Speed through skill, signals!

And at long last, my infosys operator course has come to an end! An admittedly pretty sad end at that, since I'll not be joining most of my friends in 8 signal battalion, but I'll be emigrating to kranji camp and join the signal company in HQ 4 Singapore Armour Brigade. Oh great. I'm not sure how it'll turn out and that uncertainty sure is scaring the daylights out of me (read: SOC possibility, mean officers and er...regimentation?).

Talking about mean officers, my platoon was f***ed punished quite harshly during the last week.

Now now, we're talking about signal institute here, which is meant to be some safe haven where NSFs can study in peace - an absolute sanctum for combat fit soldiers, well...at least sort of, what with my extended excuse.

There was a group of soldiers at the lobby doing some technical handling test. So, I didn't see much into it and just went to the parade square to fall in. That was when a lieutenant came from the group and talked to the IC in a sinisterly quiet manner. One of those when you can just sense something coming. Sure enough, they turned out to be a group of commissioned officers and none of us stopped to greet them along the way out.

*cue Beethoven's 5th symphony*

So. We had to knock it down 20, which isn't a lot physically, but it sure as hell spoilt our good mood on the day of passing out.

AND GUESS WHAT? There's a sequel to it!!

We came back from lunch and there they were, the female captain (who is of a higher rank) and the male lieutenant who pumped us.

Bad vibes.

Sure enough, we had to march two rounds round the parade square because we were apparently not singing loudly enough on the way back. This is true though, since most of the time, my platoon mates either don't want to sing, like me I must admit, or they just shouldn't (yes, that's you, alvin). And there we were marching around the parade square for two rounds singing (I hesitate to even use that word...) and when we came back, the lieutenant barked at us and said that we didn't sing loudly enough and had to march as many rounds as it suit his fancy.

Fish the what, seriously.








If not for our sergeant who kindly came to our rescue, we would have been marching for maybe ten rounds before he stopped. UGH. Bad ending. Much unhappiness in the platoon.

That much said, I came home to good news!















YES AMEN.

Couldn't help bouncing off the walls of my room à la Tigger when I saw that joyous news. Kudos to kaiqian who alerted me to the results of medicine being released. I can't help but feel this sense of closure to the A levels and although much of the excitement has worn off, the thought of possible deferment is getting me all jumpy again, which is reasonable, considering it's, well, deferment!

Mum is off to Thailand to visit my Dad who's on course, so she'll probably be back with some CDs of sorts. When I sms-ed her about my medicine result, she was like "omg." which is really funny 'cause you don't get it often from people who are like serious most of the time and the use of 'omg' just cracked me up so much I fell over in stitches.

***

I've been reading voraciously as of late many thanks to my free time in signal institute. Well, perhaps no more, but still, I have to recommend a book over here. It's called The Boy Who Loved Anne Frank by Ellen Feldman. I love it to bits 'cause it's such a poignant story about what could have happened to Peter had he been able to live through the war. A intricate examination into the effects of the war on post-war survivors, I enjoyed reading how it managed to almost completely transform Peter into another person altogether.

Here's an extract from the book that I found extremely touching and it just hit right straight to the point of the unimaginable horror during those dark days. The scene features Peter, the protagonist, and his wife arguing in the kitchen.

"In the DP camp, I was assigned to work in the hospital for a while."
She stood, the saucepan suspended in midair, her eyes focused not on some distant moral imperative, but on me. I never talked about my past. She did not want to miss a word.
"There was a man, half his face had been blown away. I think he had stepped on a mine."
I saw her flinch. I really should have stopped.
"At least that was the story. Who knew what was that under the bandages? His head was swathed in them. All that was left were two holes for his eyes. His eyes were okay. Except for the lids. He had no eyelids."
A spot of chocolate spattered to the counter. She put down the saucepan. I warned myself to stop.
"Without eyelids," I went on, "he could not close his eyes. Obviously."
She was still staring at me. She had no idea what I was getting at. How could she?
"You know what happens if you can't close your eyes?"
"You can't sleep?"
"No, you can sleep with your eyes open. Many people do." I had lived in enough unholy barracks to know that. "If you don't have eyelids, you cannot stop crying. If you can't close your eyes, you cry all the time."
This time I did not apologize. I was too angry. She had made me break my vow of silence. To a man like me, the only honor left, the only decency possible, is to protect others from the horror.

I shuddered and almost teared when I read that bit.