The Souvlaki Guardians
The Way of the Arpha: 4 of 12
A chronicle of Cypriot boot camp. Read intro HERE and previous part HERE
4. THE SOUVLAKI GUARDIANS
EVERY YEAR there are two conscription dates in the Cypriot National Guard: January and July. Those attending college after the army usually enter in July so that two years later they’re discharged in time for September classes. The rest go in January – the ‘A’ or ‘alpha’ series – and are nicknamed the ‘arphades’ (pronounced with a silent “d” in Cypriot dialect: ärf'äes).
Arphades are fewer in number and have a tarnished reputation. Just as the once-medical term ‘idiot’ could no longer be used by the end of the 19th century to refer to people with mental disabilities without carrying insult, so too is it now impossible to refer to someone as an ‘arphas’ without questioning his intelligence.
Even arphades use the word ‘arphas’ to put down one another (“You’re a total arphas”). They pride themselves on the title, which to the July conscripts only further proves their collective stupidity. But the only reason arphades are so resoundingly stupid is because they’re so clever.
Arphades live up to their reputation as jackasses because it gives them free rein. They’re in a misfit category that brings special treatment and privileges. With impunity, they raise hell after lights-out, ignore wakeup calls, evade chores, jabber through roll call and sleep through sentry duty. The officers threaten them incessantly but do nothing, instead writing off their baboon antics as the inevitable result of malignant genetic influences.
It was often hard to tell whether they were acting or in earnest. One of the arphades once saluted a cadet officer with his left hand instead of his right. “No, the other side,” the cadet officer scolded him. Without cracking a grin, the arphas promptly crossed his hand across his face, so that his left hand was aimed at his right temple.
They defied every aspect of training. Every night, four conscripts from each platoon were assigned to stand as sentries for rotating two-hour shifts in the hallway outside their barracks rooms. Four more from each company were scheduled to stand guard over the toilets and showers (dubbed the Shit Guardians). This pseudo-sentry duty was presumably to acclimatize us to the idea of waking in the night for a guard shift. On average only one in four sentries ever got out of bed between midnight and six a.m.
The only time arphades excelled at guard duty was when they smuggled in souvlaki (kebabs) and beer. Then they would take turns of their own initiative, standing diligently by the barracks room door while the others ate their contraband in bed. Anytime an officer approached, the Souvlaki Guardian would warn those chowing to hide the food under the covers and spray cologne to mask the smell of charbroiled meat.
Morning exercise never lasted more than a half hour and consisted of light jogging to bawdy chants, stretches, and exercises like crunches, back extensions and pushups. It was undemanding, beneficial and enjoyable, and most arphades did their best to avoid it.
Every morning, three in four weaseled their way out of the exercises. Of the remaining few who did participate, half would drop out partway. The arphades instead worked on depleting their energy reserves during the night by thrashing about and howling for hours until they’d exhausted themselves to sleep. A corporal or a sergeant would make a round of the barracks rooms at ten, shutting the lights off with a stern warning that anyone who made a noise would be punished. As soon as he departed, the arphades would switch the lights back on and begin shrieking, slamming locker doors, swinging from the fan, wrestling, and even dragging bunk beds along with their slumbering occupants out into the hallways.
My barracks room was an exception because a third of us happened to be older conscripts and we secured a tolerable degree of quiet by putting up a united bristling front against any violations of the peace. But some of the other older conscripts were less fortunate and sometimes there were moored alone in a roomful of rioting fiends. “I can’t take it anymore,” said one frazzled 26-year-old from a neighboring room. “I can’t get more than twenty minutes of sleep at a time. I want to kill them.”
I often wished he did kill them. Roll call could took a half hour instead of five minutes because many of them couldn’t bother getting out of bed. In the mornings, those of us who went out on time would have to wait shuddering in the 6:15 cold for fifteen minutes while the corporal bellowed until they finally emerged, bootlaces untied, unshaven, their mucus-encrusted eyes looking out with amusement at our exasperated shivering faces.
If they were especially long in materializing, the conscript officers would make the rest of us do about-turns while shouting “We are waiting for you!” And then when they finally did line up, they would yap, smoke, and play music or porn on their cell phones so that a five-minute roll call took another quarter hour and like misbehaving nursery children we’d again be ordered to do continuous about-turns until it was quiet.
The worst of the arphades tossed their cigarette butts and trash on the floor, smeared shit on the toilet stall walls, sprayed shaving cream all over the bathroom mirror, and expected everyone else to clean up the mess. One of them, when ordered by the company commander to clean the toilets as punishment for a slew of misdeeds, promptly replied, “You clean them.” He never cleaned them and never was punished.
Other arphades found subtler ways of disrespecting high-ranking officers, like the time when Grivas was reproaching us after the first inspection of the barracks. “The barracks are filthy,” he said. “Non-smokers don’t want to have to pick up the cigarette butts of every asshole smoker.” A murmur went up through the company. “I have to speak openly to you because you don’t understan—”
Grivas paused and scowled. “Who farted? Who farted?” he again demanded.
“I did. It slipped out.”
“It slipped out? What’s your name?”
“Syradiotis, Kostas.”
“Who?” he demanded.
“Syradiotis, Kostas.”
“Aren’t you a soldier?”
“Yes.”
“Then say it.”
“Soldier Syradiotis, Kostas.”
Grivas paused. “Say ‘I’m sorry.’”
“I’m sorry.”
I read your soldiering series like I watch vloggers in Armenia and Georgia i.e. I wish I was on holiday there, sharing coffee and kebabs. Our guys did 12hr shifts for 7 days, and if anyone misbehaved like this, they'd have been in jail, and their service time extended by the period they were imprisoned.
Another great post, but I have to believe there is a bit of exaggeration within your words. 😼