By MWO Howard McDowell (ret.), as it appeared in the military publication Aurora, April 22, 1986
Base Telecom.
CFB Debert
Many things have been said and written about life in the Service. [Service life] has been studied by just about every type of committee invented with resulting recommendations ranging from the ridiculous to some very constructive and productive ideas.
Life in the Service means different things to each and every one of us. Yet, there are some things that by and large are common to all.
I don’t think that a general statement can be made covering all phases of Service life: it must be broken into three or four parts, and this I will attempt to do.
Part One
Part One should cover from early high school to the day we joined. Why did we join in the first place? The reason why most of us joined, surprisingly enough, is usually very private (no pun intended). Conversations in the messes constantly vary with CFAOs in that religion and politics are discussed. Every topic imaginable is covered ranging from why we’re not getting promoted to the meaning of life, but seldom do we hear anyone talking about why they joined the Service.
For most of us, we joined because:
- The family resources were such that they couldn’t continue to support us through more education;
- We weren’t quite ready (mature) to handle the freedom and responsibilities of independent schooling;
- Employment in our hometown was very limited and we needed a job;
- Some of us were getting away from family situations that were less than ideal; We had contact with the military during our youth, be it the Militia or Cadets, and planned to join when personal conditions were right; or
- Yes, some of us were only one step ahead of the law.
These, of course, are just a few of the reasons we joined, but we were all looking for basically the same thing; adventure, travel, a trade or profession, and some money in our pockets. People, however, will talk about how they went about joining and, for many of us, this was a traumatic adventure in itself. Doctors poked fingers in strange places and made us cough when we would have sooner not. Yet, others put stuff in our eyes that rendered us blind. Already, though, they were treating us first-rate; we were given money to travel from home to the recruiting centre even if we had hitch-hiked; they were footing the bill for a grand hotel and giving us money to feed ourselves as well. Nothing cheap about this outfit and we haven’t even signed up yet.
The tests!! How did we make out? How do they want this answered? Obviously some kind of trick exam to find out if we were playing with a full deck. Some of the exams were obvious devices designed to find out how high we count or how fast we could read and what was retained. All in all, quite a harrowing experience for some of us. All the while we were manipulated by these cool characters in uniform who knew all the answers, treated us courteously and appeared to be just a little bit bored with it all, having explained to us how long it took to progress from OS/Pte/AC2 to a CWO. Hell! We would do that in our first hitch if we worked hard.
The interview! Now that was an awesome thing, ranging from a one on one with someone with more gold braid than any of us had seen before, to a full panel of people sitting behind desks on a raised dais. Talk about making a fellow sit tall and try to figure out what kind of answer they wanted.
Knee-length socks! Clothing stores around recruiting centres must make a fortune on knee socks because you aren’t there long before someone mentions you should never go to an interview without wearing long socks – extremely bad taste to show a hairy leg to anyone. The Spanish Inquisition had nothing on these proceedings.
Finally, it all came to an end with someone sitting down with us and explaining that according to the test, we would make an excellent widget fixer but, due to our education and background, they were going to make us a four-phase-single-handed remster. Wow! Wait till Mom hears about this. What the hell does a four-phase-single-handed remster do? Sounds important and he did say that I’d probably be good at it. We’ll go for it.
Little did we know but at that time the Service was short of a four-phase-single-handed remsters. Six months down the road, had we joined, we could have ended up a three-phase-double-handed remster. Time, however, usually proves them correct and we usually do well in the trade we are assigned.
Second thoughts. It’s five years of my life. That’s a whole lifetime. What if I want to do something in the meantime? If I sign that paper, there is no turning back. I could make more money back home working at whatever if I got a few breaks. What the hell, let’s give it a try. Where do I sign?
Part Two
Getting there can be half the fun and, for some of us, travelling to boot camp surely was. We had all seen the movies with John Wayne standing tall, screaming at the new recruits and we all know from the flashbacks that he was in fact a kind, fatherly individual, hard on the outside, soft as butter on the inside. We were soon to find out that the Dis we got had never seen butter. We thought we were pretty tough characters and in fact were, but the people who were handling us now were practising tried and true methods of converting civilians into soldiers, sailors, and airmen. It was hard for a few, too hard. Some would not or could not meet the standards demanded of us. What a job those DIs had when you stop and think of the materials they had to work with. Streetwise kids, tougher than nails, naïve country lads usually physically fit but a little green in the ways of the world, and everything in-between. Quite a job turning out a standard product with that conglomeration.
Characters abounded! There was always the wise old retread who had been in before and knew all the tricks. He napped while the rest of us were busy spit-shining shoes or trying to memorize what a QR&O was or which was a higher rank, a Lieutenant-General or a Major-General. God forbid, we should ever meet one. Movements on the parade square, which to us were totally foreign, came second nature to him.
The entrepreneur. He’s the guy who bought two irons, scrounged bread and peanut butter from the mess hall, and sold sandwiches to us, 20 cents extra [if] toasted, or sold us cigarettes at 15 cents each. He also provided services such as boot shining or pant pressing but, for a little extra, you could get the real things from the local cleaner.
The loan shark. Here was the guy who was one step ahead of the law when he joined. What he was doing was definitely against the Service law but none of us ratted on him because we all needed a few bucks now and then and like walking without crutches. You only seem to find these guys in basic training because the people who survived learned how to manage their money or get it at more reasonable rates.
The homesick kid. That was all of us to some extent (except for the re-tread – he was home). We still didn’t know if we had made the right move in joining and that walking voice box of a DI definitely wasn’t Mama. But there was always one who suffered more than the rest of us. He was usually a quiet, withdrawn individual, and everyone tried to help him along, each of us seeing a little of ourselves in him. They usually adjusted, though, eventually becoming first-rate servicemen with an understanding of the other fellow’s problems.
The list goes on and on, including such characters as the kid who didn’t bathe, didn’t do his share of the work, or had a current-year Corvette and more money than the rest of us put together. We all went in as individuals and, at the end, those of us who made it had a definite feeling of pride and accomplishment during that final parade, [knowing] we were part of a team. We looked damn smart out there; everything shone to a brilliant lustre and pressed to a razor-edged crease. Working as one, [we were] a unit that functioned flawlessly; simply amazing considering that just a few short weeks ago, we couldn’t even walk right!
Not only that, but we were senior troop! Just look at that bunch of long-haired slobs getting off the bus. Wait till the DI gets a hold of them. We never looked that bad. Get some time in, boys, you’ll never be as good as us. You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, and so on. We were top of the heap, at least for a little while.
Here also was the start of something that we did not recognize or appreciate at the time, but which would be driven home as we grew older and did it more often – saying farewell to a real good friend, some we would never see again for various reasons. The good part of this exercise is that we have good and fast friends practically all over the world.
Part Three
The more things change, the more they stay the same. We had finished our recruit training and were top of the heap here but were reporting for trades training and we found ourselves back at the bottom again. This was different, though [as] we had learned what was expected of us and, consequently, could avoid most of the pitfalls. Things like showing up [on] time for work, having a clean and presentable kit, acceptable haircuts (which are a little longer now), and addressing senior personnel in the proper manner.
Here is where we found out what a four-phase-single-handed remster did and how. For most of us, our new trade was exciting and challenging. We studied hard and took pride in developing our new skills. During this phase, we lost a few people, too. They had finished basic training OK but, as time progressed, it was obvious that the Service way of life just wasn’t for all of us.
Here, too, is where the system was tested to the fullest, resulting [in] some pretty heavy disciplinary action being taken. Hardly any of us got through without getting into some trouble, resulting in lost weekends spent washing vehicles in the motor pool and/or confinement to barracks for various lengths of time. All part of the learning system. We learned very early that usually good work was rewarded and rule infractions always punishable. Too easy, but still we had to test the system.
Another graduation parade, but this one was different. This time, we had a piece of paper transferring us as close to home as we could get or to some place that, even when we did find it on the map, we couldn’t pronounce it and still didn’t know where it was. Tucked in our other hand was a leave pass. This would be the first time most of us had a chance to return home since we joined.
That first leave!! We found some excuse to wear that uniform. It helped when you were hitchhiking, travelling Service air, or whatever, because we knew it looked sharp and it helped with the girls. It showed our buddies that we were without a doubt first-line troops and a direct replacement for John Wayne. Mom’s cooking, sleeping in late in your own bed, the warmth and love of your own family [was] so thick you could feel it. Lord it was good to be home.
Time, especially on leave, is extremely short, almost like a photoflash going off, freezing images of those glorious days in our memories. Old friendships renewed – male and female. A chance to show our folks we were doing OK and they were not to worry about us. But, as with all good things, it must end. That first leave was quality time not often repeated.
Adventure!! The next few years were full of it. New places, new faces, something important, part of the structure that made the whole thing work. Planes flew, ships sailed, and guns fired because we contributed, no matter how small. This was the first time, too, that we got to deal on a first-name basis with that ultimate power figure, the Corporal. We were made to feel part of the family. We got to go to places like Cyprus, Golan, Bermuda, and training bases in the USA and across Canada.
Those first five years after basic and trades training and new experiences had to be the greatest times in our lives. During this time, we usually married the girl from back home or one we had met in the course of our nomadic life. Remember the first apartment. Small, hardly any furniture at all, but it was a start. That first child!! The wonder of seeing that perfectly formed little person that is part of you, truly a miracle. The proud parent freely spending unbudgeted money on large quantities of film to take pictures of this little wonder to send home to anxious grandparents. The doctor assured us that the light from the flashbulbs wouldn’t hurt their eyes.
Then came the first prolonged separation. A long course in a different part of the country or in another country altogether. It wasn’t much fun for either of us, but we got used to it because separation is a fact of Service life. The wives learned how to buy car insurance and manage a household on their own. These separations took a toll on marriages but I don’t think it was any worse than living on civie street. The majority of us stuck together, building a relationship and family our of the good and the bad. If you survived those first trying years, you usually wound up with a really strong relationship.
Here, too, we lost some more of our buddies. They did their tour and opted for civie street. For sure they were changed from that green kid [who] joined five years ago. They had matured, taken on responsibilities, and knew what they want out of life. The Service had done its job in their case. It had given them a trade and confidence and self-discipline to succeed. Some of them came back, too, after giving civie street a try and made successful careers in the Service.
Part Four
The span of time ranging from five or eight years to twenty were less exciting. We grew used to the exotic transfer or the quick one. We suffered through a boring transfer that nearly drove us to civie street, but we knew the job was important and, once you had done your turn, you would be back where the action was.
We watched our kids grow and suffer the pangs of transfers. I remember loading them into the car and having them cry all the way to the new base, only to turn around three years later and have them do the same thing in reverse. The moving was hard on them, especially when they reached the age when they made fast friends or had boyfriends / girlfriends. It was also good for them. They got to see first-hand places that their peers only read about. They learned the definition of what a good friend was. There seemed to be a few who had problems growing up, but we were more sensitive to their problems, as the communities we lived in were small and secrets were few.
Weren’t those small, isolated units something else again. Talk about one big family. Community life was the thing in those places. You helped your neighbour and everyone turned out for community functions. It seems you were always stuck on one committee or another. They were remote and cut off from the mainstream; some places didn’t even have YV, so we invented a thing called conversation. I even know someone who read a book. We had no time to get bored, as there was always something going on. We got to see nature as it was before civilization made it “better” and as most people only saw it in pictures or on TV.
The one thing that we did learn is that this country of ours is immense and beautiful and that we are all Canadians despite what the politicians and special interest groups said. During this time frame, too, promotions started trickling in. Too slow in our estimation but, when, they came, they were good. Remember sneaking a peak at that new chevron when no one else was looking.
Also with the promotions came the added responsibilities and privileges but we adapted fast, taking it all in stride. We learn[ed] the meaning of “being in the right place at the right time”. Some of us were there but didn’t recognize it. We had to start agonizing over writing the dreaded PER. Now we were dealing with other people’s lives and livelihood and any misjudgement could be doing either the Service or the individual an injustice. Thank goodness the system has so many counterbalances. Mistakes, of course, are made but they are rare. You usually get what you deserve; it is about the fairest way it can be done.
The kids are getting a little older now and we’re not looking forward to the two- or three-year transfer. We’d just as soon stay in one spot for a few years and let the kids get used to one education system. Besides, we just found that box of four-inch nails lost on the last move and know exactly where they are. We took the transfer if it became necessary but some of the adventure and excitement had gone out of it.
Twenty years, that was a critical time. We had to take careful stock of what was happening in our lives. Was the family OK? Was our career developing as we wished? What were the prospects for our future? What were conditions like on civie street? Have we built up enough equity to survive a time if things were rough outside? These and many more questions had to be answered because, sometime in the next few years, the big move would have to be made and it had best be on our terms.
The Service tries to help us in this decision-making process. They recognize that the majority of us have now spent more time in uniform than we did out, and that “things” are different out there. Seminars are conducted, and [the] good old “Personnel Newsletter” usually carried an article on what our rights are and what we can expect for a pension when we get out. As with joining, our reasons for getting out are as varied as there are people getting out. Some of us quietly slip off back to our hometown to do whatever it was we planned for, [while] some of us go all bitter and twisted because we didn’t get that promotion and/or transfer we wanted and yet other[s] hung on to the bitter end.
We usually do pretty good once out. There might not be much of a call for four-phase-single-handed remsters on civie street, but the skills we acquired during our Service career stood us well. Things we took for granted, like the First Aid Instructor’s Course, or Safety Supervisor’s Course, or how to write a formal memo and a thousand other things, were of value in the civilian workplace. Of course, it will be traumatic and could be disastrous if proper planning and preparation are not done. We adapt – it is our stock-in-trade.
Reflections
Once we get to the tail-end of this adventure, it is fun to sit back and have a look at where we have been and what has happened to us. It’s amusing to watch the new Private show up late for work and give his supervisor an excuse [that] is new to him but which [the supervisor] has heard a thousand times before. It’s fun to watch the wheel discovered anew, to see the beaming pride of the new father with a fist full of cigars and photos, the look of shock and pleasure when an unexpected promotion is received. Occasionally we still run across old friends and have an opportunity to compare notes, retell our favourite stories, and catch up on the latest on mutual friends. Yellow pages are watched closely and we feel a twinge of regret when we see a familiar name under the release column.
There is a good part to all of this, too. We can see the mistakes the young fellow is making and manoeuvre him in the right direction. The reason we recognize the mistakes is that we either made them ourselves on our way through or watched our buddies make them. A great deal of pleasure is derived watching and helping a self-centred, spoiled kid develop into a productive, mature, community-minded adult. It is refreshing and reassuring to observe the bright, intelligent, well-mannered young people who are in the Service today, unafraid to strive forward and try new things, for, no matter what we say, the Service means a great deal to us. You don’t spend a lifetime doing something and not care.
It’s been good and it’s been bad but the good has far outweighed the bad. As the ad says, “There’s no life like it!”
This article has been lightly edited for the purpose of clarity.