The Godfather: Peter Corris on his military career
Compulsory National Service (‘Nasho’) ended in Australia in 1959 and ballot conscription for the Vietnam War was introduced in 1964. I was too young for Nasho and had been diagnosed as diabetic in 1958 and was therefore exempt from the draft. But I did have a brief military career.
Melbourne Boys High School had a cadet unit, which I was keen to join, as were most of the kids I associated with. My parents, quietist, would not give permission, so I missed the first intake until they yielded to my pleadings and relented.
My first disappointment with army life was minor in nature but severe psychologically. By the time I joined, the supply of the iconic slouch hats had run out and I was issued with a beret. The rising sun badge pinned to this (effeminate?) headgear did not help. I already felt like a second-class soldier.
Nevertheless, on Fridays I put on the uniform that consisted of a khaki shirt and tie, heavy, hairy woollen jacket and trousers, a webbing belt, gaiters, thick socks and heavy boots. The belt and gaiters had to be cleaned and coated with a solution known as Blanco. The toecaps of the boots were meant to have a mirror shine. Like others, I spat for a long time trying to produce this. One technique was to coat the toecap in methylated spirits and set fire to it before applying the polish. I never achieved the mirror shine.
I was in an infantry platoon for the first half of my service. This mainly involved marching and drilling with a .303 rifle. Port arms, slope arms – that sort of thing. Very boring. The only high point was a week-long camp at Puckapunyal where we got the chance to fire the rifles and Bren and Owen guns. I’ve written about my ineptitude with these weapons in an earlier column.
We slept on camp beds, which had to be made up army style with everything stretched tight, so that (theoretically) a coin could be bounced on the bed.
Some of us took the opportunity to smoke illicitly. It felt like manly freedom of a kind.
My second disappointment came when I failed to be promoted to lance corporal for my second year. This rank was bestowed on a very few and the choice seemed to be arbitrary. I was assigned to the Signals platoon, which meant carrying heavy equipment about the parade ground and listening to static. Never of a technical bent, I found this tedious.
The minimum length of service was two years. After 18 months, bored with the whole thing and tired of cleaning webbing and polishing boots, diabetes came to my aid and I was given what amounted to an honourable medical discharge.
Non-cadets were obliged to join a club. As more befitting my inclinations, I joined the book-binding club. We were tasked with repairing and strengthening books falling into disrepair in the school library. It involved adhesive fabric, glue and no great skill. I still have a Penguin I reinforced in this way a year later. It is inscribed ‘Peter R Corris, Arts I, University of Melbourne’.
Although it was utterly undistinguished and I was sometimes miserable in it, I don’t regret my time in the cadets. It gave me an acquaintance with army life, albeit superficial, that I was able to draw on later in several novels, particularly in my Richard Browning series.
