Ok guys I am heading to Russia and in the process of organising my visa – ouch!
First up I need an official “invitation” to Russia before I can even apply at the Russian consulate for my visa. There are some dodgy looking operators on the net charging lots of dollars for the paperwork. This company seems legit www.anotherrussia.com
I’ll keep you posted.
Sgt Sana
There’s not much not to love about Helsinki during the warmer months BUT for the swarms of mosquitos and charity collectors.
The mozzies can be repelled with a tropical strength spray, the dreadlocked logo-wearing T-shirted hippies cannot.
Unavoidable, they hover around busy pedestrian thoroughfares, favouring the downtown shopping area of Kamppi.
“Save the children, save the whales, save the planet, save yourself Scientology style … ” so they tell me.
Now don’t get me wrong I’m no scrooge. I donate time and money to numerous causes of my own choosing – most recently my voluntary conscription in Finland.
But I JUST DON’T, AND WON’T, FEEL CHARITABLE when repeatedly bombarded for money and credit card details en route to the grocery store.
Particularly knowing that some of the collectors are themselves collecting an hourly rate, plus commission, that dwarfs my 4 .7 euro daily army allowance*.
So you can imagine my surprise when I found out that I was to spend a day in their shoes, pounding the pavement collecting money for war veterans.
A worthy cause no argument, and I too am to be a veteran of The End War* but people pestering is not my thing
Not even with the lure of free movie tickets to the conscript with the highest kitty of the day.
I wanted out, but there was no escape for me.
Nor for the public, who were facing an army of khaki clad collectors strategically positioned around every corner, nook and cranny of the city.
To make the best of this lose-lose situation I decided I wouldn’t approach anyone for money, rattle my can and beg, or block the path of passers by.
I would find a leafy tree, stand next to it, and camouflage into my surroundings.
I would also be mute, directing any questions to the blurb of information stuck to the side of my electric kettle-shaped tin.
This foolproof strategy of stealth began to unravel even before I got to my post on the swanky side of town.
A middle-aged American man approached me at the zebra crossing with spare change in his outstretched hand
His charity, I quickly discovered, wasn’t for the veterans but payment for a photo he wanted of me in my uniform*.
Before I had time to react, his camera, and the little green traffic light man, flashed and the freak show official had begun.
I was the opening act of the show that was to feature a cat lady, a suspected criminal, toothless drunk and the teenage Insane Clown Posse.
All played out on the pavement in front of an inner city McDonalds where I would be standing for most of the day.
First up, entering stage left, the crazy cat lady who smelled like cats and mothballs.
She hobbled out of the op shop and over to me, rummaging through her handbag.
Finally she found her purse and started rummaging through it.
Papers, receipts, old photographs, buttons – everything but the money.
At last she found a coin, proudly placed it in my tin, whilst mumbling on about some “kitty, kitty, kitty”.
I thought she was talking about, or possibly to, a cat but later found out she was simply thanking me with a shortened version of kiitos (key toss) which means thank you in Finnish.
As she hobbled off stage right I spotted a familiar face out the corner of my eye.
Well, it was the long blonde Salon Selective style ponytail that I recognised.
It belonged to a young man, no more than 30, who I had seen wearing punked-up civilian clothes at our army barracks that very same week.
He appeared to have been on the receiving end of a very stern talking to by one of our senior sergeants at the time.
Rumours, as always on barracks, were rife. The story I got was that he had been arrested disembarking a flight from New York and taken to Santahamina.
His crime? AWOL and according to the conscripts’ guide a serious military crime (along with sleeping on guard duty which I may or may not have committed.)
His punishment? According to the Conscription Act, 182 days jail for failing to undertake military or civil service*
I’m not sure if he recognised me, but I’m sure he recognised my uniform.
My military fatigues were also recognized by a group of intoxicated teens that were dressed as playboy bunnies, policeman, punks, prostitutes and prisoners.
It was some sort of graduation dress-up party for vocational students, and apparently I too was on the invite list.
I politely declined their offer to party in the park nearby, and the dregs of one beer can also on offer.
Maybe I should have followed the teenage Insane Clown Posse because I was soon facing another drunken proposition that I was desperate to decline.
An old toothless drunk, barely comprehensible, came up to me declaring his eternal love – I think.
He figured the best way to prove it was with a copper coin donation, and his company.
Thankfully he became distracted by something else he wanted to pick up – an empty beer can worth three times his donation to me*.
It was a good time for my Mcbreak inside the McDonald’s.
As I ordered my 1-euro cheeseburger I noticed a pile of creationist pamphlets sitting on the counter telling me that god was watching
He/she/the flying spaghetti monster/ wasn’t the only one. A group of sergeants were brunching away on burgers at a nearby table.
They were also trying to stay under the radar as they visited numerous McDonald’s and the movie theatre throughout the day.
Granted, my tree didn’t offer as much cover as the cinema but I had done my community service, raising almost 20 euros for the vets.
That didn’t equate to the free movie tickets, which went to the bubbly American conscript who loudly approached every person on his patch.
Followed closely by the guys who stood by an ATM at one of the big banks all day.
I guess they proved that pester power does pay, if you are willing to make enemies like me along the way.
Sgt. (Street walking) Sana.
Every morning at 0530 the words yksikossa heratys, meaning wake-up unit, bellow across the PA system.
In an instant the neon lights flicker on, my cue to climb down from the top bunk, dress in my khaki 91’s or 05’s and begin to set my pinka perfectly in place.
Every small check of the blue and white Finlayson* bedspread must align in perfect unison like we soldiers do when ordered to attention ASENTO.
And lining-up at attention is something we do before heading almost anywhere, including the laundry and dining hall for our 0600 breakFAST.
Aamupala (pron. are-moo-pah-lah) our morning meal usually consists of stale bread and cheese or porridge that looks and tastes like salty Clag Glue.
Thankfully, there isn’t much time to taste the food as we all race to finish it in time before being lined-up and marched back to the barracks to clean.
And this is how a typical 12-hour day in this kinder for grown-ups begins.
So when I woke to strange Finnish rock/pop blaring from the speakers instead of the customary wake-up call one morning I thought I was dreaming.
It wasn’t a bad dream but the very real start to my nightmare day.
The song, Haaveet Kaatuuhad meaning broken dreams, shares its title with the day in the army when when conscripts learn what role they will be trained in.
And more importantly if that specialty comes with a 6,9 or 12-month price tag.
Roles from the basic infantry, machine gunners, snipers, truck drivers, motorcycle riders, bazooka boys, medics and more were about to be assigned.
Of course some jobs come with more bragging rights than others, who doesn’t want to be a sniper in a ghillie suit?
So positions were worked out via a points and preference system.
Things like ones marksmanship, results on the Cooper Test, gun maintenance and competence with a gas mask all counted.
Not the most natural born soldier I knew my points were scarce, but was counting on my non-combative coms skills to get me into the media team.
In fact I had all but been promised a job with the military paper, Ruotuväki, before leaving Canberra.
So, unlike the other girls in my room the somewhat sadistic wake-up tune hadn’t rattled my nerves.
Instead, I confidently marched into the meeting with the senior lieutenant, nicknamed superman to learn my fate.
“Dunkerley you will be in charge of one of the most important pieces of equipment in the company,” he explained.
A little taken aback, I recalled a lecturer’s remark that a journalist’s camera can be the difference between life and death in a sticky situation.
But I wondered where this was headed.
“You will be in charge of our field cooker, one of the cooks.”
I froze, speechless, as I tried to swallow the news dished out cold.
Surely I hadn’t joined the Finnish army to learn how clean and cook, especially for 200+ hungry men, I thought as I hurried back to barracks, tears falling.
I tried to convince myself that it was yet another communication breakdown, a common occurrence here in the army*.
I was happy to learn the other girls in my room had all been given their first preferences, three off to the leadership school*, two medics, and a truck driver.
But for me the song broken dreams had played out to be true.
Worse still, it not only started my day but would end it too, playing over in my head as I feel asleep during the 2130-2230 no talking, no toilet, quiet hour.
Sgt. (Sotilaskeittaja, soldiers cook, otherwise known as spuddy) Sana.
Don’t do it! http://www.myspace.com/joremarjaranta
As much as I enjoy running through great big balls of napalm fire, it seems chemical warfare may not be my calling.
I’ve trained and trained for an enemy* attack with the gas mask, part of the combat gear we carry around.
And I know the sinister looking thing works because I bravely tested it out inside a shipping chamber sealed tight and filled with tear gas *.
Despite all this, when I was tested on the combat skills learnt during the six-week basic training module I failed the gas mask component.
And in doing so set a new example of what not to do in a gas attack, likely to be taught to future recruits as the ‘Dunkerley manoeuvre’.
Let me explain.
The test unfolded in two parts, the first responding to unconfirmed reports of a gas attack.
As practiced, I checked my mask was working, attached a filter to my water bottle lid and covered-up in my plastic rain jacket and three pairs of gloves.
So far, so good.
The report was then verified, giving me 30-seconds to get my mask on and weapon ready.
The deadline had previously proven a squeeze in three pairs of gloves, but it was my head, not my hands, that stopped me from getting over the finishing line.
Well, the Lego-man helmet on my head, which I just couldn’t get off in time.
The helmet’s chinstrap has a quick release function, activated with a solid jerk of the helmet skywards.
It’s handy when you can’t undo the latch with fat glove fingers, but doesn’t work if the helmet is restricted. Mine was.
Because I had wrongly placed the hood of my rain jacket over the top of the helmet instead of underneath.
Unfortunately I didn’t realise my mistake at the time and continued to furiously tug up and down as the clock ticked down.
The corporal adjudicating me however could see exactly what was going on and could hardly keep a straight face.
Or from later sharing my mishap, and boy does gossip travel in a place like this.
Anyway, with no time left on the clock and no gas mask in place, I failed
Thankfully I didn’t have much time to dwell on my mishap, as I had to move pronto through the other tests, spread on a circuit around the island.
When it came to destroying a cardboard tank with the (unarmed) rocket launcher, circa Vietnam, and planting a road mine I couldn’t be faulted.
I sailed through the gun maneuvers, such as changing an empty magazine during combat and addressing a bullet jam malfunction.
But my reactions to sounds of explosions nearby didn’t go so swimmingly.
The soldier next to me, in an Oscar-worthy performance, dived face first into the pool of murky water when the corporal sounded the alarm.
I on the other hand, made for dry cover on higher ground leaving me exposed to shards of shrapnel flying by.
I was also docked points when my practice grenade didn’t quite reach the target- zone 20m away.
I had managed the distance during weekend practice sessions, which involved hurling large rocks and tins of non-perishable food in the public park.
But I couldn’t pull it off wearing all the heavy combat gear.
At least it didn’t fly back in my direction, as happened to the soldier next to me whose grenade ricochet off a tree.
(Luckily for both of us when it came time to throw the real thing it was from a bunker on the edge of a small cliff by the sea).
I was taken off guard by a couple of other tests, including the one to work out if it is friend or foe approaching.
If an unidentified and armed man, or woman, approaches during combat you say the words ‘seis tunnussana’ meaning stop password.
It goes without saying if they know what it is and repeat it they are on your side.
We were given the password, rapyla kasi – meaning butter fingers, at the start of the day’s testing and not speaking Finnish I decided to write it down on my hand.
The words quickly disappeared under the sweat of my gloves, but at least I could confidently recall the Finnish command.
I didn’t get the chance to use it however, because the corporals had a different idea of how the password test should be played out.
I was a little unsure what was happening when I was told to get on my knees and then straight back up, and over and over again.
Then I was told to spin around and then finally asked for the password.
Dizzily I had to explain why I was lost for words, knowing all to well that my explanation probably wouldn’t wash in a real life scenario.
I was also taken by surprise when it came time to demonstrate the first aid procedure for an unconscious soldier with severe bleeding.
Taking advantage f their secluded spot on the island, the medically trained corporals had techno music going and lollies galore.
It seemed more likely that I was unconscious from a drug overdose at a rave than from gunshot wounds in combat as I lay down to play the patient.
Never the less I shut my eyes and waited for my partner to tend to my needs.
As expected, he checked my airways, that I was breathing and for a pulse.
But then began to rip my combat and bulletproof vests off to feel underneath.
Fretting that I was being felt-up I opened my eyes and let out a small shriek.
The corporal quickly reminded me I was an unconscious patient, and therefore unable to talk.
As it turned out removing the vest was part of the procedure, forgotten by our medical trainers.
But it was a small omission in comparison to other companies that had not received any training and put through the test regardless.
On the spot, one trooper reportedly emptied a bottle of water over the wounded soldier’s face, while another reached for his mobile to call the ambulance.
I was happy to learn my gaffe was not the only casualty.
And was even outshone by one man who destroyed his own bunker instead of the cardboard tank with the rocket launcher.
One can only learn from their mistakes, while others can enjoy the tale.
Sgt. (Slightly embarrassed) Sana.
Alokas Alppi models the gas mask.
The correct position one should be in when aiming the rocket launcher.
Together in happier times, camping near the Sahara, Santahamina.
The first few months of new relationships are often referred to as the honeymoon period.
A time when couples are so wrapped up in one another they are oblivious to most else.
In particular, the dumb looking grimaces they wear, public decency and each other’s flaws.
Mr. Jones and I have been no exception.
We have been inseparable since day one, doing even the most of mundane of tasks together.
Like a giddy teenager I get butterflies before our dates to the shooting range each week, where we have been hitting it off in all sorts of positions.
He showers me with gifts, like the very sought-after golden trigger badge.
He is taking me with a holiday, a reward for scoring so well on my shooting exam*.
And recently became a resident in my building to be closer to me … shucks!
It’s certainly been a whirlwind romance.
I hate to admit it but now the two-month period has passed I’m thinking that some of the shine is wearing off.
Because for all the things I love, like the lingering scent of gunpowder, some of his habits are starting to bite.
For one, Mr. Jones is a typical metro, obsessed with his appearance and very high maintenance.
After every outing he insists on being wiped down with cotton wool and sheets to be rid of every speck of dust and dirt.
Once spotless, and I mean spotless, he expects me to oil him from head to toe.
I’m not comfortable with the idea of a man whose beauty regime trumps mine.
Mr. Jones is also clingy, and rarely is he more than three steps from my side.
Whilst flattering, sometimes his presence feels like a weight around my neck, slowing me down.
He is also known to have a temper, and twice now we have butted heads – literally – in the heat of the moment, ouch!
Don’t get me wrong we are still very much one happy couple, it just appears that the honeymoon may have drawn to an end.
Sgt. (standing by her man) Sana
* I was one of three soldiers in the company to earn a day off for excelling on the shooting exam, which tested accuracy from different positions, distances, and with moving targets.
I also earned the afternoon off, while others continued shooting, but spent it at the veksi (doctor) because a tick had made its home on my leg – eewww!
Mr. Jones hanging out with his friends just outside my door.
Mr. Jones and I spend the morning together at the shooting range. Target 150m.
Mr. Jones in pieces baring all.
“I love the smell of Napalm in the morning”…. ‘Apocalypse Now’.
I haven’t seen the Vietnam epic so forgive me if it’s in bad taste to concur, but I too love the smell of Napalm in the morning.
I had my first whiff of the ironically odorless jelly gasoline during a lesson in chemical warfare.
N-day, so I will call it, began with orders to dress in our army-issued fire-retardant khakis, including men’s’ briefs.
I had, up until this point, managed to avoid these ill-fitting undies by making sure my own couldn’t be seen, particularly during our regular and random uniform checks.
I was, however, willing to sacrifice comfort for safety on N-Day given our fiercely flammable weapon of choice.
Shortly after breakfast our company was marched to a secluded area where we had a brief briefing of not much substance on the substance we were about to burn.
Granted though, Napalm is not rocket science.
Instructions:
1: Mix the desired amount together until it is the consistency of honey.
2: Apply to the desired location
3: Ignite, stand clear and watch it burn
Or 4: (In our case) Run straight for the flames …. What the????
We are soldiers so I guess we need to know how to run through fire incase our enemy shoots flamethrowers our way.
So, we were shown the correct way to run through this situation, with faces covered and guns pointing straight ahead.
And told that if we were to catch alight to head straight for one of the “strategically placed” red fire extinguishes.
Mapping out this worst-case scenario in my head I decided I not to opt for the extinguisher that had been sat in front of the large barrels of Napalm.
My plan B was to make a dash for the nearby water’s edge and dive into the ocean.
This brainwave was dampened through a quick demonstration of how Napalm floats and burns on top of water.
Before I had time to consider plan C I was staring down the ten foot tunnel of flames I was required to run through.
My gut instinct was to run in the opposite direction and ‘stop, drop and roll’ – the safety procedure taught to all children from a very young age.
I also wanted to take a deep breath to calm my nerves, but that was not an option given the dark carbon monoxide cloud bellowing into the air above.
I had no choice but to hold my breath and follow my fellow soldier into the black smoky abyss.
Telling myself over and over not to be scared of the fire I stepped into the flames.
Then hurried my way through the burning tunnel being very careful not to trip over in a panic.
A very-long hot and sweaty 10 seconds later I emerged into the daylight in one fire-repelled piece.
The ear had melted away and like a kid at an amusement park high on fairy floss and adrenalin, I was eager to take the ride again.
My next burning obstacle was a burning building frame.
I plotted my route and made a dash through a window frame and out another door.
The final gauntlet was a scaffolding walkway ablaze with burning Napalm dripping in strands of clear honey from above.
I found myself at the front of the line, and momentarily mesmorised by the beauty of the inferno in front of me.
I quickly blocked out the view with my fireproof blanket I gripped tightly above my head and then scuttled my way through.
Napalm is a fuel that doesn’t burn for very long, so along with the flames, our lesson was out well before noon.
I marched back to base with a newfound fondness for Napalm and fire in my eyes.
Hot but not bothered, not even by the boxer shorts riding up my backside.
Sgt. (Smoking) Sana.
You may think it a difficult feat to misplace an X-large blue smurf, but somehow I managed to do just this.
Actually it was half a blue smurf, who was last seen at the army sports hall during a game of floor ball.
Unfortunately he has no distinguishing features, resembling every other smurf on base at Santahamina.
The smurf in question is not a cartoon character but part of our tracksuit uniform worn for sports and exercise, nicknamed ‘smurffipuku’ – smurf suit.
I left the top half of mine safely tucked behind a heater with my hat and runners during a game of indoor hockey played with big ping pong balls.
At some point during the match the smurf disappeared along with my hat. Strangely the shoes remained.
In a panic I searched the surrounds and located another hat, much larger than my own, but my smurf was gone.
And so the saga began.
In the army going AWOL, falling asleep on guard duty, and loosing military equipment, blue smurfs included, is considered a serious crime.
Drinking alcohol on a bus in uniform is another act punishable through weeks of shoveling dirt, which happened to one of the girls in my room.
That’s another story.
Anyway as protocol goes I informed my superior immediately and an announcement about the missing smurf to my platoon was made.
Everyone was to check their bags and lockers for the missing smurf, and if it couldn’t be found a full military equipment check would take place.
This painful task involves taking 200kg+ worth of equipment from our lockers to the gravel forecourt outside and marking each piece off.
If anything is missing, even underpants and socks, we are given several hours to find them or risk another equipment check.
The first time we went through this process was on the Friday afternoon of our one-day camp, just as we were about to go home for the weekend.
The task was so tedious the point was made – do not loose a thing.
So you can imagine the reactions I copped from my fellow soldiers when news of my missing smurf travelled.
Several days later my smurf had still not shown up and the equipment check was ordered.
I hadn’t a friend in the world as we heaved all our equipment up two flights of stairs to undertake an indoor check given the gravel forecourt had turned into a small lake following days of pouring rain.
Sadly my smurf had not been hiding in anyone else’s locker, the equipment check proved that he was long gone.
As a result a missing person’s file was needed, including time and location of disappearance, first notified superior etc.
I was given an example of the form that needed to be filled out in English.
And couldn’t believe it when I realized the form had been filled in by one Matthew Stephen Dunkerley.
Guess some things do run in the family.
Sgt. (the other Dunkerley) Sana
Our belongings hit the ground in one big big pile for the counting.
The military smurf in action. (Model not Sgt. Sana)
The last time I slept in a tent back home was during a trip to West Australia’s stunning Ningaloo Reef.
The extravagant set-up featured a double bed, en suite and ocean views.
The tent was so luxurious in tourism circles the experience is known as ‘glamping’, glamorous-camping.
On the other end of the camping scale is what happens in the army, an experience I have coined the term ‘damping’, damned-camping.
I was introduced to it in week three of our basic training period with a one-night camp in the forest of Santahamina island.
The night before we set off we packed the essentials: sleeping bag and mat, clothing, mosquito spray, military and combat sporks.
Anticipating some free time I naively included a book, lollies and writing material inside my giant green backpack a 10 year-old child could hide inside.
The day of the camp arrived and I was excited at the prospect of getting back to nature.
Mother nature had other ideas as it began to pour with rain before we even got out the door.
This prompted a sudden wardrobe change into our plastic overalls and jackets, on top of bulletproof combat vests.
With backpacks and helmets in place we were as tall as we were wide, looking more like sumo wrestlers than soldiers as we waddled outside in our oversized gumboots.
Our first stop was the supply shed to literally pick-up our tent and other supplies.
We slowly set off in the pouring rain, balancing poles, nets, and large camping stoves as best we could.
The children’s song “the ants go marching one by one” sprung to mind as we soldiered on carrying our own body weight on our backs.
The only difference was that we not “trying to get out of the rain” we were marching straight into it.
More than one hour and one km later we arrived at our swampy mosquito plagued campsite and were tasked with setting up our colossal 18-man tent.
With 12 sets of hands on deck one would think tent would almost erect itself.
But 20kg of combat gear restricted our team from meeting the ten-minute deadline to get it up and camouflaged to look like a tree.
And so our day’s activities began.
Up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up down went the tent.
I was wet, weary and never wanted to see another tent pole in my life, by the time we managed the deadline.
But rather than celebrate our achievement we were told to take the tent straight back down and move camp 20m further into the forest.
About fifteen minutes and 37 seconds later, when this task was complete, I was ready to scream.
Instead I was handed an axe and told to chop firewood for the stove that would be kept alight inside the tent all night.
Onlookers were as nervous as I when I took my first swing of the axe, explaining that this cherished Finnish pastime was new to me.
I quickly however got into the swing of things and contributed at least 20 minutes worth of fuel for the fire I questioned for such a hot balmy night.
I was prepared to sweat it out all night however, after it was explained that the smoke would help keep the kamikaze mosquitos at bay.
It was around midnight after we finished supper and an onerous lesson on how to use the foolproof kerosene lamp when it was time for bed.
We crawled into the tent one by one with our bedding, bulletproof vests and guns in hand.
Like a piece of the trivial pursuit pie I took my position and wriggled inside my artic-proof sleeping bag to change out of my wet clothes into more wet clothes.
Unfortunately the announcement over the PA before we set off to pack our belongings into waterproof bags was not translated to me.
In my damp shorts I tried to get as comfortable as possible with my combat vest doubling as my pillow and Mr. Jones by my side.
I was also anxious at the thought of bedding down with 18 men I hardly knew and didn’t think I would manage the four hours sleep on offer.
Thankfully I had been spared from fire toking duties throughout the night and managed a few hours sleep.
I thought I was locked in a recurring nightmare when I was woken and told to pull the tent down as fast as possible and move camp back 20m.
It was no dream; it was our task before breakfast.
Staring into my serve of porridge I contemplated hitching a ride back to base in the van that had brought our grey sloppy oats.
But before I had the chance I was back on my feet, backpack on and handed part of the tent to carry back to base.
In a fatigued silence we marched back to base in soggy socks, hoping to be greeted by a warm shower and bed.
Instead we arrived back in time for a three-hour combat training session in the Sahara desert.
When I unpacked my bag later that day I realized the rain had turned my paperback novel into pulp and the lining of my bag into a sticky lollie residue.
It was official camping had turned into damping, and I was facing three more days of it the following week.
(To be continued)
Alokas Hurme prepares to leave the dorm for our first army camp.
Leaving our room, our flushing toilet and warm/dry bunk beds behind!
The tent begins to take shape.
And up ....
Now you see it now you don't, a camouflage job well done!
White people can’t jump, Finnish people can’t swim.
They float and splash their arms about in a doggy paddle style that ineffectively takes them from one end of the pool to the other but it’s not swimming.
I witnessed this strange action during one of many fitness assessments a soldier must undertake when he/she starts training.
Lined-up and modeling our electric blue issued swimwear, suitable attire for the Sydney Mardis Gras, we were instructed to swim 200m including 50 on our backs.
Hardly an onerous task I thought, as I sought permission from the lieutenant to wear my own goggles.
‘So long as they didn’t feature a snorkel’ he (reportedly) replied, much to everyone’s amusement as I stood wondering why no one else had thier aquatic eyewear on hand.
I soon realised that goggles are a rather useless piece of equipment if you have no intention of putting your head under water.
I felt like an Olympic athlete gliding from one end of the pool to the other, weaving my way around my human obstacles.
But it’s only a matter of time )probably four months) before the tables are turned and everyone gets to see my ability on a pair of skis!
And my performance in the pool only just made up for my less than impressive run 2050m run on the Cooper Test.
An average outcome according to Kenneth Cooper, the scientist who designed the test in the 60s for the US military.
In pairs we were told to tally the number of laps around the 400m track our partner managed in 12 minutes.
Agent Cooper from Twin Peaks was inspiring me as I jogged around the track.
The TV channel soon flicked to an episode of Where’s Wally as I watched 40 shaved head Finns in the same attire make their way around the track.
Needless to say I momentarily I lost my man, and to his disadvantage misjudged his run.
Thankfully my slip up was picked up in good time, and scored a ‘very good’ 2.8km.
A result I will be aiming for next time Agent Cooper and I meet, which I’m informed will be in the near future.
Sgt. (slightly sporty) Sana
Amy Winehouse (bless her troubled talented soul) sang the great lyrics and they’re ringing true for me.
It’s only been one date but , but just like a lovesick teenager, I think Me and Mr. Jones have something special going on.
And talk about chemistry, it didn’t just start with sparks it was a bang, quite literally.
I’m of course talking about my gun and our first live firing exercise.
I was nervous about our “first time” together, never having shot a gun before.
I also missed the blank firing drill designed to give us all an idea of how strong the gun’s kickback would be.
So with sweaty palms and heart beating I took my position on the ground, Mr. Jones loaded and ready to go by my side.
I hesitated, then finally found the courage to pull the trigger “bang” it was over in less than a second..
Mr Jones was gentler than I was anticipating, and I went back for more.
Our “first time” was over in a flash but found an almost perfect score, with five of the ten bullets hitting the bull’s eye 150 meters away.
I topped the 100-strong class with my 91 points out of 100 earning a “good result” from my very serious lieutenant, and the envy of all the boys.
Love at first sight? It could be, i’ll keep you posted.
In the meantime I am memorising Mr. Jone’s number off by heart.
Sgt. (sniper) Sana.
Me and Mr. Jones.
Lipas valmis - "magazine ready"
Mr. Jones taking a well deserved rest.
TheFinnishingLine 