How to loose X-large smurfs (and friends in the making …)

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)

Camping (Part one)

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!

Fitness (Finland-style)

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