Through a Soldier’s Eyes
by Corporal A Burton

."No nation can afford to be weak, for a weak nation cannot succeed in averting aggression"

When one thinks about the military most times, the first thing that comes to mind is order. With this also is associated rigidity, regimentation, unbending rules. It is also perceived that soldiers are inflexible and do not "play". On the other hand, there is also a perception that soldiers really do nothing at the expense of hardworking taxpayers. Quite the contrary, soldiers do much more than the minds of the civilian population perceives. All of this is done, ideally for civil society in a selfless manner. In this article I am seeking to recount the best that memory will allow, of a day of "play" that was done for the people, whom the military strives to protect.

The clear brass sound of reveille pierced the still Moneague morning and wafted through the metal louvre blades of the barrack room. I had already showered, shaved and was lying in bed thinking about the day ahead. In a few hours the camp would be teeming with people from all walks of life. The fluorescent tubes flooded the dark barrack room with its white light. My thoughts shifted from the day ahead to the task of making the bed. With that done, I donned my uniform, laced the canvas topped boots and took a novel -that I had been reading the night before- from the metal locker.

A short while after I’d settled into reading the novel, the brass sound pierced the air again. It was time for breakfast. I replaced the book, took up the blue beret, brushed it, placed it gingerly on my head ensuring that the badge was in the right place -like most young soldiers do- and took the utensils from the locker. Before closing the door, I looked fleetingly at the photographs pasted on the door. There were pictures of my brother, sister and the then Chief of Staff, Major General Robert Neish. Beneath the Chief’s picture were pictures of a JDF crest and some medals I’d cut from the last issue of the Force’s biennial magazine, "Alert". Closing the door, I stepped out into the crisp, Moneague air.

There were other soldiers filing down to the communal dining hall. I washed the utensils and joined the line listening to the conversations around me. The smell of fried eggs and bacon permeated the air. "Next," said the cook at the serving bay.

"No bacon," I said. He plopped an egg into the plate. I stepped forward, took up two slices of Golden Star bread, some corn flakes and milk. I settled with my meal and my thoughts, at a table where no one else was seated. I was going over the drills that we would be executing later that day. I smiled back at one of my colleagues who had joined me at the table and answered him in mono syllables. (He got the message and the conversation -if one could call it that- ended just like it had started.) The meal now liquefied, and mixed with stomach acids, I excused myself from the table, washed the utensils, took the beret from the large pocket at the side of my trousers, placed it on my head and retraced my steps to the barrack room. To my left, embedded in the rich red soil, were some white washed stones forming a sign, "Welcome To Moneague Training Camp". I’d spent hours with some of my colleagues creating that sign . A lot of time was spent preparing for every aspect of the day’s events. Every building and piece of equipment gleamed like the glass on the Island Life building. There wasn’t a single match stick on the neatly manicured grounds. This was the brainchild of erudite military planners – people of uncompromisingly high standards.

After the morning parade and having once again settled with the novel, people were already trickling in. I was expecting some relatives and from time to time, my mind shifted from the novel to them. They arrived in one of the shuttles from Up Park Camp around mid morning. They didn’t pay me much attention as there were too many military equipment on display to hold their interest. At lunch time I ensured that they had enough to eat.

Many things transpired that day which are still vivid in my mind. Two stand out above all. The first one: It was the only time in nine years of military service that I had seen civilians who weren’t a part of the Force’s support units, permitted to enter the barrack rooms.

The other event was the parachute accident of the late Sergeant "Bully" Codner. He was a career soldier. One would dare say an expert parachutist – fearless, daring, undaunted. I had seen him before I enlisted in the Force. He rode like Evil Knevil. My pulse rate quickened most times when I saw him ride. When I was in recruit training in Moneague, he was on some specialist training. They navigated their way and trekked cross country for days, rappelled off cliffs and lived in the bushes for days with little food, for these were the Hannibal type soldiers. I knew Codner could land on the parade square, he had done it many times in earlier weeks before. Whilst we were rehearsing the drills I’d seen him do so umpteenth times. On May 10 1989, he didn’t land on the drop zone.

A sizeable crowd assembled at the parade square. We – the drill team – were assembled behind a canvas partition waiting for the jumpers to do their thing. The Drill Sergeant, then Warrant Officer Class II "Bob" Williams was his usual humorous self. His quips had us in stitches. It helped me to relax. The Bell 212’s rotor blades sliced the air. The "bird" circled as it made its ascent to a height where it looked like the size of one of its feathered companions. The jumpers made their exit and dived for a few thousand feet.

"Weh dem deh?" asked a member of the crowd.

"Si dem deh!" answered another.

"Mi cyaan si dem."

"Mummy I can’t see them."

The comments were many and varied. They were even more varied when the chutes started popping. There were few comments where I stood. We’d seen them jump so many times in the past weeks and I think all of us were concentrating on the drills ahead. The evening was cool -like most Moneague evenings.

The jumpers landed and there was applause. Codner had missed the target. Unfortunately he had an accident and was flown into Kingston. We learnt later that Codner had ventured into the unknown whiteness of death. Now it was our turn.

The Drum Corps started their thing with the familiar roll of the side drum. After the first command there could be no more. This was a display of military precision. We strutted our stuff in the same red tunics that blazed at the late Honourable Michael Manley’s funeral. Again, there was applause. The celebration had come to an end. When we were returning the rifles to the armoury I had the feeling I would be a parachutist one day, it seemed like danger attracted me. I’d chosen a career of arms. Danger, protection of the civil populace, and defender of the social order.