Such a decadent field camp.
As the men dig away, the OC, CSM, PCs and PSs cook in the training shed. Luncheon meat, sausages, instant noodles, tomtato pasta, corned beef. I have gained some weight from being spoilt for choice.
But I kind of hate myself for being in this core group. I realised how sickening it can be to the men, as I close my eyes and listen intently at the kind of carefreeness and unabashed luxury we are spewing out of our mouths like overhaughty merlions, or as I watch from one corner in some moments in time and inadvertently steal a glance at the men's faces of envy and feel sharp cursing within.
But of course, we do what we hate and we love what we hate. Still I cook, still I sleep in the training shed, still I scold my men no holds barred. Just with this tinge of guilt that, hey, what a bastard I've been for the past 7 days.
Yet the moments of true happiness in this field camp came ironically as well when people just gathered, not on the benches that the core group usually farts on, but on the very soil that the men have dug out painstakingly. We played games that kampung kids are well-versed with, we talked like we never talked before, from light till night. It's the simplicity of the language, the unsuspecting naveity that makes words that come out of the men's mouths so sincere and meaningful, like water out of a humble merlion. We cooked with mess tins, not stoves. We cooked pontay rice, not corned beef pasta.
I've learnt a lot, and at the end of the field camp, I felt like I just became a father, a father of 27 men. When war comes, the merlion roars. Rrrr.
As the men dig away, the OC, CSM, PCs and PSs cook in the training shed. Luncheon meat, sausages, instant noodles, tomtato pasta, corned beef. I have gained some weight from being spoilt for choice.
But I kind of hate myself for being in this core group. I realised how sickening it can be to the men, as I close my eyes and listen intently at the kind of carefreeness and unabashed luxury we are spewing out of our mouths like overhaughty merlions, or as I watch from one corner in some moments in time and inadvertently steal a glance at the men's faces of envy and feel sharp cursing within.
But of course, we do what we hate and we love what we hate. Still I cook, still I sleep in the training shed, still I scold my men no holds barred. Just with this tinge of guilt that, hey, what a bastard I've been for the past 7 days.
Yet the moments of true happiness in this field camp came ironically as well when people just gathered, not on the benches that the core group usually farts on, but on the very soil that the men have dug out painstakingly. We played games that kampung kids are well-versed with, we talked like we never talked before, from light till night. It's the simplicity of the language, the unsuspecting naveity that makes words that come out of the men's mouths so sincere and meaningful, like water out of a humble merlion. We cooked with mess tins, not stoves. We cooked pontay rice, not corned beef pasta.
I've learnt a lot, and at the end of the field camp, I felt like I just became a father, a father of 27 men. When war comes, the merlion roars. Rrrr.