My Tribute to a Fallen Lieutenant

“Be an example to your men, in your duty and in private life. Never spare yourself, and let the troops see that you don’tin your endurance of fatigue and privation. always be tactful and well-mannered and teach your subordinates to do the same. Avoid excessive sharpness or harshness of voice, which usually indicates the man who has shortcomings of his own to hide.”
– Field Marshall Erwin Rommel

The News

Platoon mate Eric burst into my bunk. “Have you heard the bad news?”

“What news?” I asked, expecting news such as an upcoming training to burn our precious weekend.

“Lieutenant Soo is dead.”

“WHAT?” I asked, expecting him to say he was only kidding.

But he wasn’t. “He was driving the 3-tonner during training . . . an accident . . . . Lieutenant Ong sitting next to him . . . injured.”

I was shocked. We often heard news of injuries, but death was a different matter. True, we had also heard of deaths of fellow commandos. That wasn’t unexpected because of our hazardous training, but this was the first time we faced a death of someone intimately involved with us. He was, after all, our Lieutenant, not that of another company three blocks away.

Who was Lieutenant Soo?

Actually, Lieutenant Soo wasn’t a commando, nor was he even in our commando unit. He was a signals officer from the School of Signals. A few months ago, he had been in charge of a batch of trainees that included a group from our commando unit.

We commandos were cross-trained. All were trained in signaling, medic, demolition, weapons etc. But each had his own specialty. Mine was signaling. So a group of us trainee commando signalers were attached to the School of Signals for a nine-week course.

We were delighted and relieved to be out of our parent (commando) unit for a while. No commando training during this period. What more could we ask? We looked forward to the attachment as a semi-holiday, but the school of signals had other ideas.

Rightly or wrongly, we commandos had a reputation (or stereotype) for being pugnacious and unruly. To keep us under control or some semblance of control, they chose their sternest officer to be in charge of us. Entered the uncompromising Lieutenant Soo. Trainees, commandos as well as the others, resented him.

But I had great respect for him. One of his deeds made me appreciate him although that very same deed made others resent him even more.

Interview with Lieutenant Soo

Each of us had a routine interview with him. My turn came. Sitting across his office table, I noticed that he towered over me. He was a big man with broad shoulders. His size was intimidating, especially when he was cross. He once berated a trainee, lifting the trainee by the collars which left the unfortunate soul in tears. (This trainee was not a commando trainee. He was from another unit.)

But here with me, he was now the gentle officer. He greeted me warmly. There was no hint at all that this same officer had left a trainee in tears. I told him about the relative lack of physical exercise in the signals course. Though we enjoyed such luxury, we would suffer upon return to our commando unit. He assured me he understood.

I also talked about my lower back problem and my anxiety caused by having to carry the heavy signal set. My injury was hard to prove. For example, X-rays failed to reveal my slipped disks. Slipped disks aren’t bones that can be photographed by X-rays but are made of a soft jelly-like substance. Instead of accusing me of being a faker as some of my commando instructors had done, he said he understood. He told me that one of his friends was also genuinely injured, but medical tests couldn’t prove it. The injury was real nonetheless. Though strict, he was an understanding officer with a listening ear. He’d earned my respect.

The Punishment

The following incident made me appreciate him even more. It happened a few days after the interview. He announced a barracks inspection. Untill then, we never had barracks inspection, so this news was a surprise. Nobody liked barracks inspection. Everyone grumbled.

During the inspection, he found faults (of course). Our toothpastes were not placed in a standardized manner, or the floor had a few atoms of dirt. He punished us with exercises from sit-ups to push-ups again and again. There were two bunkrooms. He punished each room alternately. Once, he left for the other room. We were left exhausted in the push-ups position. I heard murmurs, curses and swearing. We didn’t expect such hard physical training in this school. After all, we commando trainees had expected a holiday.

Resentment was welling up in me too. But then I remembered my interview with him: I felt there was a connection. He was giving us our much-needed physical training as I had requested (apologies to the non-commando trainees). The room inspection was merely a pretext to give us exercise. From then on I endured the punishment ever gladly, knowing it was for our own good.

At the Funeral

At his funeral, one of his corporals, who was one of our signals instructors, told us something I hadn’t known before. He said Lieutenant Soo was a trusting person who believed in honor. For example, when a trainee was on medical leave, military orders required that he be home. Once, the corporal suggested that Soo call a trainee’s home to check, but Lieutenant Soo refused. He preferred to let the trainee rest rather than be interrupted by a phone call from his prowling and suspicious officer. Such trusting quality was rare in the army where the norm was a cat-and-mouse game of hide-and-seek.

As I sat at the table at the funeral, I saw Lieutenant Ong sitting at another table. His head was heavily bandaged; he looked dazed. There was none of his usual cheerful and lustrous self. He had lost a close friend in Lieutenant Soo. At the same table was Lieutenant Soo’s inconsolable girlfriend crying without ceasing.

We had lost an officer who had been kind to us. The Singapore Army had lost a competent but compassionate officer. It was rare to have these qualities in the same officer. He was truly an officer and a gentleman. I was back at my commando unit when he died, but I would never forget him.

The punishment that Lieutenant Soo meted out reminded me of the ways God dealt with us. What God did to us may seem mean at that time, and our initial reaction was to feel bitter. But He had a perfectly good reason for why He did certain things, which we may be unaware of during times of pain. Instead of being grateful, we were like the trainees who swore and cursed.

One bright note to end this tribute – Lieutenant Soo accepted Jesus Christ before he departed. He is now in Heaven in the company of the compassionate God he modeled after.

The secret of war lies in the communications.
– Napoleon Bonaparte

1 comment 2010/05/08

My Tribute to RSM Sam Choo

Regard your soldiers as your children, and they will follow you into the deepest valleys.
Look on them as your own beloved sons, and they will stand by you even unto death!
– Sun Tzu, the Art of War

A Great Commando: RSM Sam Choo

RSM Sam Choo was our RSM (Regimental Sergeant Major). The RSM maintained unit discipline. Although his role was similar to that of a school’s discipline master, the RSM was much tougher. RSMs usually had a fearsome reputation and were revered by all, including officers.

RSM Sam Choo was no exception. A disciplinarian, he was the RSM of all RSMs. Many of us flout rules and regulations, but no one dared try anything funny with RSM Choo. Although he was much feared, he was popular. (Another sergeant had this quality — strict yet popular. See (“Rude Early Morning Awakening“).

RSM Choo always dressed smartly and neatly, his uniform immaculately turned out as though he was on parade before the Prime Minister every day. It was his way of taking his job seriously. He walked with an air of confidence and authority, though not of cockiness. His steps were bold and sure. Without the aid of a loudspeaker, his commands could be heard from the length of two football fields away.

One encounter with RSM Choo left me an impression. On a sunny afternoon, we were at the parade square standing in formation, possibly wating for parade practice. He knew that we had time to kill, so he walked to us. I noticed that his uniform was full of medals, awards and decorations. I was in awe. He proceeded with a long monologue, the main point being that most of our problems were “self-created.” Therefore, grumbling and complaining was useless. He also spoke against cowardice. “In all wars, there are cowards, but the coward will be the first shot by an enemy sniper. Yes, the enemy sniper will aim and fire. Guess who the bullet will strike?” He paused for effect, then answered himself, “The great coward!”

It was not so much the content of his speech. Rather, it was obvious to all that beneath his strict exterior, he cared for the common rank-and-file bottom-of-the-rung soldiers like us. The common soldier could tell if an officer or N.C.O. truly cared. It was not that we resented the strict sergeants and officers while liking the easier ones. It wasn’t that simple. Some strict sergeants were popular and well liked. RSM Choo was a prime example.

A few years ago, I read an army article announcing RSM Choo’s death from stomach cancer. I was grieved. Fond memories of him and the old army days flooded my mind. The General-secretary of the Singapore National Olympic Council Lieutenant-Colonel Chris Chan said, “He was an icon not just for the commandos, but the whole army. Indeed, all the regulars in the army know who’s Sam Choo.”

I wasn’t a regular, but I had the honor of meeting RSM Choo. Thank you, RSM Choo, for teaching us discipline and for the pleasant memories. We miss your thundering commands. For Honor and Glory!

Old soldiers never die; they just fade away.
– General Douglas MacArthur

2 comments 2010/05/08

Heat Exhaustion

1 As the deer pants for streams of water,
so my soul pants for you, O God.
2 My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.
When can I go and meet with God?
Psalm 42:1,2 Bible (NIV)

Deep Jungle That's me resting during an exercise. 1986 or 1987.

For the first time in my life, I experienced the agony of heat exhaustion. I discovered how my body functioned – or rather dysfunctioned – when severely dehydrated. It happened deep in the Equatorial jungles of a foreign country far away from our home country of Singapore. The terrain was mountainous with thick vegetation. The rivers, our only source of water, flowed freely in the lush green valleys, but high up the mountains, water was scarce.

We were laden with fullpacks and other gear. My load was heavier than average. In addition to the heavy and bulky PRC-25 signal set, I was carrying the Ultimax 100. The Ultimax 100 was reputed to be the lightest machine gun in the world, but it was still heavier than the assault rifle I usually carried. (Those carrying the signal sets normally carried assault rifles, not machine guns). We had been on the move for days. Today, we were moving towards a mountaintop. As the long journey wore on, we came across fewer and fewer rivers. The higher you go, the fewer rivers there are. Soon, we had drained our last drop of water in our bottles.

I was beginning to feel dehydrated. At first, I thought it was just normal thirst that affected everyone alike, but I became weaker and weaker. I cannot recall the exact moment the heat exhaustion occurred. I didn’t even know if it occurred at a particular moment or whether it was gradual. But my body, particularly my limbs, became very weak and not merely because of the usual physical exertion. I felt like fainting. My eyes played tricks on me. The horizon began to move up and down like the wings of an aircraft turning right and left. My head was spinning wildly.

The officers were informed about my condition. The young Second Lieutenants responded by hurling insults at me, shouting harshly at me to carry on, and insinuating that I was faking it. However, a few platoon mates lightened my load by carrying my machine gun. This helped, but I still had my heavy fullpack with the signal set. Unlike the new Second Lieutenants, my platoon mates knew that I was not one to fake a condition or injury. (The new officers came from another company. They had recently completed Officer Cadet School and were assigned to our company as Platoon Commanders.) Till then, I had never quitted any exercise. I was fitter than average too, which was why I volunteered to carry the machine gun.

So I staggered on – my mind in a dazed. I tried hard not to faint. “Raymond’s mind is affected,” section leader Corporal Toh said. “He can’t see where he’s going.” Only then did I realize that I had wandered from the trail to the thick woods. Corporal Toh ordered two section mates to pull me back to the trail.

I was fortunate to have Corporal Toh as my section leader for this exercise. He was tall and lean. He had fair skin which was rare among our trainers. A reasonable and compassionate man, he cared for his men and looked after their welfare. For example, in another exercise, a sergeant ordered our section to carry an excessive number of heavy radio batteries. When we scaled mountains, any extra weight was multiplied exponentially. Corporal Toh deemed the extra batteries unnecessary. Although outranked, he confronted the sergeant. After a heated debate, the sergeant backed down. My respect for Corporal Toh grew. He trained us hard, like the rest of the trainers, but no more than was necessary.

So on and on I staggered, my mind in a stupor. The journey never seemed to end. When will it end? I kept asking myself. At last Corporal Toh said, “Raymond, there’s water just ahead.” I can’t believe it. There’s water! Did I hear correctly? Or was my mind playing tricks on me? I saw several dark green jerry cans (huge containers of water) lined up in a single neat row at a small clearing. Several thirsty men were already refilling their water bottles. We have reached the resting point! Though still in the unforgiving jungle, I felt I had reached Heaven. When I heard the platoon sergeant’s order to rest for the night, I immediately crumbled to the ground.

A few minutes later, knowing I needed water, I forced my body up. My legs were too weak, so I used my arms to prop my body off the ground. I tottered to the jerry cans. Till this day, I can still vividly recall standing near the all-important jerry can. I eagerly filled my water bottles. Water never felt so good! I drank three or four liters, not only to replenish my thirst but also to prevent the same thing from happening the next day.

The exercise wasn’t over yet. The next day would bring more challenges, but I was happy to have made it through the heat exhaustion. I thanked God that it did not progress to a heat stroke which could have been fatal. God was so gracious. I had survived another day. Life is precious. Water is precious too.

P.S. – I was very fortunate not to suffer anything serious. My heart goes out to the following soldier paralyzed by heat exhaustion. Read his sad story. Scroll down to “incident 3.”

A pint of sweat will save a gallon of blood.
– General George S. Patton, Jr

For believe me: the secret for harvesting from existence the greatest fruitfulness and greatest enjoyment is — to live dangerously.
– Friedrich Nietzsche

Add a comment 2010/05/08

How I had stitches without anasthetics

Pain nourishes courage.
You can’t be brave if you’ve only had wonderful things happen to you.
– Mary Tyler Moore

Blood

During our Tae Kwon Do examination, blood gushed out of me for the first time in my life. To add to the surreal situation, I laughed while still bleeding and before I received proper medical treatment. What happened? Did the sight of my own blood drive me insane?

Before the exam, I had no reason to think about such things. What most concerned me was passing the coming exam to advance to the next training stage. Those who passed the test would have their belts upgraded to the next color (for example, from yellow to blue, blue to green, brown to black).

David vs. Goliath

An important test station involved sparing with another candidate. In this sparing, we could kick anywhere but were not allowed to punch the head. I was paired with a huge muscular eighty-five kg guy who was the company boxer. I was only about sixty kg, so he was much bigger and stronger than me. A David-and-Goliath fight ensued.

Beneath Goliath’s quiet and serene exterior, something was simmering inside. I didn’t know what was that “something,” but it was there, like a volcano about to erupt. Once, he punched a section mate in the mouth. Goliath must have lost his temper. But nobody was surprised because the victim was known to be arrogant and insensitive.

I didn’t know if our trainers were aware of this incident. Punching a fellow soldier was an offence. As far as I knew, Goliath escaped punishment. But one thing was sure, don’t mess with Goliath or else . . .

The Punch and the Collapse

But I had no choice. I had to fight Goliath or fail the test. When the dreaded command came to spar, we traded blows. The fighting became more intense and for a moment, he must have thought he was in a boxing ring instead of taking a TKD test. He punched me square in the mouth. The force of the blow brought me flat on the floor. It happened so fast that I didn’t recall any pain.

One of our sergeants, in a gi (TKD uniform), rushed to me. I got up, breathing heavily from the intensity of the fight. Blood spurted out my mouth and splattered unto the sergeant’s clean white gi. He was soaked red with blood! I felt bad because I had ruined his attire. My own gi was also splattered with blood.

He ordered me to leave the arena for treatment. I bowed at the examiners and left. The duty medic stuffed lots of cotton wool into my mouth to try stamping the blood flow. Yet, blood still trickled from my mouth.

Look of Sheer Horror

Alone I walked to the army medical center. I entered the waiting room where a few new bald recruits were sitting. I must have been quite a sight: mouth bloated (full of cotton wool), unable to speak, blood on my chin,gi covered with blood. All eyes turned to me. At once their eyes widened; their jaws dropped. They were most likely thinking: Is this what’s gonna happen to me? Is the training here that terrible? Looking at their terrified faces, I felt a powerful urge to laugh but I couldn’t. My mouth was still stuffed with a million pieces of bloody cotton wool. If I were to laugh out loud, I would spit the cotton wool and blood onto the floor, presenting an even more horrifying sight to the green recruits. I’d rather spare them more horror, so I restrained myself, though it was hard. I had to be content with a restrained chuckling.

The Medical Officer was a thin, nerdy-looking young man with very short hair and thick black glasses. “What was this stupid medic trying to do, stuffing so much cotton wool into your mouth?” he asked as he looked into my mouth. “He should have used a bandage instead. Now I have to take these pieces out of your mouth bit by bit.”

While he did that, I waited patiently. Now that the excitement had died down, the reality of the situation sunk into me. My mouth was still bleeding profusely. For the first time since the punch, I felt the unpleasant taste of blood. Because of the amount of blood, I had to swallow some to breathe more easily. I became a vampire.

Sewing Up Time

“I have to stitch your lip,” he said after examining my wound. “But since it requires only two stitches, we can do without anesthetic. Is that all right with you?” Of course, Medical Officer Sir, easy for YOU to say WE can do without anesthetic. After all, YOU are the one sewing while I am the piece of cloth. But being a commando, I murmured stoically, “Yeah.”

He placed a clean white cloth over my face, with a gap exposing my mouth. Mercifully, the cloth covered my eyes, so I couldn’t see the needle while the doctor sewed. But feel it I certainly could, unfortunately. Was it painful? Yes! But it hurt for only a split second each time he inserted the needle into my left upper lip. In (ouch!) . . . out . . . in (ouch!) . . . out . . . in (ouch!) . . . out . . . .

I was a Tae Kwon Do fighter. Then I became a vampire, and now I am a torn messed-up piece of cloth. What glorious transformation.

Souvenir

After being sewn, I returned to camp to rest (I was given two days of medical leave by the doctor). While lying on my bunk bed, a platoon mate walked in and said, “Raymond, I am sorry, but you failed the exam.” Though disappointed, I had expected it. After all, I did not even finish the sparring section of the test. He then said, “I was just kidding.” He grinned. “You passed!” The examiners must have allowed sympathy to affect their better judgement, but I was happy.

A few days later, as ordered by the doctor, I visited the dentist. Fortunately, all my teeth were fine. How I could be punched with such force, with the resulting loss of so much blood, without any damage to my teeth was beyond me. But I was relieved.

What happened that day is still vivid in my mind. I have a physical reminder of it too. My left upper lip is permanently swollen and slightly larger than the other side. Thus, I am even more ugly than I already was.

The more comfort the less courage there is.
– Field Marshal Prince Aleksandr V. Suvorov, Published in “Soviet Military Review” 1979

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Torture Week

All the two and a half years in the army were hard. But one particular week left an indelible mark in my mind and soul for the rest of my life. I would never forget this “hell” week. Till today, I honestly don’t know how I made it through alive and in one piece.

We slept little or not at all for five days and five nights. Our trainers had planned that we suffer this ordeal before being promoted to corporals. (The U.S. Navy SEALs have something similar. They call it “Hell Week.”) They made sure we were worthy of the rank of corporal, and not merely a corporal, but a commando corporal.

They didn’t say we would not have a chance to sleep during this period. We went on and on without sleep. After each exhausting mission, we thought that we could finally sleep this time. But after completing one mission, we were immediately given orders to prepare for the next one. Thus, it was hard mentally.

We rehearsed in the day and executed the missions at night and into the next day. There was no time to sleep at all. Moreover, I was a signaler and so the signal set was my constant companion in the field. I had to maintain watch over the signal set in case anyone, especially a high-ranking officer, were to call. Thus, I was unable to sleep for even five minutes the entire week, and this is no exaggeration.

On one mission though, we had a chance to sleep. We were in an assault boat as it journeyed to the beach that we would be attacking. Everyone fell asleep, except for the boat pilot (who was from another company, and so was not training with us) and me. As always, the stupid signal set was with me. I enviously watched their sleeping heads swing back and forth in the strong sea breeze. Occasionally, a head would bump into another, but they did not feel a thing, continuing their blissful sleep.

Can you believe it? They caught about fifteen minutes of precious sleep. Life is not fair!

One evening at a training shade, Sergeant Chee was giving me instructions for our next mission. Sergeant Chee was shorter than average but stocky and muscular. Fierce and aggressive, he had a thick muscular neck. Like a bulldog, his head protrude forward from his shoulders.

We were both sitting, facing each other. As he talked, I fell asleep . . . CRACK! Startled, I immediately woke up and saw the snarling face of a bulldog about to bite, with a leather belt in its hand. Only then did I realize that he had just swung the belt right in front of me. My ears were ringing.

“March Or Die” (Quote by the French Foreign Legion)

General Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson said, “The hardships of forced marches are often more painful than the dangers of battle.”

We were about to discover the truth of the general’s words. On the last night of the week, we quick marched more than thirty-five km, laden with weapons and other gear. We sang army and civilian songs in unison at regular intervals to bolster morale and to keep awake:

“C130 rolling down the strip, Airborne Ranger taking a little trip . . .

“Pearly shells, by the ocean; shinning in the sunlight, covering the shore; when I see them, my heart tells that I love you more than all those little pearly shells . . . .”

Unfortunately, the singing didn’t keep everyone awake. I saw a platoon-mate right after he fainted. He was lying off to one side of the road, only two meters from me on my right as I marched past him. But we had been ordered to move on. Medics would tend to any fallen soldier. I glanced at him, hoping that his condition wasn’t too serious and that medics would get to him soon. He was on his side with his arms bent at the elbows in front of him; his knees raised towards his abdomen as in the natal position. Strangely, he looked as peaceful as a baby sound asleep.

What I remembered most about the forced march wasn’t the march itself but the breaks we had along the way. We were given five-minute breaks at regular intervals. Overwhelming was the temptation to sleep, so the instructors went around kicking us, making sure that we didn’t fall asleep. “Don’t fall asleep, or you’ll never wake up!” I heard a swift kick, followed by groans. They kept yelling at us. I understood. Once you fell asleep, waking would be impossible. And I didn’t want to be the next kicked. POWWW! I heard another kick a few meters away.

I spent much of the break tending to the blisters on my feet. There were too many blisters and too little time, so I tended to the more severe ones, pasting plasters (bandaids) over them. That helped but not much. Had to endure the pain.

Also, my groin was bleeding and blistering red, caused by friction as a result of the incessant chaffing of the army slacks against my groin. After the march, I had to walk bowlegged with my thighs spread wide like a cowboy about to draw. It was comical seeing others walking this way, but then you realized that you were walking like that yourself.

Day of the Tiger

Early the next morning, we finally arrived at Changi Beach, our destination. The cool sea breeze lifted our spirits, drying our perspiration. The white sands felt soft and easy on our feet after a long night pounding on the solid road. The pleasant smell of the beach and coconuts replaced the ordour of dried perspiration. The soothing rhythmic rustles of the waves rolling over the gentle beaches replaced the screams of our trainers.

The serenity of the beach brought my mind back to World War Two when the Japanese Imperial Army, under the command of General Yamashita, nicknamed “Tiger of Malaya” by his troops, occupied Singapore. I saw hundreds of men and women, young and old, mostly Chinese, hands bound behind their backs, at the water’s edge. Facing them was a machine gun. A Japanese officer raised his sword and swiftly brought it down shouting, “FIRE!” RACK TAK TAK TAK! One by one the prisoners fell till not one was left standing. The waters became red. The beach was no longer serene. This beach was a regular execution site for the Sook Ching Massacre

When they say “special operations,” they are not kidding: these people are special. From an operational standpoint, physiological standpoint, they can do things that nobody else can do.
– Dennis Grahn, Senior Research Scientist, Stanford University, in the National Geographic’s TV documentary Fight Masters: Special Forces

The best welfare for the troops is good training.
– Field Marshal Irwin Rommel

Add a comment 2010/05/08

Quest for the Black Belt

I stood facing the “Bull.” He snarled, ready to gore me. Tension was in the air. I felt every muscle tighten.

He wasn’t called the “Bull” for nothing. Not only was he a Black Belt, he had a reputation for being an aggressive and experienced fighter. He never backed down. He always charged like a bull, hence the nickname. He wasn’t tall or big but stocky and powerfully built – exactly like a bull. I was the bullfighter who cannot expect any mercy from this bull. A ferocious bullfight ensued.

He stood between my Black Belt and me. In the most demanding station of the Black Belt exam, you had to spar against a Black Belt, and I was unfortunate enough to draw the toughest: the Bull. But come what may, I was ready . . .

Earlier in the day, we were excited but tense. This was the big day. By the end of the day, I would know if I was worthy to wear the coveted Tae Kwon Do Black Belt. Having it makes one an “expert” in the particular martial art.

I had missed the previous Black Belt exam because of flu. And I was leaving full-time army service soon, so this was my last chance to earn the Black Belt before leaving. We had been training very hard for the past two and a half years. I still remembered the stitches on my lips about a year ago because of an injury sustained during a Blue Belt exam. (More about this incident). I managed to pass that one, but I knew that a far sterner test awaited me.

There were two examiners. One had the reputation for being hard to please. He was stern and never smiled. The other was less demanding. Although his standards were also high, he appreciated our hard work. He tolerated tiny mistakes. He smiled once in a while.

Our Tae Kwon Do instructor hence divided us into two groups, one for the tough examiner and the other for the less severe one. To my dismay, I was in the tough examiner’s group, among those to be sacrificed.

“Good Morning, gentlemen,” the non-smiling examiner said to the unfortunate group. “There are a few stations in the exam, as you know. But if you fail just one of them, you fail the whole exam. No Black Belt for you. That’s the way it is with me. You fail one, that’s it. Let’s begin!”

The exam began with the “pattern” station. We had to perform a predetermined variety of moves, kicks and punches. My greatest fear was having a blackout in which I would freeze and forget the pattern. But that did not happen. The hours of training took over, and I did the pattern reasonably well. One station down.

Next came the kicking station. We demonstrated various kicks at the command of an assistant examiner. A group of four candidates were tested at a time. “Side Kick, ready!” he shouted. “Now kick, kick, kick, kick . . . Now Turning Kick, ready! Kick, kick, kick . . . .” Then I heard the dreaded command. “Number Two only, Turning Kick, ready!” I was Number Two. They ordered a candidate to perform a kick again only when the first time round wasn’t satisfactory, a sure sign that something was amiss. I had to demonstrate the kick again. “Kick, kick . . . .” I did not know if my second round of kicks were good enough, but I had to put this behind me because the next station was the dreaded one: my showdown with the Bull.

I found myself in a bullfighting ring. The raging Bull charged at me immediately. I averted his first kick. I swung to the other side and steered clear of his second kick. He tried a punch next. I blocked it. He was so fast that I hadn’t even attempted a kick of my own when the next kick hit me hard on my hip. I felt the painful force of the blow. I staggered, but there was no time for pain. I had to ignore it because more kicks were coming. I ducked the next three kicks. Tried a side kick — missed. A back thrust…missed. A turning kick — missed. The Bull was quick at averting my attacks.

The Bull was now raging mad. His next two or three kicks finished me. I wasn’t knocked down but was like a boxer losing heavily on points. Before I could redress the balance, time was up. The bullfighter had lost. I knew I had failed the exam. The words “if you fail just one station, that’s it“ kept ringing in my mind. If you fail just one station, that’s it . . . if you fail just one station, that’s it . . . .

Next came the final and most spectacular station. Pass or fail, I wasn’t going to miss it. We jumped over three guys bent with their hands on their knees and kicked a pad held by another guy. This station was closest to Hollywood’s idea of martial arts – something spectacular. I enjoyed watching the kicks. We cheered as the kicks hit the pad.

My turn came. If you fail just one station, that’s it — I may be going down, but I’ll go down with a BANG. I sprinted towards the three guys, jumped high over them, andSMACK! I didn’t know how spectacular it was, but I had done it. I had kicked hard and released some pent-up energy.

When the result was announced, I had failed as expected. It was most probably due to the sparring station with the Bull. If you fail just one station, that’s it . . . . But I could say the famous words of the great American Idol William Hung. “I had done my best. I have no regrets.”

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Unarmed Combat

Close combat, man to man, is plainly to be regarded as the real basis of combat.
– Carl Von Clausewitz

Praise be to the LORD my Rock,
who trains my hands for war,
my fingers for battle.
– Psalm 144:1 Bible (NIV)

Ouch! Having my arm twisted behind me. 1986 or 1987.

“Dirty Fighting”

We called it “unarmed combat.” Others called it “hand-to-hand combat” or “close combat.” But the term “unarmed combat” was a misnomer. On the very first day of training, the instructor said we would be using sticks, ropes, knives and other weapons.

“What is unarmed combat?” the big burly Sikh roared. “It’s to fight dirty.”

“What is unarmed combat? It’s twenty guys attacking one guy. That’s unarmed combat. Unarmed combat isn’t fair. Use anything you can. If there’s sand, grab it and throw at his face.”

The Sikh, our Physical Training Instructor (P.T.I.), was huge, macho and muscular. He was about two hundred and fifty pounds of pure solid muscle. He walked deliberately in quick steps as if he was a bouncer about to haul someone out of the bar. He had a booming voice that commanded not only attention but also fear. A dark green camouflage net wrapped around his head, with a knot at the back and the net flowing down his neck like a ponytail, gave him an intimidating “garang” gangster look. No way was I going to pick a fight with this guy. I might be crazy, but I wasn’t suicidal. He was the perfect instructor for unarmed combat. He looked and acted the part.

“Throw Him Down Ten Times”

He made unarmed combat our most feared course. At the end of a single day, our uniforms were torn and buttons gone. (My kind Mom had double stitched my army uniform buttons although I told her that wasn’t necessary. Even that did not prevent some of the buttons from being torn off.)

“Each time I blow my whistle, judo your partner ten times using the hip throw,” the Sikh ordered. “When I blow again, your partner will in turn judo you ten times. And after I blow again, throw him down ten times, this time with the shoulder throw.” After being hurled countless times with various throws, we were dazed. Now we had to hurl our partner countless times. My head was spinning.

On another occasion, the big Sikh started the lesson by saying, “I need a volunteer to help me demonstrate a hand lock.” Silence . . . . Of course nobody volunteered. “All right. YOU there, the one yawning, you have just volunteered.” Everyone else laughed with relief.

The yawning man stepped forward. The big Sikh said, “Now walk towards me.” As an ox going to the slaughterhouse, the poor man reluctantly did so, his feet dragging on the ground. When they were two feet apart, with one swift movement like a leopard the Sikh went behind the back of the man, grabbed one of his hands, forced it behind his back, and bend his hand at the wrist. The man screamed. After a few eternal seconds, the Sikh mercifully let the man go. “Now do the same thing to your partner. Then switch, and your partner will do the same thing to you. I’ll be watching you closely. I want everyone to inflict pain. If you don’t, I will do it to you myself.” (See photo of my partner doing this hand lock on me.)

In the same way, we performed all kinds of locks. Our arms, hands, legs, and bodies were bent in angles and into shapes we never thought possible.

“Kill, Kill, Kill!”

The instructor often got us into a wild frenzy. “GO! Your partner is a communist bastard. Kill him! KILL! KILL! He raped your mother and sister. NOW KILL HIM!”

We became wild ferocious beasts. In an exhausted stupor, we shouted in response, “KILL! KILL! KILL!!” as we kicked, threw, punched. “Kill the communist bastards! They raped my mother and sister! KILL! KILL! KILL THEM ALL!” (The mother-sister theme reminds me today of Zidane’s World Cup 2006 soccer head butt. He thought the Italian player had insulted his mother and sister.) Those were the 80s with communism believed to be the greatest threat. Maybe a more contemporary version would be to kill terrorists.

Speaking of head butting, we learned that too, although I can’t recall us actually practicing head butting. Or maybe we did, and the head butting had caused my memory loss of the head butting practices. One thing I can recall, however, was that our instructor enthusiastically encouraged us to head butt our enemy on their heads whenever given the chance, such as when he was standing right behind us. If we butt someone’s head with our own, wouldn’t our head hurt just as much? “Yes,” said the Singh. “Your head will hurt just as much, but psychologically, it will be more painful for the enemy. Because you initiated the head butt, you are more prepared for it.” Hmmm . . . I wondered if I could test this psychological theory on the battlefield. I would head butt my enemy and ask him or her to rate the pain on a scale of one to ten. I likewise would rate my own pain and compare the results.

Coming back to reality, a platoon mate skipped a session or two. He couldn’t endure the training. It was AWOL (Absence Without Official Leave) which could bring severe punishment. But he got away with it. No, I am not divulging his identity.

Hard Ground “OUCH!”

Fortunately, we trained mostly on soft ground, with one big exception. As the National Day Parade approached, we trained on granite road because that was the surface on which we were to perform our unarmed combat demonstration (in front of the President and the entire nation).

Picture this. Your body is lifted high, and then smacked down hard on the granite ground by a judo throw. Injuries were common, but we had to endure. If every injured man were to quit, no one would be left. To minimize pain and to prevent serious injury, it was imperative that we learn to fall properly. The throwing man must help by lifting the arm of the falling man to soften the fall, but this was easier said than done. Frequent arguments arose between my partner and me.

“You f–king #@#X0X! Why didn’t you lift my arm when I fell?”

“I did. I really did!”

Sore Muscles

One of my muscles was always sore during the unarmed training period, especially the day after a session. Can you guess which muscle? My leg muscles? My hamstrings or my thighs? Or my arms from the constant throwing? No, it was my gluteus, or butt muscles. At that time, I didn’t know anything about exercise physiology, and I wasn’t even aware that such a muscle existed. I didn’t know exactly why my gluteus, instead of my other muscles, should hurt. I could only surmise that my gluteus were weak and that this muscle was much used during unarmed combat training. So for readers preparing for unarmed combat training, you may want to train your gluteus by doing exercises such as squats and lunges.

Am I free for unarmed training? I much prefer line dancing which is so popular today in Singapore. Easy choice.

We sleep safe in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm.
– George Orwell

True warriors are fierce, because their training is fierce .
– Miyamoto Musashi

KILL! KILL! KILL! Even Barbie knows how to kill. Cool, isn't she?

Love is Kind

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One Mountain After Another

The basic difference between an ordinary man and a warrior is that a warrior takes everything as a challenge, while an ordinary man takes everything either as a blessing or a curse. — Don Juan

1 I will lift up my eyes to the mountains; From where shall my help come?     2 My help comes from the LORD, Who made heaven and earth.
– Bible, Psalm 121:1,2 (NASB)

Heavy Load. That's me. 1987.

After climbing a particularly tall and steep mountain, I finally reached the summit. As I tried to catch my breath, something unexpected appeared right before me – a Shakespearean tragic-comical scene that would be forever etched in my mind . . . .

Deep in the jungles of a foreign country, we were scaling this monster of a mountain. We had been in the jungle for days, carrying heavy loads of weapons and supplies. Using a Kukri (traditional Gurkha knife), the point man hacked his way through the thick tropical jungle. He laboriously cut branches after branches. As a branch is cut, another took its place; there seemed to be no end. As the point man tired, another took over. Fortunately, I was spared this thankless task because being a signaler, I carried the heavy and bulky signal set.

The slope was so steep that to pull ourselves up, we had to grab hold of branches or anything we could lay our hands on. We slid many times – three steps forward, two steps back. This mountain was one of the steepest and highest we had ever climbed. We were sure that after this mountain, our path would be much easier.

After a long struggle, we were almost there. I saw a few platoon mates having reached the top. Instead of expressing relief, they were staring at something in the distance with a look of disgust.

This made me curious, energizing me. A few more agonizing steps and I would find out. At last I reached the summit. Everyone around me uttered every four-letter word I had ever heard in my life plus some I had never heard before. “F–king HELL! ##%%%*OXX%##!” Why all these curses? Were they not relieved that they had scaled this mountain? Hadn’t we reached the mountain top?

I was about to ask, “What’s the matter?” when at the right top corner of my eye, I noticed something huge and gray. Looking up, I saw a mountain steeper, taller, and more gigantic than the one whose summit we were standing on. It was as if someone had played a sick and not-so-funny joke on us. No wonder the curses. This taller mountain made me feel like I wasn’t on a mountain at all. Oh, the awful back-to-square-one feeling.

But strangely, though as dismayed as the rest, I was in no mood to curse or swear. Ironically, I found the experience comical. I must have been the only one feeling this way. Looking at the reaction and faces of the others again, I chuckled.

The scene reminded me of Shakespearean plays that had both tragic and comical themes. Although I had responded to the Shakespearean “comedy” with a laugh, I now had to face the reality of the “tragedy,” the even more gigantic mountain right ahead.

As the cacophony of curses winded down, men stood frozen, with faces transfixed and blank eyes staring at the gray expense above them. Fear was written all over their faces. Gazing up at this mountain, I knew I had to scale it, and the ordeal wasn’t a joke. Maybe behind this mountain, there’s another even taller one . . . . But let’s not worry about that yet. All I need to do next is to scale this mountain before me.

O Lord, help me conquer this mountain, just this mountain.

Where are those Red Beret soldiers?

After climbing a great hill, one only finds that there are many more hills to climb.
– Nelson Mandela

Somewhere a True Believer is training to kill you. He is training with minimal food or water, in austere conditions, training day and night. The only thing clean on him is his weapon and he made his web gear. He doesn’t worry about what workout to do – his ruck weighs what it weighs, his runs end when the enemy stops chasing him. This True Believer is not concerned about ‘how hard it is;’ he knows either he wins or dies. He doesn’t go home at 17:00, he is home.
He knows only The Cause.

Still want to quit?

NousDefionsDoc , U.S. Army Special Forces
www.professionalsoldiers.com

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Red Beret Presentation

The Day I became a Commando

June 1986

“Wear the beret proudly, it will be a mark of distinction and a badge of courage in the difficult days ahead.”
– President John F. Kennedy

When I was a kid, I idolized the commandos. They were fearless, legendary, and almost mythical. I persuaded my parents to buy small plastic Airfix models of the British Commandos. I played make-believe I was one of them. I read library books about daring commando exploits.

On this day in June, 1986, I would be a commando myself. I couldn’t believe it. This once tiny, skinny, sickly weakling, called “dry lizard” by relatives, would be a commando.

But the road here was far from smooth. We had endured a whole year of training which had transformed us from soft civilians into hardened warriors. Long days and nights of struggles and danger had been worthwhile.

Now we would officially wear the Red Beret, the commando’s symbol in the Singapore Army. (In the USA the Green Beret is the symbol of their Army Special Forces). Our beret was red because of the blood we had spilled or were expected to spill.

Question: What did we do for the Red Beret Presentation? Answer: We put on the Red Beret.

The presentation took place at a shadeless spacious grassy field. It was here that we had bayonet practices in which we charged back and forth the whole length of the field, screaming our heads off, with bayonets fixed to our rifles, and perspiration streaming down our faces. Incidentally, I spent my twenty-first birthday doing that nearly a year before – not fun.

But today there were no mad screaming bayonet charges. Instead, all was quiet except for the sounds of passing vehicles on a nearby road. With the precious berets in our hands, we stood proudly at attention. Our parents, friends and other visitors watched eagerly. “DON BERET!” The parade commander’s loud authoritative command reverberated through the air. (The parade command was in Malay, which was standard practice in the Singapore army.)

For the first time, we donned the Red Beret officially.Remember, the crest should be directly above the left eye, I reminded myself as I adjusted my beret. At this precise moment we became commandos. Visitors clapped and cheered. Our parents’ faces beamed with pride. We weren’t the only ones who suffered. While we trained, our parents had no doubt been worried sick for our safety.

After the parade, we had a few minutes with visitors. I was happy that my parents, sister and a few friends (including an army infantry officer from another unit) were there. They had all encouraged me so much during the past year. We took photos. My parents’ eyes reflected pride. When I looked at their eyes, I was even more convinced that all the suffering had been worthwhile.

Thank you, God, for giving me the Red Beret. You have been with me through all those struggles. Nothing but your amazing grace had seen me through. I could not have done it without you. The Red Beret is an offering to you.

Rambo, Move Over

After seeing the traditional version of “The Ten Commandments,” one of my first-graders excitedly told me about the movie.

He described the brave and daring leader who rescued the slaves from the mighty army that had chased them through the wilderness.

He told how the water parted and how the army of chariots drowned.

Finally, I asked him if he knew the name of the movie he had watched.

“Yep,” he said. “It was the Ten Commandos.”

Karin Becklin-Greene
Comstock, Texas

(From Focus on the Family)

There's a rainbow at the end of the storm and darkness. Thank you, God.

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Commando’s Prayer

Give me, my God, what you still have;
give me what no one asks for.
I do not ask for wealth, nor success,
nor even health.
People ask you so often, God, for all that, that you cannot have any left.

Give me, my God, what you still have.
Give me what people refuse to accept from you.
I want insecurity and disquietude;
I want turmoil and brawl.

And if you should give them to me,
my God, once and for all,
let me be sure to have them always,
for I will not always
have the courage to ask for them

Corporal Zirnheld, Special Air Service 1942

Add a comment 2010/05/08