My parade square is a Pokemon stop.
This sentence sums up everything you need to know about my half-arsed reservist in-camp training (ICT). It is also very apt because, like Pokemon Go, reservist is a meaningless waste of time that most people stopped caring about three years ago.
It is not an exaggeration or an example of my colourful humour. This is the hard truth about my most recent call back. Literally no one in my camp can summon two fucks to give about ICT.
The same applies for the commanders, the men and everybody in-between. The signals sergeant has forgotten how to turn on his radio, and my platoon commander collapsed after 17 push-ups. When you look into their eyes, you can see the distant, glassy look of men who are either somewhere far away or totally dead inside.
They are living in the separate dimension of ‘anywhere-but-here’.
As for most of my bunkmates, the number of fucks given approaches negative infinity. The Singapore Armed Forces (SAF) can call back our bodies, but they will never take our minds. Like extras from The Walking Dead, we sort of just loiter around until someone shepherds us to another spot where we can continue our rotting in peace.
This job usually falls on my platoon sergeant, the only person who shows signs of life inside his skull. We would totally hate him for making us do things that we have zero interest in, but we are mostly just annoyed because actual hating requires energy that we do not have.
The end result? We are not a platoon. We are not anyone’s mental image of a platoon. At the very best, we are a bunch of fat, middle-aged men reluctantly cosplaying as a platoon.
More at
Reservist Brought Out the Worst in Me. This Article is Proof
This sentence sums up everything you need to know about my half-arsed reservist in-camp training (ICT). It is also very apt because, like Pokemon Go, reservist is a meaningless waste of time that most people stopped caring about three years ago.
It is not an exaggeration or an example of my colourful humour. This is the hard truth about my most recent call back. Literally no one in my camp can summon two fucks to give about ICT.
The same applies for the commanders, the men and everybody in-between. The signals sergeant has forgotten how to turn on his radio, and my platoon commander collapsed after 17 push-ups. When you look into their eyes, you can see the distant, glassy look of men who are either somewhere far away or totally dead inside.
They are living in the separate dimension of ‘anywhere-but-here’.
As for most of my bunkmates, the number of fucks given approaches negative infinity. The Singapore Armed Forces (SAF) can call back our bodies, but they will never take our minds. Like extras from The Walking Dead, we sort of just loiter around until someone shepherds us to another spot where we can continue our rotting in peace.
This job usually falls on my platoon sergeant, the only person who shows signs of life inside his skull. We would totally hate him for making us do things that we have zero interest in, but we are mostly just annoyed because actual hating requires energy that we do not have.
The end result? We are not a platoon. We are not anyone’s mental image of a platoon. At the very best, we are a bunch of fat, middle-aged men reluctantly cosplaying as a platoon.
More at
Reservist Brought Out the Worst in Me. This Article is Proof
So fun!
