Stories from the War. An Epilogue.

I load up the last of my belongings into the boot. I always imagined it would end with me walking out of the front gates with my head held high but today I’ve borrowed my mom’s car so that I can bring home the remainder of personal rubbish I’ve left in the bunk. I start up the engine of the space wagon slowly reverse out of the parking lot. My platoon sergeant Khairil, who is taking a lift outside and I wave goodbye to some of the men at the smoking corner. They are part of the so-called ‘fit batch’ who managed to meet physical requirements before enlisting to avoid an extended service unlike the majority of the company. I watch as they enjoy their last few drags at the place where they’ve spent so much time over these two years. It makes smoking seem almost justifiable.

Among them is one from my section, a slightly overweight guy. He claims he used to be skinny before army but I guess I’ll never really know. We’re cruising down the road leading to the guard house. Many stories are told of people leaving for the last time and shouting the customary ‘ORD Lo’ into the faces of the poor guards on duty. A part of me weighs the effectiveness of this act done drive-thru style but I just them a give a friendly wave.

As I pass through the gates, I feel nothing. The occasion is not as momentous as I thought it would be. What next? Get home, sort out my stuff, then what? I drop off Khairil at the road junction and head for the expressway. It’s been one year and ten months. Am I a different person? Have I grown in any way? Have I learnt anything from my time served? These are not questions for me to answer. I turn on the radio.

I guess there are worst ways to spend your time, that’s for sure.

Stories from the War #42

Wake up. Someone beside me gives me a nudge. I find myself lying on my signal set with my rifle on my chest in a small field. What am I doing here? Who are all these people? Men in green, sitting, squatting and kneeling in rows. Wake up, says my friend. I look up and recognise this friend of mine and things start falling into place. The mission. Damn the mission. Last I remember was marching to this spot through the wee hours of the morning. We stopped to wait for the company up ahead to finish with their fight.

In a distant, gunfire is heard. I check my watch. Only ten minutes have passed since I dozed off but I feel like I’ve been out for hours. Blame it on the dream. I strain myself to recall some of it but it’s like trying to catch smoke in your hands. All I’m left with is a mildly pleasant fuzziness but even that disappears as I see the soldiers at the front of the line starting to get up. The fuzziness is no longer pleasant as I fumble with my pack and my legs ache and groan under me as I try to get back on my feet. There is a sharp pain in my shoulders when I am finally upright. I desperately grab at my fieldpack strap, which is twisted and causing the pain. The sun has been up for some time but the weather is still cool. There will be time for scorching hot later I guess.

Soon the whole company moves out and we walk a short distance through the field. The gunfire has stopped, which signals our turn to attack. I follow the lead of my platoon commander. He is a veteran commando, an elite. Unlike the rest of us infantry grunts, he’s been through years of red beret old school. Uncompromising and unforgiving would describe him best. The kind of person you are more afraid of when they behave too kindly. I check my signal set for reception, fearing a helmet bash. Just days ago I watched as a platoon mate was punched in the helmet for being too exhausted to react and I found myself on the receiving end of one soon after for having flat batteries in my signal set, even though there was no way I could’ve prevented that. Like they say, there’s no school like old school.

The company soon splits up into platoons and each move to their respective knolls. We follow another platoon to the foot of one knoll and wait for awhile. There is gunfire heard. The other platoon has already begun their attack. To be honest I have no idea where we are going and where the enemy is. All I know is to follow the leader. We march hurriedly up some winding trails to the objective.Things are still going fine for my platoon but I sense much confusion from the rest of the company. Lots of shouting from too many people is always a bad sign. Some small groups of friendly soldiers dart across the paths and on the slopes I see isolated bunches of soldiers heading in no particular direction. It is messy.

A most epic scene unfolds in front of me. Another platoon commander is desperately trying to regain control of his battle and is barking out orders left and right to his faraway soldiers. Beside him is his runner, like me. There is a fire in the runner’s eyes. In an effort to help his pc, he shouts loudly for the section. Very loudly, with the fire in his eyes burning bright. For a moment there I am transported by his call to another world that runs parallel, where the runner a real runner in this war that is real and the guns are real and the bullets are real and the enemies are real and the cause is real. I feel like fighting, sacrificing, protecting, killing, doing all the things a real soldier should do. But the surrealism ends when the pc promptly asks him to shut up. Shittiness refills the void. The moment is lost.

We arrive at our knoll. Enemy is on top, we are below. They haven’t started shooting at us and my pc takes full advantage of the situation, ordering the platoon to get their asses up the slope. Easier said than done. We are in orange plantation land and a thick forest of neck-high orange trees lay between us and the top. There is some confusion amongst the sections on how to get up but some encouraging swear words get them scrambling to find some routes.

One section decides to go round the long way while the other two slowly pick their way through a narrow winding trail through the orange bushes. With my signal set and antenna sticking out from my back, it won’t be easy going through all those branches so I make for the long way but I realise my pc has already disappeared into the greens in true commando fashion. I quote Ralph Waldo Emerson, Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail. It’s this or a helmet bash and I choose the former. Ducking my head, I plunge helmet first into the bush, bashing my way through the orange trees. My hands claw through the wall of twig and leaf while my helmet is the battering ram. Countless times I feel my antenna snag onto a branch but I push myself forward forcefully, with leaves in my mouth and the smell of citrus in my nose.

It feels like a long time before I emerge into the sunlight. My pc gives me a look that says ‘about time you showed up’. We wait for the rest of the platoon to come straggling out of the bushes or the side of the slope. It takes a few minutes and I now have some idea as to why the other platoons are in such a mess. Soon my pc decides it’s time and we continue the climb up the knoll with the ’survivors’ of the climb. As we leave I hear a few cries from the orange trees below. Along the way we spot ‘dead’ enemies lying in bushes, eating biscuits and some taking a nap. Weird since we haven’t shot at them yet. At the top of the knoll two sections are sent to comb the area for enemies but there are none. I get ready to give a situational report through the signal set. Over the radio I catch fragments of sentences and piece them together with the conversation between my pc and the umpire, getting a rough picture of the situation.

Apparently another platoon came up the wrong way and helped us clear our knoll. That explains much. Orders are given to the sections to expend ammo into the direction of an opposite knoll and at the same time, ‘aiding’ the fight of the other platoon. I pass my ammo to some soldier, then lean back on my signal set and continue listening to the chatter on the radio. It’s that runner again, shouting something into his comm set. Another pc tells his pc that there is something wrong with that guy. I am just audience to what has been an amusing comedy.

pain

a cruel yet effective teacher. my shoulder is destroyed.

Summary From Australia

Damn, I could live here. No fancy travelogue writing, just a very brief summary of the trip so far.

Spent today body surfing at Bondi Beach in Sydney. Great waves and water. After that we took a long hike along the coast south to Cogee Beach. Really beautiful sights along the way, it’s hard to imagine the city center is only a short bus ride away.

Gold Coast, didn’t really understand what it was about until I saw the beaches. First few days were spent just walking around the town area and eating overpriced food. Visited Movie World which is alright and the Australia Zoo (Steve Irwin’s image is everywhere, I miss the TV show.) which involved a trip up north.

Third day morning was spent on a short kayaking tour to a very quiet South Stradbroke island followed by some wallaby-tracking. Only saw a few but the stories told by the guides were pretty cool, mostly badass hunting stories. Saw a couple of dolphins on the way back, then we went to the beach to watch the sea sports.

Headed up to Brisbane the next day, really pretty city with plenty of sights. Then over to Sydney in the evening, another pretty city and we did some sightseeing on foot yesterday.

And here I am.

Gold90

Just a few tunes that made my ears perk up in the car:

‘A Mi Manera’, which is ‘My Way’ in sung in Spanish by the Gipsy Kings. Great rhythm.

‘The Lady Wants to Know’, by Michael Franks. A real gem.

Song that starts off with nanana, nanana, nanana, nanana. Can’t seem to find the title, it sounds way better than it looks here.

Got some new comply earbuds for my mp3 player, which I have not listened to in awhile because my previous earbuds tore. John Mayer’s Battle Studies album did not move me much.

The Results Ceremony

In this cavernous hall, a thousand young things once

sat at plastic desks scribbling furiously,

graphs, equations, essays,

each page a visa, filled for the passports

to their fates.

In this same grey hall the thousand young things

are now seated as the principal recites her superfluous

speech whilst they fidget in their rows. Suddenly

a name is called. 14 Distinctions! The boy, now made

a man, feigns surprise as is customary and humbly accepts

his slip of paper, his ticket to the academic high-life.

All this whilst

the majority give their hearty applause,

the class clowns offer their wisecracks to the air,

the slackers try to appear nonchalant,

the intellects spout out social commentary.

I’d like to imagine that there was a moment of hesitation

before the applause, a split second of silence, the

sound of each heart wishing they had that golden ticket

to

rip them out from this uncomfortable mediocrity.

New rig

Found and bought a new bike yesterday. Well, not exactly new. It’s at least third-hand according to its latest owner who sold it for only 350 dollars. A 2006 Trek 4300 with disc brakes. Not in perfect condition, it’s a little rusty here and there but I’d rather it been underused than overused. Been trying to bringing down to a shop for some cleaning up and servicing but it’s been raining all day. Just hoping it doesn’t fall apart that easily on the trails.

Brushes with mortality #325

It was my third day on the slopes. The past two mornings had been spent doing lessons by a dude named Mario followed by an afternoon of tagging along with my cousins, much more experienced in skiing and snowboarding than me. I couldn’t even call myself amateur yet though, not when I had problems doing a proper skid stop. Speed didn’t seem to be an issue for me though, and perhaps it was the problem to begin with. I was eager and hungry to take it up a notch, to do more, go further.

Control. That’s the word that kept popping up everytime I plunged into a descent. Don’t lean back too much, shoulder widths, weight shifting. All the tips that had been imparted to me I tried to put to motion but it was a clumsy effort at best. Speed was the drug here. It produced the rush of wind past my ears, the sound of my skis brushing and slicing through ice and snow. The whole scenery of white rolling hills seemed to be suspended in time even as one was in motion. I knew the basic speed controlling technique, the snow plow which was equivalent to keeping a finger or two on the brakes but I seldom used it, not wanting any sluggishness that might detract me from the experience.

Thus, I chose to be terrified. I don’t think that there was one slope where I ever felt like I had nailed it or had absolute control over. It was just making it up as I go. A struggle to the bottom to stay on my two skis and relying on near misses. Many times I wiped out of course but the adrenaline rush was none like I had ever experienced before. It was like getting through one of the obstacles on Takeshi’s castle. It was ridiculously fun.

Then came that slope. On the guide map, it was labelled as intermediate and as a newbie it was definitely the steepest and longest I had encountered so far. As I stood at the edge, a part of me felt like pulling up and heading down another way. But of course I didn’t. Something in me reasoned that what was dangerous must be tackled head on, fearlessly. I probably didn’t have the skills to pull this off, nor the confidence. Guess I would have to learn along the way. I shifted my weight towards the edge and began the plunge, following in the dust of  my cousin.

The slope was rather icy, meaning that it was harder for me to get a grip on the ground and I let a ski or two slide a few times. Carving the slope was manageable at first but then my speed started shooting up drastically and I just kept going faster till I hit the point of no return. Trying to do a turn at this speed, with my skills, was near impossible. One aspect of skiing that can be intimidating to grasp is that one has to lean forward in order to keep control. It also increases your speed. Lean back though and you’ll just start wobbling and eventually flip. Right then as I was whizzing down the slope at a speed I did not know how to stop, leaning forward required an act of faith which I no longer had. Fear gripped me and I flipped.

It really happens in a pseudo slow motion, like they always write about in books and on TV. The point of no return. I was very aware of when I was going to wipeout. It didn’t catch me by surprise or anything. In fact it was almost like I had been anticipating it all this while. Perhaps some part of my mind had even decided it was better for me to crash while it was still safe to. My ass hit the ground first, followed by my entire body as I tumbled down the slope. I remember there being a rhythm to it all. When my head was up I could hear the sound of rushing air, then things would get muffled up and all I would hear was the snow and ice crunching beneath me. Repeat. Repeat. What I saw was less interesting. Just whiteness everywhere and the occasional glimpse of the sky.

After some time I felt the ground soften and realised I was now tumbling off the main slope where the snow was looser so things got a little more comfortable as I waited out this long and painful ride. Something hit my face hard along the way. It had to hurt like hell I imagine, but the shock kind of numbed the impact for me. It took sometime before I found out that I had stopped moving and I was just sprawled on my back beside the piste, staring at the sky. To be honest, I wasn’t even sure I was alive. A few seconds later I submitted to the fact that I was not yet dead but I expected some stuff to be broken at least, I really did. I moved both my arms, trying to feel any sharp pains but there was just an aching throb. Then I found my legs still kicking. At least they were still attached. I felt rather optimistic at that point but then I saw blood, lots of it, on the front of my jacket.

Something from above was dripping and I deduced that the source had to be somewhere on my head. I felt my nose, mouth and cheeks for any wetness of blood and then my hair but there was nothing unusual. I tested vision in both my eyes in case one was missing. Then I felt my neck from collarbone up and my finger suddenly slid into something slimy. There was a gaping hole in my chin, spilling blood all over the snow. I would discover a nasty surprise on my left knee when I got to the bottom of the slope but at that moment I just laid back down on the soft reddened snow and laughed quietly to myself.  Laughing, because I had not felt this alive in years.

So much time, so little money.

Woodcutter’s trail on saturday was quite fun. Bike gave problems even before we started and I had to rip off half the rear brakes so that it wouldn’t rub on the rim. Tackled some real muddy terrain due to rain from the previous night. Surprisingly, my Urata 315 Victorious managed to handle the trail pretty well, performance on the slippery areas and uphills weren’t an issue, frame took the shocks pretty well despite no suspension. Sadly, the rough terrain proved too much for this humble market bicycle and the seat was the first to go about 3/4 through, tilting upwards or sideways after each bump and threatening to throw me off. Handlebar was next, almost destroying my wrists when it gave way inwards after going over one particularly large root. Frequent tightenings with my trusty wrench fixed them up only to last through a few bumps.

Came out of the vegetation muddied and with an aching back. Thankfully derric’s uncle picked us up in a lorry after a short 2 wait of two hours, sparing me from having to ride back on my thrashed up bike.

That’s me at the end of the trail with my $95 Urata 315 Victorious. Brought a helmet in case the rear wheel gave way. If you look closely you’ll see the pink bell which the shop uncle threw in for free. It is probably the only component of the bike that still works properly.

In my efforts to raise money for a new bike, I decided to sell my underused Kala Ukulele. Took it out of the case to check the model and ended up playing it for abit too long. The magic of four strings is that I can still play some songs on it even after more than a year of not touching the ukulele. Put it back in the case reluctantly. I shall have to mull over this for a few days before making my decision.

From the archives

Wrestlers

 

The starting horn — sets off a stampede,

I a part of the herd.

Fancying myself the shifting winds,

I weave and dodge through the masses

 

till I emerge

 

where the crowd is thin.

Here I draw a private circle around myself,

my sacred ring, where another competition

is taking place. Two identical figures

locked in a brutal embrace

under the dim arena lights.

huffing

grunting

in sync with

my heart rate.

 

The referee watches keenly

but silently. Like the lone spectator

in the stands, he knows that this

is merely a re-run.

 

It is beyond my perspectives

to decide which of these am I,

but this I know:

The referee will not intervene,

The spectator will not cheer,

The wrestlers will not back down.

 

I am running along this lonely forest trail

aching and tired,

with only these

quiet images

to keep me company.