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of us were in hysterics as I opened the door to my locker, but our hilarity died in our throats. Our section commander, a rather large and aggressive man, sprang from the cupboard bellowing abuse in a fit of mock rage. Running through the Timorese jungle dodging militia bullets had nothing on the terror I felt at that moment.
    I nearly fell over, but in an attempt to slow my heart rate and get my breath back, I couldn’t help but laugh. I was resigned to a stint on the parade ground later that afternoon, for mouthing off as well as insecurity, but to my surprise and pleasure, my section commander joined us in laughing.
    â€˜Make sure you keep your cupboard locked next time, fuck-knuckle,’ he taunted, before strolling out of the room, a broad smile on his face.
    Another time, our entire platoon was lined up in the hallway being hauled over the coals for some perceived failing. Always one to take advantage of an opportunity for mischief-making, I managed to lock eyes with the man standing directly opposite me during the tirade. When I was sure I had his undivided attention, I discreetly crossed my eyes. Our silent battle of wills raged, with my facial contortions met by his increasingly obvious amusement.
    Just as the rant reached a heightened point, my victim exploded into uncontrollable howls of laughter. After giving him a blast, the section commander launched himself across the hallway looking for the cause of the poor man’s hysteria. As he reached my part of the line, several of us now shared the battle to remain straight-faced. The chief suspect was the completely innocent soldier to my immediate left, and he received a savage verbal attack.
    Within moments, however, I lost my fight against laughter in response to the words ‘disgusting fat fucking slug’. Closed eyes were not enough to stop my shaking shoulders or bursts of laughter. The section commander’s next round of abuse was all I needed to descend into hysterics, which earned me even more brutal abuse. As he barked and spat at me, I was marched down the hall to a mirror, to ‘take a good hard look at myself’. The sight of my own grinning mug, tears streaming down my cheeks, only made things worse.
    Through fits of laughter, with the sound of my mates’ own amusement ringing in my ears, I attempted an apology: ‘I’m really sorry, I’m trying to stop laughing but I just can’t.’
    That night, completing some thankless, mundane punishment, I felt a million miles away from changing oil in a van for my dad. I had a lot to learn, but the one thing I already knew was that I’d found a place where I belonged. Behind all the bullshit, I felt a rush at the potential of my situation. This was the life I’d hoped for: one with the promise of excitement and the opportunity to see some real action.
    Far from being surrounded by Rambo nuts and dropouts, myarmy mates soon meant just as much to me as Al, Cully, Pricey and Luke (my closest bros from school). I couldn’t wait to see where my new life took me. I couldn’t wait to get started.

As the HMAS Newcastle negotiated the heavy seas towards Heard Island for the second time, we received intelligence that there was now just one possible illegal fishing vessel within Australian territorial waters – a boat that had breached the Heard Island exclusion zone of 200 nautical miles. The assault team was instructed to launch a raid on the vessel.
    As we prepared for the task, the weight of the situation hit me properly for the first time. After nearly three weeks at sea, the day had arrived. Finally, we were being given the opportunity to put our years of training into practice. Looking around at the faces of the boys, I could see that they felt it too. For many of us, this was the first time that we had loaded our magazines with live rounds for a live operation. We didn’t expect that we would be forced to use them, but we were armed with pistols