Many moons ago I heard the call to serve my country. As it turns out, at that time, the country needed someone to lug heavy shit around the bush and stand around in the sun. So I joined the Army.

Actually, that's not entirely true, the Air Force told me they wouldn't let me be a pilot anymore, and the Army offered the chance to continue boozing up with my mates in Canberra for another year or two. But that's another story.

For the most part being in the Army at the Defence Academy in Canberra is pretty much the same as being in any of the other services. You get up early, you get yelled at, you go to class, you get yelled at, you get yelled at and well..... you get it. At the start and end of each semester however, we bugger off and do Army stuff by ourselves. It is during one of these little single service outings where the following tale of woe comes from.

So while the Navy were off on the Central Coast sitting by a pool, and the Air Force were in Melbourne playing endless golf and waving their hands around, making whooshing sounds at girls in bars, my Army brethren and I had the privilege of buggering off to the endless beauty of the Kapooka training area, just outside the middle of nowhere. Our job for two and a half weeks, was to wander around the bush trying to find the two blokes who had been roped into playing our enemy. So me and my band of merry brothers set off into the bush to learn how to be soldiers.

Now, on this one particular day we set off on a patrol to find our two 'enemies.' I had my doubts initially as to whether we were going to find them anytime soon, since as we were leaving our overnight camp, they were still sleeping soundly. Also, since our patrol route for that day would take us about five kilometres away from our camp, and then back again, I was pretty sure that we would not be coming into contact until much later on that afternoon. But no matter, off we went into the bush, carrying lots of crap. Normal day in the Army. Of course, we went through the motions for the entire day. This meant walking very slowly, scanning the bush and looking nasty and stuff. Given the need to stay 'tactical' it also meant no talking to anyone.

The only means of communication between the entire platoon, spread out over the distance of about four hundred metres was a confusing set of hand signals, designed more for their ability to look cool than their usefulness in conveying information. So, every time someone thought they saw something, or needed a drink, or a piss, or anything, the whole platoon would stop, and have to drop to the ground. After which would follow a couple of confusing minutes where everyone else would try and figure out what the hell was going on, until such time as whoever had called a stop to proceedings got back up and walked on. At this point, everyone else would get up and walk on too, none the wiser as to why we had stopped in the first place. This pattern repeated all day, with a brief break for lunch in the middle.

Then I reached the point where I had to break the pattern and do things my own way.

By about half way through the day I pretty much had the shits with getting all the way down onto my stomach every time someone up the front farted, so I, along with all the blokes around me, had taken to just dropping down on one knee to save time and effort. Great plan, cut down on effort time and injury, and it's not like anyone's really shooting at us.

Now at this point I have to confirm the rumour about 'going commando.' The prospect of walking through the scrub, in the blazing heat, all day, is bad enough, without throwing in the threat of chaffing. So, simple solution is to leave the Reginald Grundies in the pack and go 'au naturale' under the pants. The plan was working a treat until, during yet another stop, a knee and the stitching of my pants let go and all my secrets and glory dropped to the ground with a thud. Or, at least, it would have been a thud, had Mother Nature not chosen that particular part of the planet to locate an especially spiny and nasty thistle.

So at that point I abandoned thoughts of tactical surprise and patrol discipline and took off screaming through the bush, tearing spines and prickles out of my tackle. Meanwhile all the blokes around me rolled around the ground in fits of laughter.

I'm pretty sure the advertising campaign for the Army at the time was bring out your best. I, for one, can say: Not to be taken literally.

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