, Gotwaltz, a Sergeant and 3 x other corporals) yelled out, “Hallway 25!”, you literally had to drop whatever you were doing and get into that hallway immediately or the entire platoon would be punished. 

By week 2, I had discovered that I needed my daily “number 2’s” (I told you didn’t I? If you’re a little squeamish go now, otherwise strap yourself in) straight after lunch and for some God forsaken reason Gotwaltz called “Hallway 25!” on consecutive days during that week, which meant that my usual meticulous standard of personal hygiene had to be compromised in order to get into that bloody hallway.

So the weekend comes and although we were still working we were given a bit of respite. I parked myself on the chamber after lunch and it just didn’t feel right. There appeared to be a restriction to the exit passage in the form of what can only be described as an “external hair and faecal build up.” Oh my God, I’m so sorry.  Now, as a 17YO I was very confused at the best of times but this was terrifying. What the hell are you going to do you fool?  I couldn’t go to the RAP. “What is it soldier?” “Um, I’ve got a sheep’s dag hanging off my arse sir.”

So I came up with a plan. I waited till the entire platoon was asleep, then tip-toed to the shower block armed with a towel and a pair of scissors. I stripped off and turned the shower on as hot as I could take it, then I bent over with my arse as high as I could get, pointing to the shower. I let the downstairs area get warm then with my left hand, cupped my genitals for protection, then with my right hand clasping the scissors, reached under and as delicately as I could in the dark, snipped off the offending, demonic appendage.

I often wondered years later what someone would have seen had they turned the lights on? If I had white face paint on, perhaps I could have passed for an Eastern European performance artist booked to appear at Mona in Hobart?  I doubt whether I would have been able to explain myself and it may well have ended my military career right there. Not my finest moment, but I feel better now.

Anyway after chatting to Dennis I finished my training with 27 Platoon and with my health back I breezed through and proudly marched out.  The only difficulty came with the gas training. You go into a tent full of CS gas 3 x times with different stages of protection. Problem was my mask wouldn’t seal. Similar to a diving mask, it’s imperative to have a perfect seal on a gas mask. For the first venture into the tent, you have your mask on and the instructors are in there, fully protected. They tell you to break the seal momentarily, allow some gas in, then “clear it” which is a simple process. I tried to clear, but the gas kept coming in so by the time they let me out I was coughing madly and snot was dripping uncontrollably much to the amusement of my mates. The second trip requires you to take the mask off fully when instructed, then after 10 seconds, put it back on and clear. Same thing but worse. The third time you run in without your mask, cop a big dose for 30 seconds, then when told, put the mask on and clear. CS gas attacks sweat, so on top of the snot and watery eyes, my underarms and neck in particular were on fire. I was engaged in some bizarre primitive dance outside the tent in order to free myself of the horror! In the years ahead it was mandatory to do gas training if you were in a field force unit (being ready to go to war within 24 hours) so I did it a couple more times with the utmost trepidation.

A couple of weeks prior to graduating you have to go bush for a few nights to experience what will become a fairly regular fixture on a soldier’s calendar. When you come out of the bush tired and filthy after a few days, you have to complete “The Challenge”, a 15km route march complete with obstacle course. Once completed, you then march to the SMR (Semi-Mechanical Range) and shoot 10 rounds at pop up targets. Finish that and you’re nearly done. There is a lot of safety surrounding the use of weapons in the army as you can imagine. An SLR bullet goes into a body at its diameter and exits out the back 50 times larger, so if you fucked up on the range you triggered nightmares for the staff, many of whom had actively served overseas and had zero tolerance for fools. I don’t remember his name, I just remember he came from Mandurah in WA, but he stood up to shoot on the range utterly exhausted after The Challenge. Once finished, the command was always “unload” I still remember it! Far Out! Click Safe, remove magazine, cock, lock, look, clear, catch, press, catch. This kid, lets call him Drew, didn’t do the “look” which required him to check if there was a round in the chamber. If he had seen it, he would have cleared the shell but not only was he about to fire an erroneous 7.62mm round, but his rifle, in his tiredness, had strayed from directly down range where it always should be, to approximately 45 degrees left. The bullet missed the Sergeant by about 10m but it was enough for him to sprint over, rugby tackle him to the ground and punch him a couple of times in the face. 

The second last week consisted of graduation march out practice and the opportunity to wear my giant pimple. During the week we had a break from practice to watch the classic British war movie from the 60s, Zulu. The message from the film is three-fold, you must never give in, look after your mates at all times and be disciplined enough to execute as you’ve been trained. As the Zulus storm through the barricades at Rorke’s Drift to the hopelessly outnumbered British, the troops maintain their trained formations and despite heavy losses they were able to save a significant number and force a retreat from the Zulus. Dennis and his mates at Long Tan took exactly the same measures with the Viet Cong as their adversary in 1966. 

I felt really proud the day I marched out and with my new found income I was able to bring my parents over for it then send them to Melbourne to see my sister. My dad was a British commando during WW2 and suffered big time post the war, never giving any of his kids any insight into what happened, although just prior to his death I discovered he’d spent 9 months under constant bombing protecting Malta. He also fought in Palestine, Africa and Europe. We didn’t have a great relationship but I know he was proud that day.

Me and squad mates

27 Platoon

Me and Mum day before graduation

Me and Dad day before graduation with Mum’s finger

A few beers at the “boozer” a week before march out

Post march out parade with mates

With Mum and Dad post march out parade wearing the infamous ill fitting slouch hat

In closing, approximately a year later I returned to Wagga Wagga to study as a soldier with the Air Force at their training base on the other side of town. My RAAF friend Eddie and I were in town one Saturday morning shopping. On the way in I was telling him about the infamous Cpl Gotwaltz and how determined I was for revenge. He’s a dead man when I get a hold of him Eddie  We walked into a bookshop and there he was, but bigger now. More Tony Locket than Boony. Eddie turned to me and said, “You gonna take him out?” “Nah…I’ll catch him next time.”

It aint easy being green. 61 Airframe “The Flying Wombats” Trade training RAAF Base Wagga Wagga

Thanks for reading. Sorry it’s a bit long. If you need help to erase the visual of the shower scene, I can recommend a fine shrink 🙂 Cheers