jack is back

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first platoon

when they say bmt is your most memorable period of your army life, they are absolutely correct. You go through the worst shit and the best shit of your life there and meet the best people there. Just to share my platoonmate’s essay on our unique life in bmt:

For many, the defining moment in BMT is field camp, most often thought of as the toughest experience during NS. However, what constitutes a defining moment? For one it has to be memorable; something that my platoon mates and I will recall decades from now. Secondly, it also has to be meaningful, which means that the experience must have had some sort of impact on a person's character or point of view. There are, of course, plenty of worthy candidates, like the nauseating smell of gunpowder of our first live shot, the nervousness of holding a live grenade, the cold unforgiving rain at SITEST, or even the despair we felt digging our first shell-scrape. Personally, I felt that none of these encapsulates my BMT experience as well as some of the routine day to day treatment my platoon received.

   I cannot say that this applies to the whole company, but Area Cleanings, a frequent exercise in the military, often send my platoon into a chaotic frenzy. People are shouting at each other, running around with buckets of water, and finding ways to reach inaccessible corners which dust and dirt apparently favours. Work is delegated, everyone rushes to do their duties, and every single time, somebody's figurative toe will get stepped on and tempers flare. It was one of  these frequent, mundane exercises that defined my BMT life.

   Time was up, and IC frantically shouted at everyone to form up along the corridor. A sudden spike in noise level was indicative of the last adjustments the platoon was making. We breathed a sigh of relief as the strength was accounted for in the nick of time. We all knew in our hearts what awaited us at the end of the 20 min inspection, but still secretly hopeful that by some miracle we escape with a reasonable punishment.    

   The Sergeant picks his way through our tidy bunks, scrutinising our work. Most people would be unable to find any speck of dust due to the thorough cleaning job, but not the sergeant. As if imbued with a sixth sense, he scans the area, then zeroes in on his target like a hungry predator. A swipe with his finger gathers no dust, so the sergeant drags his finger along the entire length of the bed frame multiple times.

   “What is this? One mistake.”

   Helpless, we watch as the sergeant inspects every nook and cranny, revealing mistake after mistake, enjoying like a three year-old on his first Easter Egg hunt. Our spirits continue to plummet as the mistake count steadily increases. Done with his inspection, the sergeant sends us scurrying to the gym.

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  Facing the floor, with sweat pouring off our chins, and our arms trembling with fatigue, everyone was pushed to their limits. At the back, several people developed breathing problems due to over-exertion. High pitched wheezing, heavy panting and even animal like groans were frequently broke the tense silence in the gym.

  "DOWN!"

  That was the word that we hated the most. All of us shakily tried our best to lower our trembling bodies with our arms. More sweat flows off our noses and soaks into the gym floor. Eyes shut, and with a grimace, we all sound off the count, "Thirty-nine!"

  For my platoon, being called down to the gym often means intense, prolonged suffering. While each "session" may last only about an hour at best, the experience is certainly way more intense than any other in BMT. Doing PT with profanities being screamed and hurled at us, I found that it is during these times where my endurance and character are tested, and often pushed to breaking point.

   Simply exhausted, someone's gives in to the pain and attempts a brief respite by resting their knees on the ground. Things like these should never be attempted as they never escape the sight of the vultures perching on the gym equipment watching us slowly die.

   “Still cannot do properly? Cannot give me standard push-ups? START FROM ZERO!”

   It is only logical to expect that as fatigue and muscular cramps set in, people would be less able to perform the streamline body shape, less able to lower their bodies. However, since when have military punishments followed logic? Sergeants have long had the ability to reject reality and substitute their own. Wishing nothing but to get the session over and done with as soon as possible, we struggle but manage to continue pushing the ground.

   “Eighty-Five!”

   Around this count, we start to find out more about ourselves. The pain now is excruciating and some start to give up. On the other hand, those with stronger determination continue to shout words of encouragement. At this point, there is little I can do but dig deep for the strength and perseverance I never knew I possessed. To take my mind off the present, pleasant and peaceful images, such as my next family gathering or my simple guppy bowl, float through my mind.

   “One hundred and sixty!”

   Nothing is working now. My senses work but I feel nothing but an incapacitating fatigue and the burning of my arms. It seems that the closer you are to the end-point, the more acutely aware you are of your suffering. We take it one at a time now, as our bodies are unwilling to give more. At the end, we all collapse and gasp for air like fish out of water. An unforgiving voice booms “Ranger hops Change!”. Having no power over our situation, our suffering continues. 

  That evening, one hour and 500 counts of 4 later, we were greeted with a cool evening breeze as we staggered out of the gym. It felt like we were entering an air-conditioned complex rather than stepping outdoors, and was a much needed gift after an hour of suffering in the suffocating confines of the gym. Marching off to dinner, we all sang at the top of our voices, perhaps scared stiff of the prospect of further punishment, but there was also a sense of camaraderie and pride stemming from the fact that we had just been to hell and back in one piece. There was something intangible in the air, perhaps a new found sense of unity, and probably also the pure joy of being liberated from our torture. To me, the pride we felt as a platoon immediately after that fateful event was one of the greatest highs in my entire BMT experience.

  Later, I met my friend, a 2-day-old enlistee in the cookhouse. He asked why my whole platoon wore dark green admin shirts. It was only then that I realised that every single one of us had soaked our admin completely, without a dry patch. When we look back, this will definitely be one of the episodes that stand out in our minds. When everybody suffers together, it brings the platoon closer, with another memorably painful shared experience added to our memories. I had trouble putting my spoon into my mouth that evening, as expected of victims of 500 counts of 4 of various exercises, but whenever my friends ask me where I'm from, I can proudly say that I'm from Platoon 1, Taurus Company.