Broken Dreams

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

• Finlayson is a traditional Finnish textile manufacturer, adored by many. But the pinka process has destroyed the brand loyalty for at least one of the girls here.

• Things are disorganized here most of the time. One weekend we had to stay on barracks to undertake a very important shooting exercise. It never prevailed as no one had ordered the bullets. Us female conscripts are convinced things would work like clockwork if it was women, instead of these boys, in charge.