Becoming a nobody

The day finally arrived for me to report to CMPB (central manpower base at Dempsey Road) for pick up to start my National Service. The night before was spent deciding what to pack. My brother, who went through it before, had advice to offer: "Just bring the essentials. You won't have time for anything else." That was rather spartan but true. In the end, I actually did just bring the bare essentials: A cup, toothbrush, towel, bath soap and washing powder (with brush). My brother also said there was no need for shampoo. "You are going to be botak for a while." My mom was more concerned and made me bring along medicine for diarrhea, as well as Axe-brand oil for headaches and Anthisan cream for mosquito bites. She had also asked her medium friend to give me a "fu" or protection amulet. It was a piece of yellow paper printed with Taoist symbols and blessed with a red-ink chop. It was then folded into a small triangular shape. She also gave me a token of a tiger cub nail (rather flat and dark brown, actually) that was supposedly a symbol of tenacity. I took both and kept them in my wallet. I was never superstitious but I took it for her blessings. I've always humoured my mom like that. For clothes, a pair of sportive shorts and tee, a set of formal clothes for booking out and of course, plenty of used underwear (faded but still good for the family jewels. As I would find out later, it is difficult to fight a war in loose underwear!) My brother said good underwear was often stolen from the clothes lines. He also advised me to bring along lots of rags to clean out dust and dirt from the bunks and cabinets; and for de-oiling the rifles. It turned out to be the best advice of all. I also brought along a favourite white sports jacket (with blue trim and woollen cuffs) in case the weather turned cold. It was bought from Katong Shopping Centre when I dated a girl from that area. This garment would accompany me throughout my NS journey including my maiden training trip overseas later. My mom is not a person given to histrionics on farewell occasions. She looks upon farewells as temporary - a chance to say hello again, so my going to NS, although notable, was essentially a non-event. Her attitude has always been: If something needs doing, just get it done. She is efficient and practical like that. And as I was often the family's errand boy who always somehow manages to get things done and return home in one piece, that gave her confidence. I think my mom worried more for my brother during his NS time. In any case, she did assure me that "leong lin wui ho fai chow kor" (two years will pass very quickly). Deep down, I knew she worried like the rest of the moms there but I was also trying to put on a brave face so as not let her worry. I ended up looking nonchalant. I gave her the standard "Hai ler, chi toh lah" (Yeah, I know already), took my bag, climbed onto the back of a three-tonner, waved goodbye and was soon part of a convoy out of CMPB on my way to somewhere. No tears, no wayang. It was 7-something in the morning, the sun was shining and the weather was in a good mood too. The army trucks took us to a supply depot in Choa Chu Kang where we got our hair cut and later given our NS wardrobe of uniforms, caps, PT shorts, green socks and shoes - all still in their clear plastic bags. The PT (physical training) shoes were the China Man type: black and green soled, more popular with Boat Quay coolies and trishaw riders than, say, top performing soldiers. It would take the SAF some 10-12 years later to switch to Dunlop joggers (or some house brand). We would later get our SBO (skeletal battle order or what the army fellas call a "soldier bra organiser"), backpacks, water bottle, mess tins, rope, etc. from our respective BMT camps. Our hair was cut in an empty room that had a barber, his wall mirror and stool. We queued, got sheared by an electric shaver and out we went the other way. No one (at least in my queue) made a big fuss. We actually found it quite amusing. Most of us simply rubbed our new "durian heads" and snickered. Actually "durian head" is quite an apt term because a freshly crew-cut head is somewhat green in colour. Somebody I recognised remarked how much I looked like a monk. I know. Fortune tellers have been telling my mom that since I was young. When we arrived at our BMT camp, we spilled out from the trucks and found ourselves in a huge parade square. All around were three-storey high colonial buildings. Our names were called and we moved to the company and platoon that we had been administrated to. I was secretly hoping to see more of my pre-U classmates in my platoon but the persons I watched were heading somewhere else. I myself was assigned to platoon 17, Echo Company. 'Echo' I would later learn, was the letter E in military code-speak. Altogether, there were seven companies in my cohort, Company H (hotel, which turned out to be quite apt) being the last. No one knew what to expect, if their platoon commander or NCOs (i.e. corporals and sergeants) were nice or the unreasonable sorts. I would later find out that Echo company was the toughest of them all with my platoon commander being the chief "siao kow" or Mad Dog of the lot. When we next turned out in our PT kit (blue shorts, green mesh-like tee, woollen socks and black shoes) we knew "civi" life as we knew it then was now in the past. Instead of being nicely spoken to, we would be shouted at; instead of being asked for cooperation, we would be made to run and jump at will or do inexplicable things like cart your metal cupboard three stories down to the parade square in double quick time. We essentially became nobodies, and that was precisely what our platoon sergeant told us in no uncertain terms that very first day. "Recruits, do you know why you are called recruits?" He asked, in his Chinese-accented English. He was a fit, shortish fella with straight hair and who was surprisingly fair and smooth complexioned. In that aspect, he was quite the "gu niang". But he was a sergeant, which meant that (going by Combat! TV character stereotyping) he must be quite the troop leader and gung-ho. "Recruits, do you know why you are called recruits?" he asked again. We looked at one another, uncertain if to answer or not. In my head I knew we weren't recruited but sent there by law. The first rule of BMT training, my brother told me, is not to be "garang” and stand out too much. And more than that, no one likes a smart-aleck. And so I kept quiet. The sergeant continued, immaculate and smart in his crisp No. 3 uniform and looking very much the parade commander with his pace stick tucked under an arm. "You are called recruits because you have no rank. You are nobodies. Even a private is higher ranked than you!" That I found to be disconcertingly true. Imagine being ordered around by a neanderthal low-life of a private soldier. "From today onwards, when we ask you to jump, you jump. When we ask you to Drop 20, you Drop 20. Is that clear!" A nervous lone somebody shouted "Yes, sir!" and afterwards looked sheepish. A few guys found that funny and snickered. "And one more thing. You will not call me sir, I am not an officer. I am Sgt Wong. IS THAT CLEAR!" "YES, SIR! SGT WONG SIR." Clearly, we needed time to get that right. A corporal standing by the side drawled, "Sgt Wong, lah. Not sir...." "I SAY AGAIN, IS THAT CLEAR!" Sgt Wong bellowed one more time, face showing red. We did our best to shout back "Yes, Sgt Wong!". But Sgt Wong would have none of it. He teased us in a low voice instead. "I caan't heeear you...." It took another three "YES, SGT WONG" before he was satisfied. So, life as a recruit was going to be like that. I looked to my right and found a kindred soul; he seemed to be thinking the same thing. We later spoke. His name was Kwong and he, like me, was a troop commander of a uniform group during JC time. But he was in NCC though. Before we were dismissed Sgt Wong introduced us to our respective section corporals. There were two of them. Apparently a third would join in later. He turned out to be Cpl Raja. He wore a red beret. Uh-oh. Don't commandos wear red berets? My life as a fresh recruit at that instant took another ominous turn. First, we became nobodies; then we got a commando as a section head. My life in BMT seemed to have gotten off on the hard track. Was I going to have as tough a time in NS as my brother? Maybe worse. (Contributed as part of the NS45 campaign which commemorates the 45th anniversary of Singapore's National Service, with the theme of "From Fathers to Sons")