Soldiering On

The time spent in National Service will always be memorable to almost any Singaporean in his twenties or more. BMT, POP, SOC, IPPT, LRI, ORD, and a whole plethora of other acronyms may evoke memories sweet and sour, or both. Be it two and a half years, an even couple of years, 18 months, or some other weird duration (2 years and 3 months for me), it is, for whatever reason, a big part of growing up.

Most of my memories regarding NS were forged in a yellowed office lined with metal cabinets. There, I used a stapler gun for the first time, learnt how to deal with people either too stupid or too difficult to deal with, and twice facepalmed when the same Sergeant got busted for jacking off to pixellated images of barely-skimpy girls. Hard to forget.

Especially hard to forget when a lot of us are joyously plucked from our daily civilian lives and thrust back into the world we thought we had left behind.

In a few days I'll be trudging my way, duffel bag and all, past a set of bored-looking guards watching the clock more than the ins and outs, alongside a horde of other similarly-enthused individuals. Again.

Before I go further, I will state, for the record, that I think that NS is a good idea, a good thing. More than the facade of defending a nation, it teaches (forces?) the youths to gain a measure of independence, exposes them to new and diverse personalities and experiences, and ensures that they can use a broom or mop or Microsoft Excel to some degree of competency.

What I don't agree with, what I have always (and will always) argued against is the dreaded Reservist.

One or two weeks of little else but Monopoly Deal and waiting about to be called from our dilapidated bunks to assemble for meals can drive even the sanest of people up the wall, and in truth, while it's a damn fine card game, there are only so many rounds you can play with no stakes before it gets dull.

But that's the truth of the majority of what goes on in Reservist camps, at least for the folk who haven't been designated Combat Fit.

Again, I'll make a mention of those that are, and how they of course have their own regimen of fantastic fun oiling and cleaning and oiling and firing and oiling and cleaning various firearms. Or the array of officers who themselves sometimes know little of what's going on, and find themselves sat down in a chilly meeting room listening to career men spouting about drop zones and casualty evacuations.

But for many people, the option is clear. Sleep, or stare at a wall.

The first time I tried to get out of this, I had to the Commanding Officer of the unit. Then, I had just started work as a Freelancer at ESPN Star Sports during the 2010 World Cup (also known as the 2010 Vuvuzela Festival), and was looking to make a good impression to have them take me on permanently. I had thought that such an important aspect in the life of a Singaporean would be seen as such. Important. You heard the doom and gloom about the crashing economy and the rising inflation and the astronomical cost of living even before million-dollar flats, and this was important.

Not to the army, not to the SAF, oh no.

"You say you want to defer because you just started a new job. Don't you know that half of the unit is still unemployed?"

I was flabbergasted. What the hell kind of reasoning is that? Alright, so a lot of folks don't have a job. I'm sorry to hear that but that has no bearing on my job. I'm not POTUS. As I looked blankly at the man across the table, I honestly wondered if he was being serious, and if that was his way of convincing me that potentially not being hired was a good thing. I've been trying to make sense of the line for two years and the more I think about it the more I think it's little more than idiocy.

Since then, of course, I've secured a job I've enjoyed immensely, and it's something I think I'm pretty good at doing. Those who know anything about it know, though, that it isn't an easy one, not just a bunch of guys sitting around watching Mark Clattenburg and Tweeting about it. There's a lot of work done by too few people every day to get material onto television for the region to watch. Or for the sponsors to rate.

I'm not the only one in the position of course, not hardly. Many others are as important, probably more important, in the smooth running of their own jobs and their absence adversely affects others in various ways. There are many, many, others like that.

Surprisingly though, at least to those I've spoken to, there are also many, many others who are not called up at all.

You would think that with just about the entire adult male population already gone through NS, that everyone should, at some point or other, go through the rite of Reservist. You'd be wrong. It isn't everyone; there is a roster selected from the list of people in the unit. How the list is populated is open for debate, with the popular argument accusing that a single scrawny clerk had put it together while everyone else was still botak as well.

This is quite bullshit.

How is it that some people are called back, year after year, often times more than once a year, and others are never touched or bothered or prodded at all? These aren't even those who have gone overseas for study or for work, but are the same ones who will gleefully share pictures of themselves gallivanting with wenches in a club while everyone else is getting ready for Round 73 of Monopoly Deal.

Some have said that it's because those people weren't dependable, or didn't do a good job while in NS, and so the unit only calls back the men they can rely on. While this is some sort of compliment, it poses another question then.

Why the hell would you bother to perform at all in NS, if that meant you'd be chaining yourself to the SAF machine for the considerable future?

I can say I was a good soldier. I actually received the Good Soldier Award twice, though it was, admittedly, a token gesture more than anything. But, like the others who are even now packing their duffel bags, I did my job, I did what I was asked. When I could, I did a little more to make things easier and better for the commanders around me. I filled the Sergeant Major's little flask with warm water everyday, I was never late in the mornings for two years, I never lost a key or misplaced a document, I didn't mind having to buy pork buns for the busy Captain during the fasting month. We were good soldiers.

And now we are being punished for it.

There's nothing to be done, really, except accept it, resigned and annoyed as I am now. I won't go so far as to declare that if and when I have children, I will raise them away from this atrocity, and I won't blatantly suggest and advise to my younger relatives to just slack off when their time comes, but I am honestly beyond irked at this point.

Monday Morning Blues it is, then.