Tomcat's Army Report
The beginning
|
The army has changed from its past. Some time ago one had to enter some base,
where one received their training, and left it when their time was up. Now
there are training bases, where rookies spend one or two months with basic
training, then they leave for their final garrison. There are five training
bases in the country; I headed for the one in the city of Szombathely, close
to the Austrian border.
I was to report at 09:00 AM at Savaria Military Base. (Savaria was the Latin name of Szombathely in the Roman ages.) Of course, because this was the least logical possibility. You can calculate how early I had to wake up to reach a train that arrived at Szombathely that time. In fact I didn't arrive with the train, because I fell asleep, the train was disconnected into two, and the section inside which I'd been sleeping headed for Zalaegerszeg. I woke up only when it was too late. I arrived at three o'clock instead of nine, and I thought I would start the entire thing in the jail, but surprisingly no one was interested at all. I found the base after walking five or six miles across some farmlands, because there was no bus. There were around a thousand recruits already waiting at the gate. Later I was told that some 3500 people had arrived on that and the next day. Soon we were let in. A nice sergeant lady greeted everyone, then everyone received a cup of tea, a sandwich and a pack of postcards. The tea was awful, and I suspected that it would not be the last of this kind. To cut it short, the following happened later: dividing everybody into different companies, confiscating civilian ID cards, haircut for those who needed one, then we were pointed to the company floors in the different battalion quarters. Of course I had been sent to the fourth floor, to the company designated 9/3. Later I lost some serious weight while climbing those stairs. A non-commissioned officer, Corporal Péter Gelencsér, escorted me to the quarters. He was a fat, ugly faced peasant from county Vas, looking exactly like the infamous title character from Jaroslav Hasek's novel, "Svejk, the Great Soldier." Later it came to light that even his mates called him Svejk. At the quarters, I was thrown with my equipment by a contracted non-commissioned officer from behind a long table: the clothing, the cap, tent canvas, mikado (a warm coat), water bottle, backpack, spoon machine (a set of eating utensils) and other stuff. Then they showed me the room I would live in during the forthcoming weeks: "bound left two", as they said, the second room from the stairs. (Note about the non-commissioned officers. There are two kinds of those in the Hungarian army. Gelencsér was a conscripted non-commissioned one, which later I became too. The one who gave me my equipment was a contracted non-commissioned one, a volunteer, or you can even call him a mercenary. Even if they have the same rank, contracted soldiers are in all cases higher in command than recruited ones.) There's nothing interesting about such a room. Six double beds, twelve backless chairs, known as "shtoki"-s, some lockers, and a table fixed to the wall. Besides of all these, there were three scared-looking rookies inside, already dressed in green. I greeted them, one even greeted me back. Now, that's enough about the introduction. I started packing my stuff into the wardrobe. Well, all I can say about these lockers is that the one who designed them should live inside one for a couple of years. To pack everything into this tiny thing, following the strict rules, seemed totally impossible. Later the room commander came - he was called Lance Corporal Norbert Mayer, and he was a nice person anyway - and showed me the way, but in fact even he couldn't manage to do it correctly. The first day passed with arranging my belongings. Of course I couldn't stuff everything in the locker, but at least I could find out that most of the equipment was broken, the clothes were torn, the gas mask was unusable, and there were no insoles in my boots. The others' clothing also looked terrible. Anyway, mine was even reasonably all right, since some had trousers that included a large hole from their knees up to their thighs, with only loose threads holding them together. Getting bored of packing, I stared out of the window. From the third floor up here one could get a good view of the entire base. It was in fact nice, despite of it being a military base. Nice grass, bushes, flowers. Of course the buildings were gray and ugly, and overall largely deteriorated too. Wrecked tanks and trucks sat at the repair base. This was all I could find when someone touched my shoulder. It was the internal serviceman. - Come - he said - to Captain Stumpfel. Captain Lajos Stumpfel was our company's commander. I think I was the first recruit to meet him. He overviewed my personal sheet and asked:
- So, you have a college degree?
One should grab every opportunity to get a brownie point, so I said yes. Captain Stumpfel pulled out a paper from his drawer, and gave it into my hand. - Read it. I started reading, but I couldn't even reach halfway, when the captain yelled at me like a wounded animal:
- NO! DORK! What are you reading, IDIOT! Read it NORMAL!
I restarted, but he shouted my hair off again. - NO !!! Not like that! Idiot asshole! Emphasize like this... This pretty boring dialogue lasted for at least half an hour. I started reading, he yelled. I tried again, he yelled again. Anyway, the entire oath was one single sentence. But it was never fine for him, neither this, nor that way. I was everything: idiot, dork, asshole, cockmaster, God's bastard, and so on. Later he got bored of the show and kicked me out of his office to learn the text until the evening, and also learn the correct way of stepping onto the speaker's rostrum. Two lance corporals, Norbert Mayer and Lászlo Budai, were for my help in that. We were practicing "head left", when the afternoon news started on the television, which was left turned on at the end of the corridor. At that time, in February 1998, it was likely that a second Gulf War might break out. We suspended drills, and watched the TV. The usual stuff: Clinton threatens Iraq, Hussein doesn't give a shit, Clinton threatens more, Hussein still doesn't give a shit. Then one politician of our beloved homeland appeared, and stated: it's so important to us to lick NATO's ass, that if war breaks out, we'll go too, and we'll perhaps even arrive there before the Americans! (Hungary was a partner nation of NATO that time, bound to become a full member soon. We gained membership in 1999. Until then, and even now, Hungarian politicians have always thought that our task is to do everything NATO demands, without even being asked. Hungarians are a #1 asslicker nation in this aspect.) Now it was time for us to stare at each other rather surprisedly. What the hell is this asshole saying? These morons are really able to attack Iraq with this army. There were some examples in history when smart Hungarian politicians declared war on the largest world powers, even without any foreign support. Of course, that time it was not likely for Hungary to get involved in any armed clash, but there seemed to be a chance. Some politicians immediately claimed that the Hungarians really had to sent troops there, if the Americans decided to attack. (It was only later decided to send a medical expedition, for which they wasted a tremendous amount of money, and which finally was not sent anywhere.) Well, of course, I think even in such case they wouldn't have sent recruited soldiers, but what if Iraq grabs some tons of chemical weapons, and sends some to the countries supporting the American invasion? Then it would have really led to war. I didn't feel like going to war. Soon I was in the high command building, among those wanting to be transferred to civilian service. (There is such a thing as civilian service in Hungary: one can decide not to take armed military service, but to fulfill some job for public use, for twice the time.) A staff sergeant escorted us to the first floor, to a cushioned door, on which the following copper plate was placed:
Lieutenant Colonel Gyula Naday
And the staff sergeant started to let the people in, one by one, for personal conversation. I didn't know what was going on in there, but each guy leaving the office after ten or twelve minutes looked really scared, and they all immediately withdrew from transferring to civilian service. After the fifteenth case I started thinking. Why should one discuss this transfer thing with the base commander personally? We have the right to decide so, and no one should build an obstacle for this. If we request it, they should accept it without a word. So what's this? I was the last in the queue. Lt.Col. Naday was a man in his fifties, balding, with an incredibly huge paunch. This pot-belly made him ridiculous on the entire base. Frankly, I'd never seen such a large stomach before. This belly, along with the officer attached, took place in an armchair, and immediately as I closed the door shouted at me.
- So, what is your problem with the army, private? Can't you clean your
boots in the evening?!
- Sit down, son. Sit down! Now, this is much better. So you're not that kind of creep who simply shits in their pants from military service! Good! Too bad that there are few like you... I built a humble face. Like good patriots, who don't shit in their pants from military service.
- So, it's a matter of fact that you can't transfer to civilian service. Or
if you confirm your will, I will arrange you the worst place man can have
in mind, like a bodywasher in some prosector (morgue). But it's not because I am cruel and evil; will you promise you won't tell the reason to anyone?
This was the end of the personal conversation. And this was the first weird experience in the army for me, followed by several more. tomcat^grm |