Thirst in the Lord

I never forgot what Father Richards, who by virtue of his vocation in the army had had it much much worse than I have had so far, said about Thirst in the Lord (along these lines): Remember the times when you are on your way, running out of water. Your throat is parched, you're sweating like a pig and your bottle is fast running out. You thirst for water desperately -- and that is how you should thirst for God.

The last phrase rang in my mind's ear at various appropriate moments for the last 2 field camps. Now, since a few days before, I have learnt to ration my 5 litres over four days, with some left over even after I gave away a bottle's worth to my buddy. Some things you thirst for, but it seems that not even the Lord we should take too much for granted, even if he is always here with us.

Six small sips keeps one going for about two or three hours on average in a good cool day or at night, to my best approximation. If the sun is out, take twelve.

Are you okay Andy?

For Yihan and mates around who look at me funny because I sing too loudly during 5km runs or couldn't cool down for a whole morning or othersuch unusual antics coming from an otherwise quiet and unoffensive man,

I'm okay. I'm perfectly okay. In fact, I've never been so okay before.
Thank you, thank you First Battalion, a big hug, wet kiss and all the like stuff for bringing out the angsty sillyass who for the all the past months lay dormant within me.

Heandunigna

"The name is Saxon and means the high down [or, more clearly and in another article, on the high hill], and its earliest known use is in 1005 as Heandunigna."
-- Wikipedia article on the Municipal Borough of Hendon in Barnet, London

The Saxon name Heandunigna, imagine! Tonight, I'll be going back to Heandunigna. Doesn't it conjure up some image of those Germanic axewielding rotters swigging contraband inside the bunks by night plus warring themselves nuts by day? Or, if one is familiar with the Norse, the fabled Jomsvikings one would read of in Laxness and the Icelandic Sagas; the Jomsvikings were the real hardcore mercenaries, they were.

Name appeared on Business Times last Sunday, a copy of which Yee Chien (whose name was carelessly left out) passed me today over coffee; Yes, after so long, I'm paying for the coffee again! Yee Chien leaves end this month, Xiang early next. Sean has temporarily left the Army, and things are getting lonelier here.

Buying things for the detatchment, provisions mainly, that I am now proud to style myself a Provisions Man for a vocation as well as Medic; Also I learnt how letting a Hwa Chong Humanities Programme Alumnus touch your diary equals suicide, in addition to betting with him or proving that Johannesburg, as a fact, isn't capital of South Africa.

The Battalion Cat Revisited

Cat got nearly torn apart by the dogs on Monday, but survives. It was last seen sucking its own tail at the tonners, as if nothing had happened. Apart from that, it appeared to have taken leave for much of this week, until reputedly on Thursday it got torn up again. This time on the dogs' own turf.
Elsewhere, things fared more or less as well.

The Battalion Cat

It probably isn't classified information that my company line houses a black-and-white cat, who is always around when we fall in or clean our rifles or whatnot and hanging about hopefully for scraps when not licking its own tail... except of course if some infiltrator comes in, guts the poor bugger and finds the top-secret confidential docs half-digested therein... and not forgetting the subequent turning-in of the Admin IC who'd say "Sir, the cat ate my homework" and getting it for the excuse. (Sorry, Glen)

I suspect, however, that the Battalion Cat prefers fresh rations to mission briefs, for it shows up always whenever we're eating dinner at the first floor, where he would rub itself up someone's smelly slacks, lick the oil off a machine gun, bother the inmates trainees and fraternise with the sergeants. As we fell in to ranks, he would be there eyeballing us with tired looks, later resigning to licking himself at various places, at the same time blissfully unaware and splendidly distracting.

Some of us enjoy his company; others resign to kicking him away, though all things considered, this fella is like a carefree island in a hectic ocean, like a stable beacon atop a lighthouse guiding ships through freezing tempests. No one can expect him to fight alongside us. No one can tell him to fall in and report strength. No one can accuse him of chao keng when he does... but, all that notwithstanding, the Battalion Cat lazes squarely in our family, a respected senior member, a sentinel.