The Equipment Officer

The Way of the Arpha: 2 of 12

*Three months in the life of the Cypriot army. Read the previous part HERE

THE NEXT MORNING, after the usual breakfast of frosted flakes and group prayer, a corporal pulled aside all the three-monthers and six-monthers – the monikers for those of us with reduced conscription terms – and led us in pairs to the equipment distribution room.

Our job was to issue the army gear to the arriving conscripts. We were each assigned a position next to an article of clothing. I was on underwear duty and had to hand every conscript three olive tank tops and three tighty-greenies. The first group didn’t show up for several hours, so we passed the morning lounging in the sun and playing foosball in the canteen.

The equipment officer was a man of medium height who looked taller because of his long neck, which looked even longer because he buzzed the hair most of the way up the back of his narrow head, which looked even narrower because of the flat-billed army cap that sat high over his prominent forehead, which looked even more prominent because of the veins that stood out upon it when he yelled.

He ranted, hollered, and cursed at his temporary staff to keep himself in good spirits. The more he shouted, the more the veins bulged out on his forehead, and the more he was at peace. After an especially cantankerous spew of invective, he radiated serenity.

But it wasn’t only for peace of mind that he screamed like a madman. He also saw himself as the latest manifestation of a long vibrant military tradition of officers who berated subordinates, a noble line of great screaming men that has throughout history ensured that the vitality of army life remains untainted by the energy-sapping niceties of the civilian world. It was hard work to yell all day long, especially as he was already burdened by the countless headaches of inventory counts, backorders, storage procedures and requests for exchanges. Yet he selflessly took it upon himself to bitch at everyone without a murmur of complaint. He shrieked, fulminated and bellowed as if he despised us, and we all took an instant liking to him.

Before the first group came in, he told us to stay calm and not lose our tempers. “What the hell are you waiting for, the Holy Spirit?” he later hollered at one of the six-monthers who was lost in a reverie, causing a back-up in the delivery line. Another six-monther was shuffling through a box to find the right jacket size for the conscript. “Hurry up,” the equipment officer barked. “We’re not choosing grooms here!”

“Didn’t I tell you not to smoke in here?” he roared at the far end of the room, chopping the air with his hand. “Hell, what do I have to do in here to keep some order?” 

But he kept his fondest cursing for his long-term staff. When he wanted the attention of one of his helpers in the neighboring storage room, he would yell until the escalating decibels penetrated the building walls. “Christo! CHRISTO! CHRISTOOO!  Fuck my race! Where in hell is he?”

“The socks!” he ranted when one of his assistants told him one of the boxes was missing. “Can you please tell me where in hell they went? I told you where the socks were and they went to anathema again. I’m gonna tear you apart! What kind of bullshit is this you’re telling me now? We’ll see when the devil comes to take you!”

His helpers delighted in his abuse, often mimicking his words and tone to his face, and he would merely glower back at them wordlessly. 

Several dozen conscripts returned in mass to the equipment room to exchange some of the improperly sized gear. The equipment officer seemed to relish such group returns because it gave him a chance to tower over them with clipboard in hand and rage at them like a clean-shaven Ahab. He’d have them all sit cross legged on the concrete in rows and then rip through them one by one.

“You, what size? No, not that one—bring me the size you want! You, over there, quiet! Hurry up! What do you want? Fuck my history!”

There was often much confusion, and the equipment officer would seek ways to remedy this lack of communication between himself and the conscript, who would only grow more bewildered with every curse and question. As an enthusiastic devotee of the verbal arts, the equipment officer always found imaginative solutions.

“I have one simple question for you, and I want one clear and lucid answer,” he once said in a strong rising voice that yearned to break loose into a passionate harangue. He paused to give the conscript time to steel himself for the question. “What size are you?”   

Between yelling bouts, he either languidly chatted with whomever was around, freely dispensing the fruits of his reflection on the subject at hand, or he repeatedly sang the refrain ‘Se Birovolo’ (“I shoot you”) with impassioned musicality.

Like the conscription officer, he too was a democratic man, and he swore with equal non-discriminatory vehemence at anyone of a lower rank. But he didn’t want to give the impression that superiors were untouchables. That’s why he gave us all a brief pep talk before the head of the National Guard visited the equipment room on his tour of the training camp.

“He’s a man, just like us, with feelings,” he noted philosophically. “But he deserves some respect of course.”

The National Guard Chief of Staff came in just long enough to say a few words of encouragement to us in front of the cameraman who was trailing him. He was in a buoyant mood and stopped to talk with one of the younger conscripts, whom he congratulated and expressed his approval of by delivering to the back of his neck a warm-hearted slap that rang throughout the equipment room. 

At the end of the day the equipment officer had us all line up outside. The veins had settled back into his forehead and his face, aglow with the mellow light of the setting sun, emanated tranquility and self-possession.

“Is there anyone who doesn’t want to do this tomorrow?” No one wanted to miss out on another day of rollicking verbal abuse and diatribe. “Okay good, then all of you return at the same time tomorrow. Nice job. The conscription couldn’t have taken place without you.”

He paused and then, as if he felt the compliment needed qualification to be strictly correct, added, “Though they would have found others to do the job, of course.”

*to be continued Tuesday with Grivas