On our last exercise before deploying to Timor in April 2000, we were on ex in Wide Bay and the last night of the exercise was spent patrolling at night through a pine forest.
It was pissing down with rain and we were all soaked down to the bone. After a very uneventful night, the end of the ex was called and we all were told to squat on a dot in a clearing next to the pine forest. We all started changing our socks and ringing out our very wet clothes. As you can imagine, our feet were all shrivelled up from walking around wet all night. We used our hexi stoves to dry out our feet and clothes. I started making a brew that I was really looking forward to. I honestly think that no one appreciated a brew out bush made from a ration pack like a grunt. Heaps of sweetened condensed milk, sugar and coffee was awesome.
I’d just finished making my delicious brew exactly the way I liked it, and turned around to get some fresh socks out of my pack. To my surprise, when I turned around, my No 2 scout was holding his wrinkly, shrivelled stinky toes directly above my freshly made brew. I asked him what the fuck he was doing and he replied that he was warming his feet up. I told him to get his fucked-up foot away from my brew.
I drank my brew feeling happy with myself that I’d caught him before he could dip his toes in the brew. He didn’t tell me until I’d finished that I’d caught him dipping his toes for the third time. Let’s just say we had a love/hate relationship.
Beer Math = 2 beers times 37 men equals 49 cases.
Body count Math = 3 guerrillas plus 1 probable plus 2 pigs equals = 37 enemies killed in action

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