Infirmary blues

There comes a time when your moral fibre starts to shatter under the constant pressure of everything that goes on in the army. You cringe at the thought of having to wake up fifteen minutes early for an early morning jog without even having enough time to take a piss before you have to go running, your legs already start to ache when presented with an idea of a long march and the bruises from the last combat training still haven’t healed. There aren’t many choices you can make in the army, but you always have the option of going to the infirmary, regardless of whether you are sick or not.

So, here’s me. Not even two months have passed and I’ve had it up to here with army life. The week had started quite badly already. On Monday we had a shooting test. First we had to fire six shots from lying down, from 150 metres, to turning targets. For the first two targets we had five seconds per target to aim and fire, after which we had to change magazine and do the same again except in three seconds this time. That was followed by another magazine change and two quick shots to a 5-second target. Once this was done, we took a firing position from knee (which, might I add, hurts like hell and probably destroys your knee eventually) and fired three untimed shots from the same distance. Finally we walked forward to take shots from the standing position 50 metres from the targets. This last round consisted of three shots with five seconds of time to aim and shoot per shot. If you are able to hold your calculator the right side up, you’ve probably reached the conclusion that there was a total of 12 shots.

Now I’m a pretty good shot. One time, lying down, from 150 metres, I had scored 96/100 points. Granted, I’m not as good when firing from knee or standing position, but at least I can point the gun in the general direction of the target. After our shooting test I had a good feeling. There were no shots that I could clearly say had failed. With great anticipation I walked to my target and started to count the bullet holes. Things looked good; only one had hit the blank area outside the scoring range, meaning that 11 had to be on target. Wrong. Apparently one shot completely missed the target, since there were only 10 holes in the scoring range. I tried to widen one of the holes to make it look like two bullets had gone through it, but to no avail. Add to the insult that the one shot that had hit the cardboard but didn’t quite count was only two centimetres away from counting as a hit. The week was ruined right from the start.

With my moral in ruins and a march carrying on to the night waiting for me on Thursday, on Wednesday I decided that enough is enough. It was time for me to take matters into my own hands. It was time to blow this joint. It was time to bring justice to the world. It was time to go to the infirmary.

My knee had ached a bit, and I figured it would be a good basis on which to build something that would surely give me many days off. My conclusion was that I’d fake the symptoms of a stress fracture, since that had previously given a roommate of mine a whole week off marching, combat and exercise training. I was set.

Full of excitement I arrived at the infirmary. Immediately I was appalled of the enormous queue that led to the nurse’s appointment. Not only were the seats uncomfortable, there were absolutely no recreational items present. Not a single magazine or newspaper was to be found. So I spent two and half hours watching the tormented faces of others like me who obviously were sick and tired of it all. The situation was so depressing that there was no chatter at all, and if I didn’t know better, I would’ve guessed that everyone was waiting for their turn to step into a gas chamber. The thing that kept me and others carry on were the happy faces that came out of the nurse’s office with a paper slip showing how many days off they got. Also, in the army, once you say you’ll go to the infirmary, there’s no leaving until you’ve played the whole game through, or you’re in for a world of punishment. With these things in mind I finally reached the nurse, who quite promptly made it clear that she didn’t want any responsibility whatsoever and that I should be checked by a doctor. Apparently these stress fractures are serious business.

The doctor’s appointment was a few hours away, so I walked back to my unit to wait, returned to the infirmary at the appropriate time only to find that there was a queue to the doctor’s office as well, even though there was supposed to be a schedule there. I kept my cool, I knew that in a few moments I’d be walking away, not having to do shit for a few days. Eventually my patience paid off, I reached the doctor and decided that it would be a good time to ditch the stress fracture bullshit in order to skip waiting in the line for X-ray and to avoid them blacklisting me for bullshitting. Suddenly I had just regular but quite painful muscle ache, which in turn gave me the results I had hoped for. I got two days off, which was very suitable as my holidays would begin on Friday, anyway. Not only that, but I got a good handful of painkillers, which are worth their weight in gold in the army, and a good thing to have in storage. The clouds had started to rip and sunlight was bursting through, warming my day.

Fast forward one day. I have a fever of 38,5°C (101,3°F), eye infection and a sore throat. Apparently someone was at the infirmary with an actual disease and had infected me, probably out of spite. Not only that, but they had confiscated my mp3-player, since, apparently, you are not allowed to listen to music while lying in bed being sick, but reading is ok. I had a long time ago accepted that logic has no place in the army, but this was ridiculous. I was tired, sick and furious. Also there was nothing I could do about it. The days passed slowly, as I couldn’t sleep very much and my head hurt too much to read anything. During the night my eyes secreted so much mucus that my eyelids slightly glued together.

So now, on Sunday, when my holidays are almost over, I’m starting to feel better. The weekend on which I was supposed to be seeing friends and having good time I spent being ill feeling bad. Now that it’s time to go back, I’m turning into a healthy person again. Fuck you, army. Fuck you. This isn’t over yet.

-Fatal