the tyranny of fitness

The first couple weeks back for a new year involves a lot of updating of compulsory annual training, such as firefighting, first aid, occupational health and safety, and for a lucky few, physical fitness tests. I wasn't due for another PFT until closer to June this year, thanks to a lucky(?) clerical error in my favour last year, which has meant I haven't actually done a PFT since passing one in week eight of rookies circa August 2007. However, I wasn't so fortunate this time around, by finding myself on the list for a PFT last Monday.

What I was worried most about, I passed with no troubles - the push-ups. I'm not a fan of push-ups at the best of times, and usually train up for a PFT by doing push-ups until fatigue point just before bed each night. I used to do the same with sit-ups back in boot camp, practicing with other girls that weren't otherwise occupied with cleaning weapons or ironing (such is life!). The alternative exercise to push-ups is the flexed arm hang, which I couldn't do at all back in the days when I was first seeing a personal trainer to get fit enough for enlistment. Weighing ten or so kilograms more than I do now also didn't help with relying on my puny arms to support my whole body weight. However, before I realised that push-ups were another metric used in the PFT, I worked on all manner of exercises to build my core, arm, and back muscles to the point where I could hang for long enough.

I was less concerned with sit-ups, considering in a circuit training session the previous week, I had been able to do the requisite amount. Whether it was because I hadn't slept or eaten enough to restore my energy reserves and rebuild the abdominals I'd worked in that session, or because I'd made the foolish choice of having my feet off the mat as opposed to on the mat (which even the PTI Sergeant admitted was a slight biophysical disadvantage I was giving myself), I don't know, but I missed the sit-ups target by two. I tried again with my feet on the mat about ten minutes later, but my feet kept coming up off the floor, my abs had nothing left to give, and I said I'd try the walk before coming back to attempt the sit-ups with feet held (which use slightly different muscles).

As for the walk, well it was definitely deceptive. I've never done the walk option before, as we didn't have a choice of it in recruits (that I knew of), because we were expected to do the run. I didn't trust my post-Christmas cardiovascular ability enough to get the right pace for the run though, so I thought choosing to walk would be easier. Boy, was I wrong. The cracking pace required to make the time target was more of a slow jog than a brisk walk, considering how short my legs are and how useless swinging arms and stepping out is for keeping the speed up. I used a guy that was pacing along listening to an iPod (another thing I didn't know we were allowed to have for PFTs!) to mark my time, but we ended up both missing out by four seconds.

Four seconds, and two sit-ups, what's the big deal, you may ask. Much like the military doesn't care if you beat the targets by seconds, minutes, fives, or tens - a pass is a pass and a fail is a fail. So I've now got 90 days to redeem myself, with the opportunity to retest any time between now and some time in April, in order to avoid further reproach (baby's first Record Of Conversation! Argh!) and regain my Individual Readiness aka deployability. I was slightly pissed off with myself for missing my targets so marginally (I probably deserved to miss them by heaps, considering how much I ate and how little I did over my summer holidays), but took it all as the kick in the butt I need to get cracking on my physical state in 2009.

I already had plans to start yoga, boxing, and Krav Maga this year. I'll tone down the running until it starts getting interesting again, but I am interested to see what these three different yet related disciplines can do for me with some serious practice. For those not in the know, Krav Maga is a military hand-to-hand combat system developed in Israel, which assumes no quarter will be given, and emphasizes threat neutralization (according to Wikipedia). I'm basically doing it for fitness and self-defence, and considering its military (and quite practical) roots, I didn't think I'd have a problem with being allowed to partake in it.

That's part of the joys of being government property, you see. Even though we ran around with webbing, rifles, and CBRND suits in 30 degree heat, threw ourselves over and under logs, ropes, chains on an obstacle course, and did numerous battle PT sessions hauling around logs, ropes, tyres, stretchers and trucks, if anyone wishes to participate in organised sport during their spare time, they need permission from the RAAF. I'm not too sure on the definition of organised sport, but considering a friend of mine struggled to be allowed to practice and teach Judo (despite being a State champion) because it wasn't recognised by the RAAF as a permissible sport, I was a little wary of admitting my potentially un-approvable extracurricular intentions.

I thought I'd do the right thing anyway (not entirely convinced by annual Fraud and Ethics training), and ask my Flight Sergeant for the 'permission to partake in outside sport' form to fill in. Just in case Krav Maga is not on the white list (even though there's another RAAFie practicing that does have permission to play!), or Iyengar yoga is seen as a national threat of some kind, or non-contact boxing is only allowed during RAAF supervised PT sessions. Part of filling in this form is seeking approval at the unit level (even though I'm sure the Commanding Officer has better things to do than sign off on everyone's voluntary sporting activities), but I thought I had a pretty good case seeing as working towards being fighting fit can only be an advantage.

Imagine my surprise when the reply from FSGT was that he could give me the form, and was happy to set the wheels in motion for me to get it signed off in the right manner, but not until I was IR current. In essence, this means I may not be medically covered if an injury occurs to me whilst I take part in 'unapproved sport', and following that sort of logic, I shouldn't be doing any extracurricular sporting activity until I am deemed 'medically fit' again. Time to play spot the Catch-22, perhaps? One would think that having failed a PFT, I should be encouraged to do anything (in my spare time or otherwise) that will increase my fitness, and therefore my prospects of passing a PFT in the near future, not discouraged.

I'm tempted to look up the relevant Defence Instructions on such rulings, to see if I have anything to wield against FSGT for doing this, but I've already been told by my immediate SGT that I should do whatever it takes to get fit again, and in the event of any injury, just say I fell down drunk or something similar. Like that's much more honourable/believable!

the year in preview

I've only been back at work for a week, but I can already tell that it's going to be a pretty busy 2009. Christmas/New Year break was fun, spent mostly in Melbourne, but stopping at Canberra, Wangaratta, and Terrigal along the way there and back. Clocked up some much needed kilometres on the new/old car, caught up with friends and family, and thankfully didn't get called up to do any RAAFesque duties.

I'll start with some not-so-breaking family news. While talking to my Mum and Aunt about someone who ran into me last year while I was attending the International Women's Day Dinner at Telstra Dome, I found out that this woman's father worked in the Air Force with my Grandfather. I didn't even know my maternal Grandfather was in the Air Force! I'm guessing it was for Taiwan, seeing as that's where my Mum grew up, but who knows. I'm determined to learn Mandarin properly, and go back to Taiwan to research more of this untranslated side of my family's flying history. Maybe it's something in the blood, which could explain other relatives on my Mum's side working for Cathay Pacific, and my own brother's fascination with aviation.

I think I remember seeing photos of my Grandfather with medals, or at least ribbons/braids of some kind, but no one in my family told me there was any kind of Air Force connection when I first said I was enlisting. So much for being the first in the family to go the military route. Not only was my Grandfather in the Air Force, he was a fighter pilot! My Mum and Aunt continued bantering away about the odds of me coming across someone who was two degrees of separation from my Grandfather, while I was still gobsmacked about him being some kind of AFie! Funnily enough, the woman that spotted me at the Telstra Dome thought I was with the Victoria Police band (who were performing that night), because I was in my service dress blues, which look quite similar to the Police uniform. I could have also been two or three degrees of separation from this woman, because she worked for Metropolitan Fire Brigade, which isn't too far removed from the Paramedic I'm with...

News on the future career front is that my application for LEAP, which is a scheme that basically covers the cost of the Bachelor of Business (Logistics and Supply Chain Management) course I'm attempting by distance learning, has been successful. This means that I've really got to get my rear into gear and pass all the subjects that I'm pledging to get through this year (four of them, yikes!), and spend the next couple years doing the equivalent of first year university. Through the application process, I've had to inform my superiors (and their superiors) of my intentions, which is basically to get a head start on the Business degree in order to be competitive for the Undergraduate sponsor scheme (full time study at a civilian university campus) or entry to ADFA via the Airman/Airwoman Access to the Academy Scheme (full time study in Canberra) by 2011. Not entirely concidental is the end of my initial sentence (sorry, Return Of Service Obligation) of 2 July, 2011, although I'm not sure what the payback is meant to be for however much of my degree the RAAF ends up footing the bill for. :)

So what does this all mean, in a nutshell? Well, for one, it doesn't look like I'm going to be saving up money for that little bar or cafe in the near future. My initial impetus for going the logistics path was a mixture of wanting to open up my career options so that I could possibly move back to or closer to Melbourne and live with my partner (RAAF cooks can only be posted to NT/QLD/NSW below Corporal rank), and also coming to the realisation that I don't think I'm physically and mentally capable of spending years in catering without wondering why I didn't give in to the curiosity of what I could do and where I could go if I pushed myself that little bit further. Also, if I do want to leave the RAAF eventually, I think the idea of a civilian job in logistics is much more appealing than one in hospitality (if it's not for my own business). My bar and cafe dreams have somewhat dwindled to the mobile coffee or kebab cart for now; I think that owning/running a small business is its own battlefield of sorts, and the sum total of my hospitality (and life!) experience hasn't readied me for that at all.

To put another twist in this tale, it turns out that I might not be a couple years away from wrangling my way to a more Victorian location, as it seems quite possible that my Paramagic partner can share this lovely State with me a lot sooner than 2011. There are no guarantees of course, but considering for the best part of a year I've thought that I'm going to be up here keeping the bench warm by myself for a couple years, this is amazing news to me. I'm still going ahead with the degree studies, and pursuing that ever elusive commission (if only to have an ending of sorts for this story!), but there's less pressure to ride the career rodeo just to be in a more geographically favourable position. This year I'm hoping that I'll be sent away on an exercise within Australia, that I'll get my Leading Aircraftwoman rank, and that I'll move into a non-military dwelling of some kind.

That's right - with a little luck, and a bit of work, this little baseling is going to go places.

how to recruit the right person for the job…

(A debrief of the first week back to work to follow; for now, here's the best of the jokes that were sent to me in the month or so that I had off. Translations in square brackets for the civilian impaired!)

Put about 100 Bricks in some particular order in a closed room with an open window. Send 2 - 3 candidates into the room and close the door. Leave them alone and come back in 6 hours to analyse the situation.

If they stack and count the bricks: Assign to RAAOC [Royal Australian Army Ordnance Corps]

If they recount the bricks: Assign to Pay Corps

If they've done nothing useful except make a huge mess with the bricks: Assign to RAE [Royal Australian Engineers]

If the arrange the bricks in strange order: Assign to Clerks

If the make the bricks into a wall and insist on knocking it over with their heads: Assign to Infantry (without delay)

If they insist on eating the bricks with the belief of hardening up: Assign to Armour

If any bricks are broken and one candidate dobs them in: Assign him to MP's and the others to Infantry [Military Police]

If the candidates are throwing bricks in no particular direction: Assign to Artillery

If they've already knocked off for the day: Assign to the RAAF

If they're staring out the window: Assign to Navy

Finally, if they are all sitting around talking to each other and no bricks have moved… congratulate them and send them to Duntroon. [Royal Military College, for officer training]

combat catering

The mission: to establish and maintain law and order in the fictional country of Nesos Mikros, whose government has requested the help of the Australian Defence Force. Two local tribes (the Lenevians and Balmerians) are in conflict over the alleged poor treatment of Balmerians by the Lenevian-led national government. The RAAF is sending approximately 80 members of 381 Expeditionary Combat Support Squadron to set up an Aerial Port Of Debarkation (temporary air-strip) that is expected to operate for up to 30 days.

They say half the fun is getting there. In order to replicate the travel required to get to the Pacific nation of Nesos Mikros (which I soon discovered was merely the relabelled south island of Fiji), and for some members of the unit to get in some much-needed convoy practice, we drove from Williamtown to Tamworth (286km), and then swung back to Taree (333km). This is just over eight hours of ordinary driving, but you can pretty much forget about that timing when it comes to a military convoy’s pace. A particular highlight for me (apart from sneering at the Golden Guitar at Tamworth, for although 12m is quite large for a guitar, it’s not as big as I remember it to be) was stopping by the now defunct Leyland Brothers World.

It took about twelve hours for our packet to reach its destination, with minimal toilet stops, and wonderful opportunities to catch some fresh air and open the less bus-friendly bits of our ration packs to eat. Gotta love digging into a stone-cold pack of salmon mornay and pasta while there’s a McDonald’s and a Subway within smelling distance! Oh yeah, due to ‘not being able to ingest local food’, we had to get by on rat packs for the first few days. Fortunately, at Taree’s Army Reserve Squadron, where we were camped whilst doing force preparation, our rat packs were supplemented by cooked breakfasts and dinners thanks to The Salvation Army. Bless. Judging from the desperation that our troops dug into the fresh rations after only 12 hours on rat packs, there was no doubt going to be some pressure on Catering to set up our kitchen ASAP once we got out bush.

Luckily, I got as much sleep as I could during the convoy, because as soon as we landed at Taree, we got straight into force prep. This involved various ground defence lessons for most of the day, as well as two sets of piquets (guard duties) during the night – let the sleep deprivation begin! It seemed kind of pointless to sit and watch a bus with weapons locked in its hold, and then to rove the perimeter for a further hour, when we didn’t have weapons in our hands to actually guard the weapons with. Who said the military was bursting at the seams with logic, though? The real kicker about doing force prep was finding out that despite having to sleep on the ground in mozzie domes, we weren’t going to get field allowance for the privilege!

By the time we made it to the site of the APOD in Salt Ash (about 15 minutes away from Williamtown), we were wishing for an increase in field allowance. The land was once an orchard, with a north-south downwards slope that undulated with troughs of poorly cleared plant matter. Just perfect for building pits from sandbags, and setting up a nice level kitchen on! There was something about the location which must have appealed greatly to mosquitoes, ticks, and leeches, because they certainly didn’t clear out just because we arrived with our industrial insect repellent. Medical was kept busy with the steady stream of tick-victims, and progressively filled a jar with a still-twitching collection of the parasites. I joked that the person with the most ticks pulled out at the end of exercise should win the jar – either that, or they should start a guessing competition to see how many ticks would be in the jar by the end of ten days, but if the prize is the jar, no one would want to win that contest anyway…

I’d heard rumours that Catering always gets reamed out bush, no matter what the scenarios, but I wasn’t expecting to struggle before anything even started. Seems that we were a target for plague as well as pestilence – in the first couple days we lost our Sergeant to a mysterious illness, as well as an extra Corporal (a Physical Training Instructor that was tacked onto Catering) to indigestion or perhaps strategic dehydration. Our kit wasn’t even set up fully yet, and we were two men down, from a ten-man section! It was up to the remaining Corporal to step up to the plate, and a surprise 2IC to also jump into the mess headfirst. We also copped it on the first night of major contact, because one of the cooks had an unlawful discharge, so he didn’t have a weapon for about 12 hours.

Here’s how we got screwed by some of the scenarios:

• I shot the Padre (but I did not shoot the deputy). This was an ‘authorised unlawful discharge’, where I was meant to pretend that I was cleaning my weapon and accidentally shoot the Padre. The scenario was meant to test the response of Medical, Security Police, and also the follow-up checking of my weapon functionality by Ground Defence/Warehouse. Oh, and the Padre was also meant to be relieved by another Padre, so this was just a more dramatic way of doing a changeover, I guess. I was taken out of the kitchen for a couple hours while the Padre got treated and medevaced by helicopter (your taxes at work!), and while I got questioned and counselled. Turns out my weapon was borderline unserviceable anyway, so it was a good thing I shot the Padre!



• One of the fridges was taken out by a bullet. No major drama, just requiring a quick reshuffling of produce from one fridge to the other. The funnier thing was that for authenticity’s sake, someone drilled a hole in something that they probably shouldn’t have, because after the scenario was over the shot fridge actually was shot. It didn’t become serviceable again for another couple of days.



• A fridge-worth of rations got delivered while we already had one full fridge. Another exercise in prioritisation. Some of us tried to argue that various items such as eggs, fruit, and certain vegetables didn’t require refrigeration, but our frazzled Corporal ignored the points we were making about what gets shelved versus fridged at Woolies, and insisted we cram as much as possible into the one remaining fridge. I would have laughed and said I told you so, if the sole fridge then decided to pack it in due to being overstuffed.



• Intruders entered the Area of Operation ten minutes after dinner was ready to be served. Base camp could smell the steaks from anywhere, but someone higher up the hill must have forgot to keep track of the time. Even though we had dinner all ready to go and waiting to be served to the troops, it all had to be thrown out because the scenario went on for so long, it was no longer safe to eat because it was just sitting in hotboxes and not the actual servery.



• Airplane crash during lunchtime, requiring 22 extra meals prepared for delivery to the personnel sent out to help at the crash site. Our own lunches were sacrificed for the cause, to make the delivery that little bit speedier. We ended up going hungry and raiding the fridges later for refreshment. Fortunately there were still enough rations to go round at that point. It got trickier to pull extra meals out of nowhere as the days went on, and sections grew, or other scenarios requiring emergency/unannounced hotboxes continued to crop up. Things got a little desperate when we ran out of coffee and biscuits, and we had to put on a morning tea for a realtime affair – local VIPs and media.



• One of the Military Working Dogs got shot, and the body had to be stored in one of our fridges until it was picked up. Despite our Corporal arguing that once a dead body went into our now-working second fridge, we weren’t able to use it for food even after it was emptied once more, higher-ups decided that preserving a dead dog’s body was more important than maintaining the capacity to feed fresh rations to the remaining living troops. For some reason, shoving a dog’s body into a shipper with ice seems a little cruel. Not as cruel as letting the unit go back onto rat packs until we get another fridge sent to us, obviously!

A typical day in the life of Catering could include:
4 hours general ground defence duties (sandbagging, maintaining pits/camouflage, cleaning weapon, clearing patrols and stand-to periods)
2 hours Vehicle Check Point duty
2 hours day shift piquet in section Alert Pit
2-4 hours night shift piquet in section Alert Pit
8 hours preparing/serving/cleaning up after three meals per day

Sleep happens whenever and wherever possible. I don’t think I slept for more than three hours continuously for the entire time we were out there. The only things that managed to keep me awake and alert whilst on piquet were actual contacts – when there are people firing at you from the treeline 100m away, you suddenly forget you’ve had bugger all rest and your body finds its urge to survive.

I got cranky. I got dirty. I got delirious. I hallucinated. I swore like a trucker’s wife at anything and everything that frustrated me in the slightest. I probably managed to piss off each and every member of our crew at some time or other, but also turned around at other stages to motivate each and every one of them to harden up and push on. There’s something magical about going out bush – I imagine it’s something akin to childbirth – despite the pain and trauma of it all, what you get out of it by the time you come back home and the dust settles far outweighs all the crap that happens to you out there.

No one would believe me when I said it, but I’m glad I actually went. It was an eye-opening experience for sure, and it highlighted a lot of bullshit that I imagine goes with the territory of military exercise (or general practice, for that matter), but I’ve learnt a lot in ten days that I probably wouldn’t have found out any other way.

like being raped with the unpleasant end of a rake

Hindsight is a marvellous thing. I should have printed a copy of this off and kept it in sight whilst I was applying to be a RAAFie cook. Things might have turned out quite differently! For better or for worse, I've still yet to decide. :) I figure I've been writing this blog long enough to have a flashback episode. I remembered the other day that I had once vowed never to work in a kitchen again, and then tried to dig out what I'd written from the archives of the internet...

From an old journal entry written on November 23, 2005:

Fuck me.

Actually, that's already happened. Up the butty and around the corner. This shit'd put Mary Magdalene to shame. Screwed over by the kitchen, by the customers, by the waiters in a hospitality bukkake. Grinning maniacally at the end of it, fighting the urge to sing.

From the first to the last docket, everything simmering, riding high on two lattes and a Red Bull. Nerves bundled up like cancer in my belly, shoulders tight and forearms already feeling the burn. Not enough spoons, too many bowls, what the fuck is that bacon doing there and not on the steak sandwich. What was the secret to Lin's perfect poachies at Pancakeland two years ago? Do I remember how my Mum cooked rockling, let alone how Marino did it yesterday?

My head spins and I keep having to remind myself to breathe. And reminding the larder kid what goes into a side salad. Yes, it's the same as the last one you made. Lettuce, no, not the cos lettuce, the mixed lettuce. Tomato... cucumber... yeah, and the onion. The spanish onion. The purple shit. I resist the urge to grab the plate off him and do it myself, because there's stuff on the stove I should be paying attention to. The fourth docket comes in and I'm still not sure whether to laugh or cry.

More water in the pots, spray some oil there on the grill. Shit, there's no bacon, of course, because Marino automatically preps it every day so it's never on the actual prep list. I want my brain back. I think I dissolved it with the second coffee of the day. No sugar. Got enough bacon for two pastas. Haven't you made a pizza before? Read me out the ingredients of the express pasta sauce. Fuck it, I'll make it up as I go.

You've got chips down for a burger, right? And that steak sandwich? Do you know how to make a caesar salad? Bacon bits, croutons, cos. Yeah, you gotta chop that up. Well, if you run out then wash some more from the coolroom. Throw it into a silver bowl and mix it up with some of that dressing. Shit, dressing on the side for that one. Cut up enough for a normal salad bowl. One of those.

I've got chicken for that, now cut the egg in half. Shit, lengthways not sideways for the next one. No, I only need one. Hang on, I'll fix it. What docket is that for? Have you got fries down for that? Jesus. Fuck, the pollo's burning. Get some garlic bread and bruschetta going. On the ciabattas, yeah? You're going to need some garlic butter... butter's right there, grab the garlic, some parsley and go.

I feel like I'm about to induce a seizure, forcing my personality to split between being buddies with the larder and kitchen hand, to mortal enemies. Nothing seems to be going right and in the heat of the moment I realise that I can't do this right without them, even though it's excruciating trying to do anything with them. I need a robot and a third fucking microwave. I want Marino back. He said if I freak out about anything just call, but it's like calling an ambulance if you've already sliced your leg off. There's not much you can do about it by that point.

I'm going nuts trying to keep track of what's on the grill, what's in the oven, how long the pasta's been in the water, whether there's enough chips in the fryer, if I've got enough salad plates or any prepared at all, whether Gaz is going to shut up or keep continuously asking me if there's any dishes to be done. Han jumps in every now and then when tables outside are just waiting on their food... trying to be my second brain and organising the boys to help and not hinder. I lose count of how many times I say fuck.

Six hours after I step into the kitchen, I emerge, a battered soul. Coated in sweat, smoke, and a slight spattering of napoli, I feel sick to my stomach. Han gives me a hug, like I'm a wounded soldier in need of support. The egg on toast that I had for breakfast churns away in protest, and I'm not sure if it wants some company or it's complaining about the view. I don't feel like eating at all. After dishing up some pastas for the staff, I swallow a couple mouthfuls of lemon squash, tell Meke to finish up cleaning the floor and get on with the ordering so I can skip out of there.

I stare at the prep list for tomorrow, forcing my brain to process with what little power remains in it. Seano opens a Becks and offers it to me. I take a good, full swig of that cold liquid gold and feel it travel down my throat to greet the remains of the egg on toast. It's good. It's all I need, after more than a month without beer, it hits me sweetly. I make a couple phone calls and get the fuck out of dodge. I remind myself again to breathe. I tell Han I don't care what happens to Marino next time around, it's in Lou's best interest to get a real chef in, because even though we made it through the day, I'm not going to forget the experience for a while.

Someone point me to this entry the next time I get the urge to be a chef!

Strangely enough, reading this all over again, so many years later, it actually makes me miss working in civvie kitchens. About the only real pressure we get is whenever we do function work, and we have to pump out/plate up multiple plates within a short space of time, having each dish look the same and tasting great. Functions only happen every once in a while, with the day-to-day work being a-la-carte breakfast cookery and bulk cooking lunch for anywhere between 50-300 troops.

Being pushed out of my comfort zone by function work gives me greater respect for people that do this sort of stuff all the time. I don't think RAAFie cooks that haven't worked in civvie kitchens have any idea what it's really like on the outside. Even after a few years out of civvie kitchens, I did manage to forget what it was like, enough to sign up as a cook, anyway!