Lost Callsign

The first 3 checkpoints were easy going. Open paddocks, thin shelter belts and thin patches of scrubby growth. The sun was up and shining and I had good visibility on all of life’s beautiful things. I was flowing, leaping over small streams and side-stepping livestock on my way to an acceptable pass because to me, the acme of living is to have an attitude of humility and persistence. Achievement is essential, and failure is not an option.

The flat ground ahead of me gradually ascended higher, tighter, and the wide-open flanks of the field converged to form a valley. As the pines rose higher around me, the vignette of the canopy cast long shadows on the forest floor beneath it. I paused momentarily to rest on my laurels and review my plan. I drew the carefully folded map from my pocket and admired my progress. I was on track and ahead of time, and more importantly I knew where I was.

I decided to make a hard-right, and break track for a quick win. Instead of following the stream as per my plan I decided I could save myself some time with a short-cut and proceed up steep rocky banks on hands and knees. The sharp, loose rocks were barely held together by dying roots, interwoven with sporadic vines of bush-lawyer or blackberry. The crumbled and broken crest I had set as my navigation point was almost directly above my head – a crusted edge of roots and grass just below the plantations edge. This wasn’t my original plan, but I decided to use my new-found confidence to redesign my plan on-the-fly, because that’s what confident people do.

I reached the lip and heaved myself up and over. Again, I rested. I smoked a cigarette, had a big skull of water and then took off back on my bearing. I didn’t check my bearing or determine my location - I knew where I was going. I had studied the map; I knew the distance to the fence running along the crest though the pine forest. I just had to hit the fence and walk a short distance to the corner of the track on my right, where I would meet the guy who was ready to check me off and send me on my way to the next checkpoint.

I slaughtered my way up the hill. Knees grated against rock, tar stained lungs heaving. Brushing against trees with my shoulders, unafraid of the giants above me. I was a man of conviction and purpose, unburdened by feelings of weakness. I reached a crest and figured I would just keep walking until I hit it my mark. When I started heading down hill, I had a pang of doubt. I took out my compass and checked my bearing. When I checked my bearing against the course I had been walking, I knew something was wrong. Clearly, I’d been given a faulty compass. My bearing was to head directly North but this piece of shit was giving me a false reading, as if I was wrong, as if I had been heading North-West. Luckily for me, I knew better. I was a rational thinker, so I’d compromise and make a slight adjustment and give myself a nudge to the right. Because that’s how you navigate through life.

After walking for 15 minutes through the thinning plantation of pine trees I waited for the track, the fence, or the checkpoint to appear because I’ll accept any of them. I was now on the North face with the sun shining on me, birds hopping from branch to branch, and the scent of ponderosa pine needles complementing my manly musk of sweat, gun oil and cigarettes. My sweat glistened on the metal body of my Steyr, and my boots weren’t even wet. I was a beast in his natural habitat. I stopped for another congratulatory cigarette and thought I should check my map to see if the terrain was like that of the map. Something else caught my eye instead… I noticed a change of colour through the trees so looked closer through the gap in the vegetation and noticed a well-lit clearing. I could see the vibrant green blades of grass reflecting the last of the morning dew, a veil of prisms looking like Christmas lights glimmering red and blue and green. Knowing grass grows well next to pre-formed tracks, I put away my map and confidently strutted forth to victory.

What happened next surprised me even further – my map is clearly out of date. The track is in fact a natural lane for goats and sheep that only runs for about 30 meters. The fence I should have crossed wasn’t even there. I passed some rusted waratahs and tangles of rusted wire running across a clearing 20 minutes ago, but that wouldn’t have been my fence. In my infinite wisdom and acumen as a navigator I pondered: The useless cunts who make these maps need to sort their fuckin’ shit out if we’re ever gonna win a war but hey, I don’t even need it and I’m a nice guy so no need to linger on the fact. Plus, it’s a nice day and there’s no point bitching about it. Positivity and pleasantries aside, I still needed to ascertain my location. I checked the time, looked up at the suns position in the sky and thought ‘That looks like North’ and plodded on my way. I considered shooting an actual bearing and then remembered: Fuckin piece of shit compass. The cheap cunts who run this third world army need to buy us better shit. One of those other thieving fucks was sitting on my pack in the Unimog, one of them either switched theirs on me or fucked it when they sat on it. Oh well, not my fault. I don’t need that thing anyway. Natural compass all day, baby.

I dropped down on to another wide valley and continued through the low scrub mixed with wilding juvenile pines, and small streams that also weren’t marked on my map. I reached a wider creek and positioned myself on a bank to leap across to the other side. I jumped, and instead of landing on solid ground my foot disappeared into a marsh of soggy, wet and stagnant water hidden between the large tufts of long grass. Bitching and moaning, I dragged my foot against the suction of the swamp up and up out of the hole so I could crawl up the bank to the crest. When I parted the grass to see my checkered flag and well deserved rest, my heart sank.

Instead of the edge of the pine forest and track junction I was expecting to see on the other side of the valley, I witnessed towering and rocky snow-capped peaks, at least 7-8 kilometres in the distance. The sun was already beginning to kiss the far side of the range, giving them a majestic golden outline: a final ceremony and tribute to seal the day of the victorious, though it was a crushing monument of defeat to me. I staggered to my feet in denial, on the verge of being physically and spiritually defeated. With my final charge of energy I sprinted down the hill in desperation to meet my intended – the track that would be waiting below, to reassure me that I was right and that the days hi-jinx and equipment malfunction was part of life and most importantly – not my fault.

As I ran for my life, up and over the small crests which broke up the undulating ground I saw in the near distance another clearing where hopefully waiting for me in the long grass was my track, weaving innocently through the hills that would help me get me back on track and off to my next destination. Exhausted, I crossed the imaginary line where it should have been and instead all that was waiting before me was another small patch of pines, a stream junction, and the final earthly remains of a blackened, rotting dead sheep. I took one last desperate glance at my map. I ripped my J-hat off my head and the compass from my neck. The last of the light marched across the grass steadily and mercilessly away from me, and the blood ran cold from my fingers.

Fuck.

I unslung my rifle and for the first time in my life I held it by the barrel and heaved it into the long grass to hear a satisfying ‘crack’ as the plastic stock connected with a small rock. I took off my pack and slammed it down at my feet. I fell to my knees and buried my face in my hands. I was ready to cry. I took off my webbing and threw that too. I didn’t deserve a cigarette this time. I just rolled onto my back and closed my eyes. I took a huge breath in, and let it go. I sounded like a cow releasing a groan of tedium.

I knew I wasn’t going to die, but I was very scared for the first time in my life. I’d never felt this kind of fear before. I just didn’t want to exist in this moment. I wanted to go to sleep and wake up in barracks, warm in my bed. I knew there was a way out of this situation and that I would eventually be found, but being found alive would be worse than being found dead since at least my soul would have the convenience of not having to explain myself, and no one talks shit about you at a funeral. The humiliating idea of being found by others in desperation was more painful than the acknowledgment of being lost.

A sharp, cold breeze rolled down from the mountains and stirred the long, golden tussock grass around me. The cold sweat covering my body caused me to shiver and shake the last of the warmth from my skin. I realised that if I was going to even survive, I needed to at least begin with re-dressing myself. I had no idea how I was going to come up with a plan, but I knew I must start with getting my house in order.

My gear was scattered all around me and it dawned that if someone was to happen upon my position I looked like an absolute coward, sack of arse. I turned around and looked at my rifle lying in the grass behind me. It had skipped across the ground and had come to rest in a small mound of dried sheep shit. I leaned over and dragged it on to my lap. It suddenly occurred to me that in my weakest moment I had thrown my lifeline against the ground in a fit of desperation. I had committed the cardinal sin of not only dropping my rifle, I had thrown it, my device of self protection. In order to repent for my actions in my own eyes, I had to make it right. I found no damage when I inspected the body of the rifle, but I noticed that the flash suppressor had chunks of mud and shit in between the ports. I picked up my J-Hat and wiped the loose material off before carefully fitting my head-dress back on my head. I put my chest rig back on, also covered in cold sweat and mud. I placed my day pack between my feet and re-opened my map. I realised that my compass was not in fact broken, I had simply abandoned it in a fleeting moment of false greatness. I looked up at the mountain range and recognised the beauty of its cold grey and blue features, super-imposed against a deep crystal blue of the blackening evening sky.

My only option was to move in the general direction of most probable success. I didn’t know where I was starting from, I only knew where I needed to be. Doubt struck me again, and I slipped down the hole of imagining the panic of becoming even more lost, stumbling blindly in the dark all night or having to cross a river where I would meet certain death should I fall in. I removed the magazine from my rifle and counted how many blank rounds I had loaded into it. I had fifteen shots. Those shots were to alert anyone in earshot as to my direction, as per the procedures for becoming lost. I had accepted my situation – I had no idea where I was… but was I really lost? It didn’t matter, I fit the bill.

I pulled back on the charging handle and let it go. The heavy springs of the bolt slammed the action forward, chambering the shot. I pushed the safety catch across to fire, and placed my finger on the trigger. That gunshot would ring loud and would signal the end for me. Giving up was not in my blood, but I had put myself into a situation where I must make a choice: either give up and wait for something or someone to come and spirit me away, or give it one last go and risk failing again.

I thumbed the safety back on, threw my day pack over my shoulders and stood up. My compass was still set to a bearing heading North. I accepted that I was wrong, not the compass. I only stopped trusting it because it disagreed with me in a moment of arrogance and false positivity. I let the needle spin onto my direction and I started walking at a quick pace. My calves were twitching and my feet sloshed back and forth in my cold wet boots, but I was alive and once again moving with purpose to meet my new objective before the sun set completely. I didn’t know where I had come off my path, but it didn’t matter - it was in the past. What was important to me now was to focus on the present.

I climbed up through a small patch of trees, and after weaving through the trees for a few minutes I stumbled upon a road. Not a track; a fucking gravel road. I look at the map and found two roads that matched the profile. One would only lead me further into the hills, the other potentially, directly back to the Unimog. The wrong decision would be costly, shattering my luck back into a million pieces. I put my finger back on the trigger and contemplated taking this tiny win, this final scrap of dignity. I might even get picked up by one of the boys in the truck, so I didn’t have to walk. I could have the heater on, maybe he would give me some food… and maybe a little cuddle too, you fuckin pussy.

I ripped the magazine off the rifle, ejected the round and put the magazine back into my webbing. I’d rather trust my gut and fail before taking the easy way out. I’m not even going to ask for the easy way. I’d rather get hurt, get even more lost and be forced to figure it out again than spend another moment celebrating my pity and wishing for an easy option. I turned East and just started running. When I ran over the crest at the top of the hill, I reached another junction. I didn’t even stop; I just turned left and ran. I ran over another crest and then saw the Unimog in the near distance. I expected to be last in, with the other 15 guys waiting for me but instead it was only one of the instructors, and one of my mates.

As I approached, the instructor looked surprised to see me. He already had it in for me from the day before, so I told myself in my head that this would be the worst part. As I walked up to him I became more nervous with every step.

The instructor picked up his clipboard and said “Jesus, you did well mate. Second in. Did you get to every check point?” My guts wrenched. I’d already played this scenario out in my head. It would end with me walking back to the State Highway, holding my rifle above my head in shame. Another vision of failure where I would wear the humiliation and shame of being the only guy who not only got lost, but also achieved next to nothing. He stood in-front of me with the clip board and pen ready to record my answer. ‘Yes’ would be the lie that would kill me inside, and have him kick my teeth in for real when the other instructors who were away observing the checkpoints told him I never showed up. It wasn’t even a consideration.

“No Corporal. I fucked up and got lost about 3 hours in to it. I only just now found my way back to the track” He had the kind of gaze that could cut through the helicopter deck of a naval Frigate. He looked at me for a very long second but to my surprise and relief he blinked, shrugged his shoulders and said “Haha, oh well. Fuckin’ fail cunt, but least you didn’t make me come find you. Grab a brew and wait out. Where are ya darts?”

Stunned, I sat down next to him. He passed me the brew mug of hot chocolate in exchange for a cigarette. I looked up the valley to where I had come from which was probably only 5 kilometres from where I currently sat and I realised for the third time that day: honesty had spared me a slow, agonising and humiliating death. I’d gotten lost and missed 95% of my checkpoints, but I had retained all my self-respect.

As the other guys arrived one by one, they asked me how I went. I told them the truth. Most of them laughed at my misfortune, but I laughed harder.

The engine of the truck startled to life and we climbed into the back, all of us exhausted from our own trials. I sat on the floor next to the tailgate, lit up a smoke, and watched the last of the evening light fade to black as we made our way over the hills and streams on our way home. Under the canvas canopy of the truck, tiny amber suns floated amongst the dust and silky clouds of cigarette smoke, gently wafting towards the canvas flap at the back of the truck. My mate next to me gave me a nudge, and I passed my smoke to him. It was in that moment I imagined another version of myself being back in that clearing alone, cold and disheveled.

In my mind that version of me is still there, waiting for salvation and a reason for failure that is not his own. The version of me sitting on the truck was the one who admitted he was lost, and would risk failing again for another opportunity to be found.