Boy's Night Out

Nicknames changed to protect the guilty sods.

Have we all heard the statement "You know it will be a bad day when you wake up face down in the gutter"? Yes, I'm sure everyone knows it. I know from experience that there is something worse, however, than that notorious quote. Do I hear naysayers crying "it can't be so"? Let's examine how it starts.

Four likely lads, let's call them, 'Stats', 'Wombat', 'Spud' and 'Macca'. Young, adventurous, ten feet tall and bullet proof lads out for a big Saturday night at the Rocks in Sydney. The lads are freshly home from an exchange exercise in sunny Hawaii with the US Army and have not seen a decent sheila or, more importantly, tasted decent beer in 3 months.

By the time weapons and stores had been cleaned and returned, dismissal parade was almost the last straw as our young adventurers wanted out of uniform and into glad rags for the comming event. The last words the Company Sergent Major, or CSM, had said was "Don't get into any trouble you bastards.". Spoil a bloke's weekend why don't you!

The intrepid four are quickly 'in town' and the mess is an unpleasant memory as they scarf down huge steaks at Soup Plus in George Street. The Jazz was wild, the drink flowed freely. As freely as the money, and our lads are primed for a great night on the turps.

Somewhere between steaks and jazz at Soup Plus and dawn over the Bridge, we find the boys within a huge crowd of revellers in the street outside the Orient Hotel. There's a push and shove and then, a wee push back. Let's face it, four of the finest from God's own CORPS of Royal Oz Infantry are not going to take a serious jostling without returning the favour. They do so with much gusto and unabated pleasure.

Fists follow feet in a 'gentle' meleé and before you know it, the boys in blue show up, on horseback to break it all up. The crowd of civvies scatter leaving the foursome back to back, bloodied, weary, and ready for more, facing 2 horses complete with Officers of the Law and about half a dozen or so dismounted police.

The Senior Constable in charge is sympathetic to the pleas of innocence. He truly empathises with our heroes as they are escorted the very short distance to the old Rocks Police Station. He informs them that he is merely doing his job, and that the Desk Sergeant on duty is a reasonable man with sympathy for diggers.

"He'll see you right," says the Snr Const assuringly.

There is not much pain registered by a brain pickled in beer, whiskey and OP run, even after a severe beating. There is however, always that element of dread that every young soldier, sailor or airman knows when confronted by the stern visage of an NCO of any persuasion. The 'sympathetic desk sergeant' turns out to be a Crown Sergeant, thank you very much, pulling a graveyard shift for some strange reason, and appearing none too happy about it.

He materialised behind the counter using words to the effect of "What the fuck have we got here senior?" The lads jaws bounced off the floor as they focused on a blue shirt with the area above the left breast pocket filled with fruit salad. To top it all off, above the service ribbons, assuming pride of place as it should, the unmistakable brass bayonet of the Infantry Combat Badge.

My gentle readers may not be aware, but medals and ribbons earnt in service in the Aussie Military are to be worn if the career path takes a turn toward State or Federal Uniforms, like the Police, Fire or Ambulance services. The boys were well aware of this as each gazed upon the barrel chested NCO, and with this was also the knowledge that they were, to use their own word, 'cactus'. This bloke had earnt his stripes in SE Asian jungles and rice paddies and at the bloody sharp end!

Their ID's are demanded and produced along with unit details. The standard, Battalion, Company and Platoon stuff. By now it's looking worse with every passing moment. The Sergeant, who by this time was in a really foul mood says, "Delta Company....Hmmm.....who's your CSM?". This was accompanied by a wry smile and as drunk as our friends were, one and all knew they were really sunk.

Now this is where it becomes messy. The Sergeant chuckles when he hears the name of the CSM and picks up the phone. It is the wee small hours by now.
"G'day June. Bob here, sorry to ring so late, but is George there?"

It's the bloody CSM's missus!

He pauses and casts a critical eye over the four miscreants, "Thanks love, see you Sunday". Another pause. Then a voice from the phone, loud enough to be heard across the room, "This had better be news that my car has been stolen and recovered!"

Quickly, in succinct military style, the issues at hand are described to the CSM. The Sergeant then chuckles and turns to the lads and says, "CSM wants to know if you won." Spud, the Lance Corporal and leader of the four looks at his bloodied and battered mates and says "Does it look like we fuckin' won, sir?"

So the lads see dawn in, guests of Her Majesty's New South Wales Police service. Several hours past noon the CSM finally shows up, with the Regimental Police in tow, to bail our boys out. The four have all been napping and they awaken to a familiar voice, of suficient volume to awaken the recently demised, bellowing "Take thirty six you pricks!" followed by a muttered "Drag me out of bed at zero three fucking hundred will you!".

Thirty Six extra regimental duties later, thats thirty six days, back to back, it was decided that there is, indeed, something worse than waking up face down in a gutter; especially when you've lost the fight and the Police Sergeant involved once shared a shell scrape in some far off land with your CSM!