Friday, November 4, 2016

The Chinese Interpreter

Oh Boon is a legend to many, one of most memorable characters I have known. I met him not long after I arrived in Butterworth in 1971. I had bought my first bike, a 1964 Norton, from Monkey Tan who ran a bike repair shop close to the Base. Less than a week later I flipped it end-to-end on the Island and had it repaired by Bulldog Kaun. Bulldog is a motorcycle racing legend in Malaysia.

Boon at his shop
Bulldog’s shop, as I recall, was located on an intersection. In the typical - at least for the time - Asian way his workshop spread out over the footpath onto the road. This resulted in a permanent oil stain on the road surface. One day in light rain I saw a motorcycle rider slide off as he was rounding the corner. What better place to come off your bike than right outside a bike repair shop. I did wonder if the oil on the road was part of the business plan.

In those first months in Malaysia it seemed the Aussies had their bikes cared for by either Monkey or Bulldog. It wasn't long however until one of our number began singing the praises of this bloke Boon. Evidently Boon had been the Penang agent for Norton but they were no longer imported in 1971. My 1964 model must have been one of the last sold new as I can't recall any post 64 models in the country.

Boon turned out to be a very good mechanic and it did not take long before he developed a loyal Aussie client base - if he didn't have one before I met him. He had a particular fondness for English four-strokes, the most famous of which was Boon’s Boomer.

Not long after I arrived in Butterworth I became involved with the RAAF Butterworth Motor Club. One activity we ran regularly was Scrambles, or as it is now known Motocross. Most of the bikes raced were stripped down English four-strokes - BSAs, Nortons, Aerials etc. One I remember was a 750 Norton. Within my first 12 months some of us started competing on Japanese trail bikes - Suzuki 125s and 250s, with the odd Yamaha and my Honda SL350. Henry Lindner imported a Suzuki TM400 which was the first dedicated motocrosser. It wasn't long before some of the guys brought motocross machines with them from Australia. But the ‘Trucks’ as we called them, the stripped down road bikes, predominantly of British origin, lived on. Which brings me back to Boon’s Boomer.

Here my memory may fail. As far as I recall the Boomer had a Triumph 650 engine in an Aerial frame. It had been built by Monkey Tan for Henry Lindner and passed on to Claudio Da Re. Claudio was a fearless rider and in his hands the Boomer was extremely competitive, at least while it functioned. Keeping any machine operating on the Bukit Gelugor track was quite a challenge because of the significant water hole in the course. If a bike didn't fail in the swamp it could still fail on the hill faced coming out of the slime. And, as the day wore on, the water carried up the hill from the swamp made the hill more treacherous.  Hence there was a great quantity of silastic used to try and stop the water getting into the electrics and much CRC on hand for when it invariably did.

Water Challenge, Bukit Gelugor

Boon was always on hand at the track to help his customers, one of whom was Claudio. Over time this bike, No. 69, became increasingly associated with Boon. It passed from Claudio to Ron Vella, who in time became son-in-law to Boon. And so the legend came to be.

Unidentified rider making waves
Boon was more than a mechanic, he was friend. There was always a supply of cold Anchor on hand for his regulars. Then there were his steamboats, put on at regular intervals for the clientele. I find it challenging to describe a steamboat for the uninitiated, but here goes.

Steamboat is prepared in a specially made utensil that probably has some resemblance to a spinning top. A charcoal fire burns in the bottom section of the utensil with the heat and fumes exiting through a chimney exiting at the top. Surrounding the chimney is a circular cooking bowl and a lid can be placed on top of this to retain the heat.

Preparation begins by adding water and stock to prepare a basic soup and bringing this to the boil. Once this happens diners select their own ingredients from those prepared into bite sized pieces and placed in nearby bowls such as chicken, fish, pork, and vegetables and drop them in the soup. As these cook they add to the flavour of the soup. It is a real experience, one that if you have never tried is highly recommended.

I remember one evening he had a supply of small green chillies. By this time I thought I could handle hot. Boon challenged me to try the chillies, so I took one, chewed and swallowed. ‘Nothing wrong with that’ I thought, so I took another. Before I could swallow it the heat from the first one hit me. I had far exceeded my ‘hot’ limit.

Boon’s shop was a real meeting place, part of the social fabric of Butterworth.  Part of this may have been the stock answer to the question ‘When will my bike be ready Boon’? to which the answer was invariably ‘Tomorrow can.’ This did take some getting used to because ‘tomorrow’ meant something akin to ‘not today’. This I came to understand as cultural, not only to the Chinese but many other cultures in the world who do not operate with a Western mindset.  And when you live in their culture it is not their place to change, it is our place to accept.

Boon, of course, was a native Chinese speaker, the predominant Chinese dialect in Penang being Hokkien. This brings me to an event I have always remembered as it is in many ways humorously odd. One of Boon’s customers was an American who worked on the off-shore oil rigs, probably in the Straits of Malacca. One day this bloke asked one of our number if he would do something for him - something that was not too difficult. ‘No sweat’ replied the Aussie.

‘What, you won't do it for me?’ responded the Yank.

‘No sweat mate, she’ll be right’ came the typical Aussie response.

Our American friend still failed to understand and was becoming more agitated as the conversation progressed to the point it caught Boon’s attention.

‘What he means’ interrupted Boon, ‘is that he’ll do it’. The tension eased and all was well, thanks to a native Chinese speaker interpreting between two native English speakers who, in all reality could only speak English.   

I didn't see as much of Boon during my second posting mainly owing to my interest - read obsession - in Tae Kwon Do. He remained however my bike mechanic and I continued to enjoy his hospitality.  Boon has sadly gone the way of all flesh, but the Chinese interpreter lives on in my memory as one of life's more memorable characters.


Monday, September 5, 2016

How not to carry a fire hose

Williamtown, circa 1970, rostered for fire crew. The first thing I noticed was the Firies were a lot more particular about rank than techos - AC, LAC, CPL etc. Nothing of the more relaxed familiarity I had become accustomed to in 77.
At the start of the shift we had the 'training session'. This included how to carry the fire hose over the shoulder at the same time protecting the family jewels from the hardware on the ends of the hose.
'AC Bloggs will now demonstrate how to carry the hose' says the Sgt. So Blogs - a firey of course - hoists the hose onto his shoulder and steps off with the hard bits dangling down his back.
'AC Blogs will NOW demonstrate how to carry the hose the RIGHT way' states the Sgt, a little more firmly.
So AC Blogs reverses the position so that now those hard bits are rather close to that which was meant to be protected, and again steps off.
'Don't you know how to carry the hose correctly AC Blogs' yelled a now exasperated Sgt.

Sunday, August 14, 2016

Melbourne Trams and Bananas

Now retired, a tram from the 80s.
I returned to Australia from Butterworth in January 1980. After taking a couple of weeks leave to catch up with family I hadn’t seen for two and a half years I travelled to Melbourne to start what would end up being the next sixteen years of my life, including the last seven in the Service.

My family and I spent the first six weeks in a Motel in Lygon Street Carlton. The Greek presence was obvious, with many buildings displaying their English names in small print under the Greek name. Melbourne is, of course, the world’s third largest Greek city and much of that is centred around Carlton. This was my first exposure to Melbourne’s trams, each morning catching the tram that ran down Lygon Street to work in South Melbourne.

Headquarters Support Command was spread out in different buildings around the Victoria Barracks complex on St Kilda Road. For most of my time there I worked on different levels of Cordell House which as an eight storey building at 4 Albert Road. It is now an apartment building.

SupCom was different - no flight lines, no aircraft, just desks. Many RAAF technical staff spent time here during their careers to provide technical support for the operational units. My first job was as a technical spares assessor. This meant assessing the future spares requirements for one or two specific aircraft type.

The science of this is best illustrated by by a large dome-shaped light shade displayed standing upside down on a shelf as one exited the sixth floor lift. This was our crystal ball. As a corporal I could spend $40,000 with the stroke of a pen - I would hate to think what that is in today’s terms. If the order was queried by the bean counters - as it often was - it would be justified by words to the effect ‘Justified to cover anticipated increase in future flying hours.’ That always seemed to do the trick. We could be ordering spares for anything up to seven years in the future.

I couldn’t help laugh some years later after I discharged. Although I didn’t work for this particular well-known Aussie firm, my employer leased an office off them for me. The Branch Manager could not spend any more than $600 without head office approval. And I could spend that $40,000 as many times a day as I could sign the orders.

In SupCom we worked alongside public servants. One of the standing jokes was ‘Why do Public Servants spend all afternoon looking out the window?’ The answer, ‘Because if they spent all morning looking out the window they would have nothing to do in the afternoon.’ It went something like this. Turn up at 0800, spend the first hour drinking coffee and reading the paper. One hour flex time. Sit at your desk all lunch time playing cards. Minimum lunch break 30 minutes, so for an hour lunch break 30 minutes flex time. Take Friday off as a flex day. No, RAAFies didn’t have that deal.

We could come to work in civvies though. I believe the origin of this was the Vietnam era. The story goes that before I got there a parade was called one day. Civies had been worn for so long that many were surprised to see exactly who the RAAF members were. There was more than one RAAF member who had their first haircut for sometime in preparation for that parade. Consequently we were required to wear uniform once or twice a week, although many of us wore it more often than not. And I must admit that for me at least wearing the uniform, especially when moving around away from the immediate Victoria Barracks area, was one of those feel good things.

We didn’t have the area to ourselves. I recall a few sailors, but the army had a significant presence. It was only because they were there so I head that we were required to salute officers as we made our way up and down St Kilda Road. I tend to believe this as from what I have seen the army are a lot more hung up on that sort of stuff than we were. Early one morning I was walking - or should I say marching - along the road with the sun in my eyes. All I could see were the shadowed silhouettes of people coming the other way. ‘Don’t you salute officers sergeant?’ he yelled. I won’t repeat here what I thought of that idiot. I can only wonder how many civies overtaking a service member nearly had their heads knocked off by a well executed  salute. There must have been some.

In Cordell House the toilets were located in the stairwell, halfway between floors. Ladies on one level, gents the next. Working on the sixth floor a toilet break would often be announced with the words ‘Going down a half.’ This all worked flawlessly until I was sent to a different floor to work, probably the third floor. Needing a break, I went down a half. The first through that came to mind as I passed through the inner door to the business area was ‘who removed the plumbing?’ Then I realised they didn’t put urinals in the ladies. Fortunately I was able to retreat without being embarrassed.

It wasn’t long after that I was ‘Up a half.’ As I came out of the inner sanctum this young lady enters from the stair well. ‘What are you doing here?’ she screamed. ‘I’m in the right place’ I replied. A rather red face and quick retreat by an embarrassed public servant followed. The girl in question acquired a bit of fame around the building, maybe a little after this, for doing a shoot for Playboy or other like publication.

I moved from Spares Assessing to a section with the name of Development of Management Systems. This must have been on promotion to sergeant. One flight sergeant and two sergeant techos, and a one or two others. One was a public servant who had a habit of leaning back on her chair. One day she went too far, doing a backwards somersault to the floor. ‘How did you do that?’, we asked? She obliged with an instant replay, her modesty protected by the fact she was wearing jeans.

The reality of this place was that one of us could have come in for half an hour one day a week and completed the week’s tasks. The Flight Sergeant, whose name I can’t recall, spent the time designing his retirement home and planning for life post RAAF.

I will always remember the words on a poster prominently displayed on the wall. The poster had a picture of an eagle with claws extended in attack mode. The words said it all: ‘To err is human, to forgive is not DEVMS policy.’

When a vacancy came up for an instructing role I put my hand up and was accepted. I think this was part of DEVMS. We ran induction and other courses for all public service and RAAF members that were posted into Cordell House. I thoroughly enjoyed the role, it being one of the most satisfying periods of my career. This was shown in my annual performance appraisals, the three best I had in 20 years. This came to an end when someone worked out I was holding a position meant for an airframe fitter and so I was posted elsewhere. The move was to a mind-numbing position and as I had personal reasons for staying in Melbourne the decision to leave the RAAF at the end of 20 years was an easy one to make.

And, of  course, there were the trams. They were almost integral to the job. There were generally two ways to get to work, one being carpooling. The other was to catch a train into Flinders Street then walk or catch a  tram down St Kilda Road. At different times I used both options. Trams were often used for specialist medical appointments in Melbourne and to get to and from work social functions, and lunchtime shopping trips.

Cordell House was across the road from a tram stop on a five-way junction. From here we could catch a tram into the city or head south along St Kilda Road, to Albert Park along Park Street, or to South Yarra along Domain Road. In those days the trams were painted green and yellow and quite often after waiting for a while one would have the option of catching three or four trams to the city. Hence the standing joke: ‘What to Melbourne trams and bananas have in common?’ ‘They are both green and yellow and both come in bunches’.

Overall I have happy memories of Melbourne and of Support Command. My only regret is the last 18 months or so after my instructing role came to an end. Those last months are the only bad memories I have of what otherwise was the best 20 years of my life.

Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Tidy Desk Syndrome

Following a week or two of leave after graduation from my Apprentice course in June 1969 I began life in the real Air Force with 77 Squadron, Williamtown.  77 had recently returned from Butterworth to be re-equipped with the Mirage, the last squadron to do so. From memory, there were three clean skin (unpainted) Mirages in the hangar when I arrived.

My first job was six months as Times Clerk in Maintenance Control Section (MCS). This meant keeping  tab of flying hours for each aircraft and, as each Mirage came due for a scheduled servicing determining what engine and airframe components were due for service.

Most components had a servicing history card, probably a little smaller than the tablet I am using to write this. All cards were kept in trays. For each aircraft there was one tray containing cards for the engine components and three or four trays for the other components.

Sergeant Rusty Sproule, a fellow Sumpy, was my boss. He lived on the Base in what must have been an old farmhouse. It stood on its own, not far from the Nelson Bay end of the runway. He kept a few chooks, and, from memory a dog or two and one or two other animals. More than once he invited his green and naive young charge home for a meal.

Rusty preceded me to Butterworth and must have been with 75 Sqn. It was here I last saw him. The day he was due to return home my mate Zeke and I determined to drop in and bid him farewell. However, as anyone who has been to Butterworth knows only too well, one tends to dehydrate quite rapidly in all the heat and humidity. Hence Zeke and I felt the need to rehydrate before we went around to Rusty’s place. We must have been particularly dehydrated on that day because by the time we had rectified the situation and made it to Rusty’s place he had departed on the bus to catch the Qantas flight home.

I had not been at Williamtown long before a sumpy from 20 intake came into MCS with a requisition for  K9P - if you don’t get it, think about it. Now, in my defence, I did not read what was on the form, I simply headed off to have the order filled - and returned some time later. It is not my intention here to name and shame, but I will give a clue. It was rumoured that the member who passed me the form had been too old to enlist as an apprentice so had got in on the basis of his sister’s birth certificate.Rusty was not impressed and let his view be known to the LAC concerned.

The other members of MCS were two framies. I will call one Corporal Dagg and that will suffice to describe the man.  The other, LAC Smart - again, to disguise the guilty. So far as dress and deportment went they were chalk and cheese. LAC Smart turned up every morning with freshly polished boots and ironed overalls. He is the only bloke I can recall that ever had creases in his overalls. Cpl Dagg referred to him as Shiny Arse.

Smart was the Component History Recording System (CHRS) Clerk. Whenever a component on an aircraft was changed it was his job to remove the old component history card from the tray so it could be sent with the component wherever it was off to. Then he was to file the new card, first working out at what hours specific to the aircraft it was now fitted to, it was due for its next service.

Now Shiny Arse kept his desk as neat as his personal appearance. It was meticulously clean, everything on it was carefully arranged, and the only paperwork on the desk was that which he was working on. After his turn in MCS ended and he had returned to the hanger, Dagg opened his draw only to find a pile of cards that Smart obviously had no idea what to do with. Didn’t Dagg take great delight in letting the rest of us know what he thought of Shiny Arse.

Ever since then I have been suspicious of the tidy desk syndrome. Since leaving the Service I have worked with one or two that have shared Smart’s obsession with both personal appearance and that of their desks. My experience of these types has left a rather similar and lasting impression.

In later life I have also had cause to reflect on my MCS experience. I was 18 when I first started at 77 Sqn. While I gave it little thought at the time the job involved a great deal of responsibility. One mistake and Australia could have lost a rather costly fighter jet, people could have been killed, and my career could have been finished. At the time others of my age and older were still at school or university, protesting against the Vietnam war, smoking pot or doing things that had no where near the responsibility that a lot of young people have in the military. There is a sharp contrast between the responsibility and accountability we had in the Service and that of the organisation I worked with almost exclusively following discharge where even those in relatively senior management roles seemed to avoid responsibility as much as they could.

Tuesday, August 9, 2016

Monotony

My long suffering daughter often pesters me to play Monopoly, that game that has been enjoyed by countless numbers of humans since it was first launched in 1903. I do cave in once in awhile, but only after have I have exhausted my pathetic, fabricated attempts to weasel my way out. It's not that I don’t like playing games with her, it's just that she fails to understand the recurring nightmares that game generates.

This pain I've endured for over 40 years, ever since my six weeks with 38 Squadron Detachment A in Port Moresby. The Detachment operated Caribous out of Jackson Field, now known as Jackson International Airport, as part of Australia’s commitment to Nation Building prior to Papua New Guinea’s independence in late 1975. A normal detachment was three months with a turnover every six weeks. I was lucky in that I was sent to replace a bloke who had to return to Australia halfway through his tour because of illness.

We were accommodated at Murray Barracks which is where we spent most of our time when not at work, especially during the week. We had no transport. Bars were opened for Happy Hour, and that was about all. No movies, no TV, so entertainment was either reading one of the few books around, or playing Monopoly. We may at times have played cards or some other games, but if we did I can’t recall them. Monopoly is what we entertained ourselves with. Night after night. Week after week. Our only reprieve came when we were able to go into Moresby or borrow the Detachment’s Kombi Van to do some sight seeing.

As I said above, I consider myself lucky to have only been there for six weeks. Somewhere during that six weeks Monopoly morphed into Monotony. And that’s the way it has been ever since. I probably have a form of PTSD.

Bivouac

Being a RAAF apprentice was in some ways different to being a civilian apprentice. When I enlisted in 1967 the first thirty months were spent at RAAF Base Wagga. Here we were apprenticed into our different trades with a mix of theory and practical work. However we did not work alongside qualified tradies, learning as we went. At the end of those first two and a half years we graduated as qualified tradesmen (there were no tradeswomen in the RAAF back then) and were posted to different RAAF units. At these units we were part of the workforce, having the same rights and responsibilities of others of same rank and trade although technically we did not receive our trade certificate until we had completed five years. This certificate gave us civilian recognition as fitters.

The major difference however was the fact that we were military apprentices, and that meant that part of our training was devoted to basic military training. Unlike many civilian workplaces the military was not cursed with silly rules designed to protect the vested interests of those in specific job categories. If there was a job to be done and you had the necessary prerequisites you could be called upon to do it.

In the RAAF that meant we could be called upon to take part in defence and security operations. So we were trained in the use of the standard issue service rifle or our day, the L1A1 Self-Loading Rifle, or SLR 7.62 mm. This included firing, stripping, cleaning and reassembly, all of which could have been necessary at some time for our survival.

Very early in our final 12 months at Wagga we went on a week’s bivouac. Whether that was seven days, or simply Monday to Friday, I can’t remember. My memories of that time are, like so many others, scant and may be challenged by others with better recall.

It was winter and the event was conducted in the hills somewhere near Tumbarumba on the edge of the Snowy Mountains. We slept on stretchers in service tents so I guess it was not as primitive as it could have been. As I have no recollection of erecting or dismantling the tents I assume that was cared for by others before we arrived and after we left.

The same for the communal thunderboxes. This was something I was totally unprepared for. At Wagga, in some of the older toilet blocks reserved for the other ranks the individual cubicles were doorless, no doubt to allow a supervising NCO ensure no one was bludging on the job. It was always easy however to find something a little more private and, so far as I was concerned, a trip to the dunny was always personal time.

There they were. On the side of the hill, surrounded by hessian, the communal thunderboxes. From memory, there was no shelter from rain or sun. It was a simple arrangement, a long plank with something like six or eight holes designed so that this special time could be shared with others. Still, when nature calls.

At night we did the lantern chase. The aim of this exercise was to climb up a hill and capture the lantern without being caught. We took turns at attacking and defending. I remember once doing a day time unit patrol though the bush trying to locate the enemy before we walked into their ambush. Again, we took turns at being the patrol and the ambush party.

As I said above, this was winter at the base of the Snowy Mountains. To say it was cold would be an understatement. The only water available for washing, shaving and the like was cold, a degree or two above freezing point. Most of spent the week without bathing, but if one was keen enough there was a way.

One of our exercises was to cross a stagnant water hole using a single rope suspended between two trees. This meant hanging upside down passing hand over hand, foot over foot without letting go of the rope. In a perverse way there was an inducement to fail that was taken up by some of our number. In the interests of health and hygiene anyone who fell into the water was required to take a warm shower. Most of us however did not avail ourselves of the opportunity so who knows what we smelt like on our return to Wagga.

While it was part of our training it was almost a holiday camp, a pleasant change from the daily routine at Wagga. With the possible exception of the communal thunder box I have no bad memories. It was far removed from the pictures I have seen of young men, only a few years older than myself, patrolling through the jungles of Vietnam, moving in water up to their waists and higher, knowing at night they slept on the ground. I am so thankful that that was never my experience.

Then again, I often recall the words of my great uncle Roy, a veteran of the trenches in WW1 as I left home. ‘Your RAAF blokes are smart. You send your officers out to do the fighting.’ My choice was the RAAF, and I have never had reason to regret that choice.

Sunday, August 7, 2016

Why I'm a Grumpy Old Man

The psychological condition know as Grumpy Old Man Syndrome (GOMS) has been known for many years. Until now however its cause has been unknown. Thanks to a recent scientific breakthrough we now have the answer.

What scientists have found is that we are all born with an innate capacity for absorbing a matter known as bull shit. While there is a large variation between individuals females have a far larger absorption capacity - further research is being carried out to try and understand this gender variation. That which we take in is offset to some degree by a leakage factor, although in most cases we can fill up much faster than we can drain off.

What this means for each of us is that at some point we reach our individual Bull Shit Threshold Limit (BSTL). At this point we can't absorb anymore BS. This is manifest in different ways, but common symptoms include cynicism, grumpiness and a general revulsion at the sight of the moving lips of politicians.

Researchers have also found that among those considered to be at significantly higher risk of developing GOMS are military veterans with a direct correlation between severity of symptoms and length of service.

As any military veteran can attest, the military runs on BS. In fact, it oozes the stuff. This is not normally a problem for recruits nor for some years later. Many who have given long service will tell you they have no regrets about their decision to join and stay. However, a common factor among these veterans and their decision to leave the service is the point came when they reached their BSTL.

Given that many of those who join the military do so at a young age and that there are very few who reach 20 years service you can understand that if you know a military veteran you should not be surprised that they have demonstrated symptoms of GOMS from a comparatively young age.