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by Karen Lethlean
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I sat at a desk and clunked over keys as equipment whirled around me like an old-time share and stock trader’s office. Other Operator Keyboard soldiers fiddled with paper tape, message pads and cipher equipment, with barely enough space between us to move. I was on evening shift this week, though half the time I didn’t know if it was day or night as Victoria Barracks Communication Center had no windows. The center buzzed all around me, a constant hive of activity, the major hub for electronic messages. We shared the space with the telecommunication mechanics. I glanced over to where my future husband, and two others, tested and repaired all sorts of faults.
My stomach growled and I hoped mealtime was getting close. Without a mess nearby, it was necessary for someone to go on a meal run. I’d been part of such food trips plenty of times before.
“No, I can’t send a woman,” the warrant officer in charge of the shift said.
“Why the hell not, nothing much is happening here,” a corporal replied, as if operators all sat and twiddled their thumbs.
“Signal came through yesterday. No women in uniform anywhere near Fitzroy Street, St Kilda.”
I noticed several women raise their eyebrows and pause; the room became untypically quiet. It seemed as if even the telecommunication machines stopped clacking. Perhaps a drunk civilian, fresh out of one of the many bars, had tried to jump a female soldier in uniform, pulled into some sort of sexual fantasy. An army girl vulnerable for merely being a woman in St. Kilda, a place so steeped in sexual impropriety. Her uniform fuel for petty fetishes. I fumed at the wrongness of it all. How could women in uniforms, serving their country be equated to those dressed in prostitute attire?
I’d been to Fitzroy Street, St. Kilda, for similar food runs, but had never seen any working girls. I imagined they sashayed street curbs much later at night. Other than being home to an infamous Australian football team, ‘The Saints,’ the only things I associated with Fitzroy Street were salty air blowing off Port Philip Bay, grit from passing trams, and maybe too many smokers. I was a kid from Western Australia, hardly out of high school. What did I know about brothels, hostels, or nightlife? What experience did I have with Le Girl’s Shows, filming episodes of Rockwiz at the Esplanade Hotel, or the wide scopes of humanity and sexual fetishes wandering those port-side streets?
I couldn’t imagine being propositioned merely because I wore a uniform. This sentiment was far too close to how army women were labelled as having a ground sheet reputation, something a soldier placed between himself and earth during field exercise. I heard this one time from a sergeant unable to adjust to girls in uniform. I’d been ignorant that such attitudes permeated the military and decided then and there that I’d continue to kick against this label whenever I got a chance.
Surely your average punter who picked up a working girl on a St. Kilda street corner could tell differences between sexy, busting-out-of-brass buttoned jacket, eschew hat, barely visible miniskirts and real army girls. Our attire was demure, a proper length skirt, within four centimetres of crease behind our knees, and no flashed panties or legs. Our clothing was strictly measured, standardized and free of any erotic connotations. Looking down at the dark green skirt, pencil, rear-pleat number, I wondered what on earth could be suggestive about this uniform. I couldn’t help thinking of the military garb as a complete turn-off.
Though I was still in my teens, but already calling myself a survivor, I was about learn more about the full range of sickos and deviants out there.
“Get the orders and I’ll go,” Chappo, one of telecommunication mechanics from the workshop, said. There were two opposites on shift tonight: short, broad shouldered, blonde, unimposing Mark Chapman, and a tall, brooding, enigmatic, brunette, Michael Singleton.
“You know which Café?” our Warrant Officer asked.
“I’ll figure it out,” Chappo said, taking copious notes. It was remarkable that some of us scored nicknames when others didn’t. Just one of life’s indisputable facts, I suppose. I was called Kaz and often wondered what might have been made of my surname. Letho or Leftie. Latter options sounded derogatory, way out beyond permitted political views, and not just for soldiers. Letho felt more in keeping with army girl stereotypes of which I only became aware decades later.
“Steak sandwich with the lot plus pineapple,” I said, ordering my standard St. Kilda dinner run order.
When Chappo returned, our communication centre spaces were instantly filled with delicious wafts of pan-fried onion, charred meat and toasted bread. The sort of aromas that made our mouths water. We ate at desks cleared of messages, or straddled stools usually pulled up to keyboards.
Silence infused the room during food consumption. I didn’t realize I was being watched. No, closely observed. No words, but plenty of observation. I didn’t know Michael Singleton was taking mental notes, salivating about possibilities of me being a potential date, considering asking me out. A male domain, soldiers everywhere.
Sometimes I was aware of being watched. Strangely those looks felt more like my father’s judgemental eyes, rather than gentle admiration. Even though I had escaped his control, I couldn’t help but remember his hands slapping a table, voice hurling insults, “…you are a totally useless article.”
There were very few army girls, as scarce as a working girl on Fitzroy Street during a dinner rush. Women made up less than ten percent of our army’s workforce. I suppose this should have been intimidating, but I’d been through worse.
I sucked juices off fingers, licked my lower arm, near my wrists, with no idea my actions might embody a message beyond enjoyment of food, blissfully ignorant of any sensuality being exuded. From adjacent seats Michael took in the scene—the reason he eventually asked me out. Little did I know, I would end up marrying him.
Years later, people often asked, “How did you meet Tasha’s father?” Oh great, I thought, cringing whenever my abandoned daughter overheard this question. Yet from a time well before she was born, I’d always given a sardonic, but honest response, my ex-husband liked what he saw as I ate a steak sandwich with the lot plus pineapple.
After multiple evening shifts, I was lulled into a false sense of security over cups of coffee, shared meals, and a budding romance with Michael. Deep in my protected domain, while St. Kilda road bustled right outside. Kept separate by new standing orders and ferried to work in army shift vehicles.
But I also knew this office camaraderie within an army workplace an illusions. One misspoken word and I’d be filled with guilt, wondering if I’d destroyed my carefully fostered friendships. Would I forget, as words came out of my mouth, that my superiors higher up a chain of command? Better to think about the sergeants and warrant officers as embodiements of my father, with their power over me, and an ability to punish for any minor infraction.
As a way to get my mind off the workplace friendships, I began to supplement swim sessions with late evening jogs, blissfully unaware my leisure activities could be more dangerous than deals and transactions conducted in Fitzroy Street, St. Kilda. As I began my warm up, two loops around the football oval, I imagined myself as a line referee, as if, back in mid 1970s, they’d ever employ a woman for such a job. My head was full of dreams of escape, something I often did to clear memories of slaps and violent shouting. I breathed in the night air, sucked in gasps of pre-dawn frost, burnt toffee of gum leaf fumes filled my lungs as my heart beat faster, tissue expanded and my pulse pounded. It felt so good.
But wait, who was this? A shadow stumbled towards me. What was he doing? All my joy was stolen, as I focused on his stumbling gait. I tried to recognize the shadowed form clothed in dark colours who uttered semblances of a greeting. “Going for a run are ya?”
He managed a half-hearted whistle. Why wasn’t it possible to enjoy some exercise without encountering distasteful responses from men. I thought. Or being objectified as worse than a working woman? Wasn’t this one of the ways Michael had looked at me?
Every essence of my being wanted to escape his leering, all-encompassing look. This man loomed as a potential threat. He issued a look, up and down, right from my functional, impact absorbing shoes, minimal sweat removing running shorts, to the lightweight singlet. I felt exposed, as if his gaze could penetrate the fabric, to take in my sports bra as well. He made no effort to look in my face or focus on my eyes. If my crystal ball had been functional, I would have recognized this quality in how Michael leered, instead of the perceived tenderness when he’d asked me out to go along for a ride.
A lopsided grin registered on a chin I could only just make out. Fumes from too many mess function toasts floated between us: ceremonial port, sun dried grapes, fermented juices. Yuck, shut your mouth, mate, that stinks. I wanted to shout. Part of me shuttered, remembering evenings when dad breathed similar smells.
Just another drunk, who didn’t know what he was doing. I mumbled an acknowledgment for his rank, barely visible in his formal mess-dress blues. I struggled to make out a person, if not for glints of braid on his uniform, and minimum-coloured ribbons, which declared he’d served in campaigns worthy of medals. I recognized those coloured ribbons and thought this guy might be a Vietnam veteran. I wondered what he did. Was he posted to a signals regiment in Da Nang or Nui Dat? I had no idea where Australian Signals bases in Vietnam were located. My army girl status had only begun after overseas deployments. Instead, I’d served during a peacetime period. Strictly hands-off weapons for women. Roles have changed a great deal since.
What sights this stumbling drunk must have seen. I was sure warfare would have an impact on veterans’ future lives and relationships. Something I’d experienced as a kid, because of my own father’s war service. Like any other veteran, sights of war, death and fighting must seep into everyday life. Did he bring home visions of choppers like giant bees, loaded with fuel instead of other workers required to staff the hives? Or did he have nightmares of Agent Orange? Were fumes still in his nasal cavities from his encounters with napalm?
Yet I was familiar with a too-much-drink gait. I had seen this before with my father. I understood not to go any closer, or speak, or acknowledge this person beyond awareness of their stumbled attempts to walk.
I took a few moments to contemplate Sergeants and Officers ordered to attend mess functions, just like areas or jobs where women in uniform were forbidden. Non-commissioned officers were expected to consume multiple toasts and officially acknowledge higher ranking officers. Queen! Regiment! Country! Or did they self-medicate trying to forget things they had seen during their years of service?
I put this man, war hero, returned soldier, out of my mind and focused instead on my usual course along lit roads rather than venturing into the darkness on bush trails. It was a token self-protective instinct, though I doubted falling victim to a marauder while running. I felt impervious because of the old adage: a man can’t run as fast with his pants around his ankles. Maybe I took the quote too seriously.
As I passed by the Sergeants Mess, there were still other drunken stragglers who talked too loudly. It must have been a big function. I felt lucky I didn’t get asked, volunteered, or ordered to work. I continued my run. Not far now, just slightly down hill, and wind it up for a sprint finish.
As I rounded the corner, back towards my barracks, I saw flashing, multi-coloured lights all over Yallambie Road, beyond the gates, near our regimental aid post. I wondered if someone had been arrested, maybe for propositioning army girls. It was strange to encounter such a chaotic sight with multiple emergency vehicles, so close to my living quarters.
I later learned that Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM) Hillman, from 6 Signal Regiment had been killed as he walked home from the formal mess function.
He wouldn’t have stood a chance against the speeding car, his reflexes dulled by mess function ceremonies. Barely visible. Might the red stripes on his pants have been caught by approaching headlights? Or did he slump across a speeding car’s bonnet, an impact which broke windscreen glass before he fell onto an empty road? The young driver who attempted to prove himself with excessive speed had never noticed Sergeant Hillman’s braid, or his badges of rank or medals of honour.
An accidental death provided a serious matter for conversation during subsequent Victoria Barrack shifts.
“I don’t feel sorry for the guy. He was drunk…” I said, too young and silly to appreciate how anyone might be offended by my words. One of those moments when words exit without full thought to the consequences. But I knew something they didn’t: I had realized in the hours after his death that it must have been Sgt. Hillman who had approached me as I headed out on my run, since I hadn’t seen anyone else near my barracks. And I was still trying to deal with how he had made me feel so uncomfortable.
My fellow operators, corporals and warrant officers frowned, their faces expressing displeasure. I knew from the collective intake of breath, that I had caused greater disgruntlement than wearing my uniform in Fitzroy Street, St. Kilda, now an off-limits forbidden zone. I’d drawn attention to myself. I cringed to witness those words out of my mouth. This was a situation where solemn sympathy ought to be expressed, even if such sentiments might be insincere.
As a result of those words, I was ordered to attend RSM Hillman’s funeral. I suppose I couldn’t expect anything less, regardless of who spoke such opinions, others, men or women, would be punished in a similar manner.
I was ordered to attend, unable to refuse. A power hierarchy in action, which I should have anticipated, but it left a bad taste in my mouth. I wondered what the warrant officer assumed I would learn from the experience.
Services took place at Springvale Memorial Gardens, in a chapel that resembled what I imagined to be Japanese style, dark framed white walls, and oriental style curved roof lines.
This was my first experience with such a solemn occasion. Several members of 6 Signals Regiment learned slow marching for RSM Hillman’s funeral. I watched the impressive flag party keep time, with step-pause actions, feet parallel to the ground, and no arm swing. The seventy centimetre paces, seventy beats a minute, only slightly faster than an average heartbeat. A stand-in Regimental Sergeant Major trained this group, pacing out distances, keeping things right.
I thought about being a Regimental Sergeant Major. One who declared troop spacing and oversaw creases in uniforms, shoe polish and correct placement of corps badges on parade. Marshall of all things parade-oriented, responsible for troops taking the right distance steps, appropriately spaced apart, making sure rituals, ceremonies, and uniforms were all standardized.
Family, friends, and fellow members of 6 Signals Regiment filed into chapel pews.
Attendees were informed RSM Hillman was survived by a large family—same sibling make up as mine, two sons and three girls. A family linked by weeping heads bent several pews ahead of me. I had no idea what type of father he was to those children. I knew some soldiers came home and were not tyrants akin to my father, yet many others probably were.
I attempted to place myself in RSM Hillman’s family’s situation. Would I mourn or celebrate? Draw breaths of freedom or spill tears steeped in loathing? Would I relish in torments I no longer needed to endure or feel the formal turn from the domain of my father’s power and decision-making privileges? I still wasn’t, perhaps never would be, completely free of his control. I hated myself for these thoughts. Shouldn’t absence make hearts grow fonder? Yet I sat on a hard, uncomfortable wooden seat, listening to sniffling as tissues wiped noses and mumbled words of hymns, still seething at my superior’s orders, unable to feel any emotions for the man I may have been the last to see alive.
Those who outranked me and able to evoke orders, appeared to be consumed by some bizarre form of protection to exclude me, and my female comrades, from the bright lights, possibly red-light areas of St. Kilda—a curtailed freedom which evoked anger. These same men also ordered me to attend a funeral, for a man, a stranger, who had looked at me in a manner kindred to women working on the street in St. Kilda. I was confused by the inconsistency. I wanted to wear this uniform, enjoy my years as a soldier, but first I needed to learn how to operate under mantle of expectations placed on women in a service that was still very much a man’s world.
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Karen Lethlean is a retired English teacher. With previous fiction in the Barbaric Yawp, Ken*Again, Pendulum Papers and has won a few awards through Australian and UK competitions. Almond Tree received a commendation from Lorian Hemingway Short Fiction competition and was published in Pretty Owl Poetry Journal. Karen is currently working on a memoir titled Army Girl. About military service 1972-76. In her other life Karen is a triathlete who has done Hawaii Ironman championships twice.
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