39. Life of a Recruit

On Anzac Day, I always feel proud to be an Australian. I feel very grateful to be living in a country which honours the sacrifices made by so many and I believe that it’s important that we stop to remember the young people who lost their lives in terrible conflicts and wars. Also, to think of those who were physically injured or mentally damaged, often for the rest of their lives.

On Anzac Day last year, I noticed that there were people, either alone or in small groups, who were standing on, or close to the Shorncliffe Pier. They were looking out over the Bay, and it seemed apparent to me that they had been attending the Anzac service earlier in the morning. I found it quite moving that so many were there.

Anzac Day always makes me think back to my own military service. When I was young, national (military) service was compulsory. Like almost all young men in The Netherlands at that time, I had to join up. I can’t remember the exact sequence of events, but I assume that I passed a medical, was interviewed and was asked whether I wanted to be in the army, navy or airforce. Having just been in the merchant navy for some time, I think that I may have expressed an interest in spending a bit more time on land. Early in January 1957, I was duly told to report, to the Queen Wilhelmina Barracks in Ossendrecht, a town close to the border with Belgium.  About a third of all recruits began their military service there. Professional soldiers were trained elsewhere.

When I first arrived at the barracks, no one seemed to know what to do with me. The draft of conscripts, which I was to join, had started several weeks earlier.  The people who interviewed me asked me why I had not started on 4 December, like all the other conscripts. I explained that, on that date, I had still been on a ship, in Italy. They eventually sorted me out and I was sent to the store to be fitted out with a uniform, shirts, shoes, socks, caps, a helmet, sports clothes, raincoat and all the other things I needed for this first period of training. I was also allocated a bunk in a big room in one of the buildings. I think there were probably 40 or so other recruits housed in that one space. I was told that I had to sleep on the top bunk and that to climb up there I had to put my foot on the bottom bunk. My clothes and equipment were stored in a metal cupboard next to my bed.

Immediately after my arrival I realised that I was a long way behind everyone else in just about everything. I did not know how to stand to attention, how to march, how to make my bed quickly, how to handle my rifle (an old heavy Lee Enfield), nor did I know how to clean it. All the rest of my fellow recruits had had three weeks or more of elementary, but essential, training behind them.

Being so far behind was a significant handicap for me during my first weeks as a recruit. I became the focus of attention of the professional officers. They yelled at me, told me to do extra push ups and generally made me look like a fool. For example, each morning we had to fold our blankets into a perfect small square parcel and place it at the foot of our beds for the daily inspection. All of us had to stand to attention in front of our bunks while the officer in charge walked past. Somehow, I never quite got the hang of how to make a neat square parcel and, as a result, I was verbally abused almost every day. The best I could do in the circumstances was to grin and bear it. I think that, in the end, they just gave up on me and, from then on, my life improved greatly.

Despite my early handicaps, I soon began to enjoy the experience and to make some friends. The soldier sleeping on the top bed next to mine was older than the others. He had already completed a medical degree before arriving in Ossendrecht.  At almost 21 years, I was also older than most of the others, so he and I stuck together and supported each other as much as possible.

Nevertheless, being a raw recruit was not all bad all the time! I actually quite liked the order and discipline in my new life.  Most of all I loved the fact that I had no responsibilities and nothing much to worry about. I just did what I was told. There was a lot of physical exercise, such as running, marching, climbing over obstacles, crawling under barbed wire, as well as practising taking our rifles apart, cleaning them and reassembling them again. At the end of each day, I was so tired that I slept like a log until the corporal’s whistle woke us up again very early the next morning.

The food we were served was very basic, but tasty and wholesome. Three times a day we filed past the cooks, who dumped bread, potatoes, vegetables and meat into our tins. We then sat at long wooden tables and wolfed down whatever we’d been given. I was always hungry and I particularly loved the thick slices of brown bread we were served in the morning. We each had our own metal tins and cutlery which we were required to clean after each meal.

As we were new recruits, our uniforms were without any insignia. They had to be buttoned right to the top and we weren’t yet allowed to wear a tie.  Obviously, we did not look very glamorous, but nobody cared. After several weeks of non-stop training, we were allowed to leave the camp for a weekend at home. The long travel time to and from home made this short break feel very short indeed. My basic training as a recruit really did not last all that long, probably only 5 weeks. The other recruits would by then have completed at least 8 weeks.

At the end of our basic training, I was told that I would be transferred to different barracks in the centre of Nederland. By then I was no longer a recruit, and I was allowed to open the top button of my jacket and wear a shirt and tie. We also had the name of the army corps to which we belonged sewn on our jackets. Mine was “BETUWE”, which is also the name of a beautiful fruit-producing area in the centre of Nederland.

Overall, I did enjoy my short time in the Queen Wilhelmina barracks. I was allowed to be a nobody, with nothing to worry about,  and I was given plenty of exercise. I would have been very happy to serve out my time as a simple soldier, but that was not to be. For the next four months I was sent elsewhere for further training, but that is a story for another day.

O.P.

P.S. Next Sunday we’ll read about a stolen Vincent van Gogh painting and its recovery by the “Indiana Jones of Art”.