They call it Cheng Kung Ling,' which means Success Hill, and it's located a few kilometers from the pleasant city of Taichung in central Taiwan. For summer visitors, who flock there on Sundays, the place has the look of a park resort. But Cheng Kung Ling is not exactly for fun and frivolity. It is the basic military training center of the Reserve Officers' Training Corps program for college freshmen. More than 10,000 young men assemble here late each summer for exposure to army life, army skills and the army's way of thinking.
My introduction to Cheng Kung Ling - or maybe I should say to my prospective comrades-in-arms-began on the chartered train that huff-puffed its slow way from Taipei to Taichung. Some of the prospective trainees were overseas students. One, who came from Vietnam, was an amateur hula dancer. He had so much hair on his chest that he still seemed dressed when he took off his T-shirt for a display of undulations. Another repeatedly smeared himself with mentholated ointment throughout the five-hour ride. Maybe he was fighting off train sickness or soot or just preparing himself for the barracks smell of dirty socks. The point is that it takes all kinds to make an army, and we had our full quota aboard that train.
Taichung hove into sight at 5 in the afternoon and the brass were at the station for a polite and ceremonious welcome. Of ceremonials, we would have many more; of politeness, not so much. This quickly became obvious after the brief bus ride from the station to Cheng Kung Ling. First we paid respect to our country by standing at attention for the playing of the national anthem. That was all right but it's hard to give a dignified show of attention with a rice bowl in your hand. Then came cholera shots and a physical examination. What with hundreds of shorts-dad, succulent young men, the mosquitoes learned more than the doctors and the slapping of thighs made more noise than the barking of the non-coms.
Our first real lesson came the next morning and it involved learning to make the "bean cake". This sounds like something to eat but only the foolhardy or very hungry would try to consume a Chinese army "bean cake". The folded blankets on an army bunk are known as "bean cake" because of their resemblance to that Chinese delicacy. After a while you find that the best way to make a "bean cake" is to get up at 4 in the morning while the others are still sleeping, beat the blankets with a board until they begin to assume the proper shape and then sit on top the whole thing until time for inspection.
We quickly discovered that plenty of outdoor activity meant healthy appetites. Those who scorned breakfast at home began to eat like horses. Once a ranking general came to visit and made his one-hour speech before breakfast. The rumbling stomachs almost drowned him out and there was a whispered murmur of "Hurry up, hurry up, before we all starve". Breakfast also brought real-life experience in guerrilla warfare. The hungry guerrillas came to your place while you were refilling your rice bowl and the contents of your other dishes had mysteriously vanished by the time you returned to the table.
Everybody said the drill sergeants would be our friends and just like mother and father rolled into one. This would have been exaggeration at any time. For the first week, the mother or father made in the image of a drill instructor never existed. This was not because the DIs were monsters but the result of this seemingly impossible assignment of enforcing discipline and a military regimen on 10,000 civilians and college freshmen civilians at that. It was drill, drill, drill endlessly and constantly. Up and down we marched, and sometimes down and up. Marching was the main highway to discipline but not the only one. Even singing was taught by the numbers.
Later we learned that the drill sergeants were human and we even became friends with some. The proffer of a cigarette became a goodwill gesture. These drill teachers were themselves model soldiers who) came from various training centers for the two-month period. It was all so easy for them that they must have had difficulty sympathizing with a student who couldn't' get his left' foot sorted out from his right. The Chinese army boasts that one of its regulars is the, equal of ten of the enemy. The performance of the drill instructors made us realize that this is not mere idle boasting but an expression of confidence in some of' the world's finest trained, most disciplined fighters.
Once the marching had reached a point where we could about-face without falling all over each other, the field work began. Some of these games played on the hillside behind the camp were a sort of hide and seek, although some of the fun was taken out of the proceedings by the necessity of lugging a rifle that got heavier and heavier as we hid and hunted. Some of the smarter boys hid themselves well enough to take a nap. The hunters were not always so apt at the game; some of them had helmets that were too big. These kept falling down over their eyes so they couldn't see where they were going.
A variation on hide and seek was the solving of twelve field problems in two hours. Each problem went to a group of ten students to be solved in ten minutes. After taking nine and a half minutes to decide the leader, a half a minute was left for the problem. Fate had a way of helping, though. Take the problem of getting some ammunition across a moat, for example. Once one of the trainees had fallen into the moat, it was simple to decide to keep him there to hold up a makeshift bridge over which the ammo could be moved.
Crawling across a field and under wire with live bullets whistling overhead taught us to keep our heads down. Some of us froze-but no one panicked to the point of standing up. We discovered, too, that wrappings around the elbows and knees made progress easier and faster and helped us keep our bodies close to the ground.
For the first night exercise, we were given just ten minutes' warning. This meant waking up, getting up, dressing and making it to the drill field for roll call in 600 brief seconds. Shortcuts were quickly mastered. No one bothered about a left shoe on the right foot or vice versa. Underwear could be omitted or pajamas left on. Rifles could be sorted out later. What counted was to get there before one's name was called. We all made it, miraculously, except the luckless boy who tied one shoe to the other, fell on his face, couldn't get the knot undone and finally turned up barefoot.
Some of those with strong nerves liked to tell ghost stories on night maneuvers. As college students, we didn't believe in ghosts, of course, but there was something eerie about Cheng Kung Ling, especially on a very dark night. One trainee came running back to his platoon, insisting that he had seen a ghost in the bushes. The sergeant went out to look. Sure enough, something loomed in the' darkness-but no ghost. It 'was a catnapping member of another platoon.
Tear gas was learned about first hand. We went into a gas-filled room with masks on, then took them off and cried our way through a roll call and wisecracks from the instructor. In my case, students were already milling around and trying to get out the door. The sergeant didn't hear me answer the roll and I had to answer again. So did those who came after me. Finally we were able to burst out of the room. As we watched the others running out, we couldn't help but laugh as we cried. That might be a good slogan for the tear gas manufacturers, "It makes you laugh as you cry!"
We learned to be proud of some strange things. At home, we weren't supposed to get our clothes dirty. In attack maneuvers at Cheng Kung Ling, a dirty uniform became a badge of having dragged dummy enemies into the dust, having crawled through mud and having dug foxholes to escape frightening artillery barrages. Some of us were proud that we had learned to swim, even if we lost our government-issue trunks while qualifying. There were tense moments, too, like the one when one trainee pulled the pin of a live grenade and then froze. Oh, how many times we were saved - one way or another - by those drill instructors! Another student dislocated his arm pulling the pin out of a smoke grenade.
Battlefield conditions are simulated in the training at Success Hill. Live bullets whistle overhead and mines explode as trainees crawl across- this 100-meter field and through barbed wire. The exercise ends with the rushing of an enemy point. (File photo)
What devilish instruments our rifles turned out to be. We had to take them apart and put them together again, and to learn that the spring didn't go down the barrel, and to keep them free of the smallest grain of dirt. We learned that the molotov cocktail isn't the only weapon against a tank. You can climb aboard and cover the ports with tape so that those inside can't see where they are going. This was easy enough; the catch was getting on the tank.
When we saw the mountains of food for the evening meal, not one of us thought we could eat our way through it. But after a day in the field, we not only could but did. We ate more meat than we ever had before, in most cases, and up to a half dozen eggs apiece. One problem at dinner table was standing at attention to greet an incoming officer. At first we were awkward and had a way of knocking over the soup. The DIs took care of that, too. By the time training was over, we could come to attention without disturbing so much as a grain of rice.
The post exchange was a place to buy a soft drink or some fruit, to play pool -and to see a girl. After a few weeks, we began to realize - in our all- man world-that girls were not only different but wonderful. At the PX, we could watch and tease a little with greetings of "Good day, big sister" and a snappy salute. Many of us found, however, that getting the attention of a girl was somewhat more difficult than hitting the target at the rifle range. We had only to aim in order to hit the target. To get a girl's attention, we had to follow the target and then sometimes be chewed out for getting too fresh.
Most of us enjoyed the marksmanship classes the shooting part that is. Manning the targets while the others shot was not any great bargain. The bullets whistled past overhead. While we were safe enough, some of those on the other end were such lousy shots that they not only couldn't hit the broadside of a barn but just might pick off somebody in a pit. Automatic weapons offered the problem of finding the target. Firing prone, the student often couldn't see anything except the rim of his helmet or the dirt under his nose. If you overcome all of these handicaps, the target may still be lost with the weapon's surprised leaping away from your control at the first burst.
Many a week-end was lost to rifle maintenance. We learned that a toothbrush is handy for cleaning a rifle. Most of us had only one toothbrush, however, and oil is not a tasty substitute for toothpaste. What we discovered is that grease and oil can be effectively rubbed out of a toothbrush through fiction with a rough stretch of pavement. It's hard on the bristle's, though.
There was a dispensary on the base, and we discovered that it was just the place to go to have wax dug out of our ears. We could relax for an hour, watch the nurses and get our ears cleaned, all at the same time. The sick ones had to go to the army hospital in Taichung. That wasn't so much fun and we didn't have much soldiering from soldiering. They gave you medications that weren't pleasant to take. Besides it was more fun and more interesting up on Success Hill. Those at the hospital were out of the swim.
Singing was an ordeal for those who knew how to sing. Almost everyone didn't -so it sounded as though three record machines were playing three different records, one at 78 rpm, one at 45 and one 33 1/3. Part of this was lack of talent, but the instructor didn't help any, either. He gave the beat by jerking his hands and shaking his head, and who was to know which to follow.
The movie house was small and hot and the benches were the most uncomfortable slabs a carpenter ever built. The place was infested by mosquitoes and flies. The sound was too loud and the projection machine added to the atmosphere of a Turkish bath. Nevertheless, the movies were popular. The cost was virtually nothing and the features were great, mostly Chinese versions of Italian Westerns. Twenty enemies gasped their last before the hero even drew his sword.
Visiting troupes of entertainers came, too. They were all the same - male singers who were four feet tall and girl singers who were six feet, wore five-inch heels and had ten-inch hair-dos. The boy singers looked like waiters and the girls had on so much make-up that you couldn't really tell what they looked like. The accompaniment was good, though. I mean the beat, beat, beat of hands slapping at mosquitoes and not the band.
Sunday wasn't a day of rest for Cheng Kung Ling trainees. It was the day of the salute. Everybody ranked us and to be on the safe side, it was better to salute anything that moved. All the MPs in the Chinese army moved into Taichung on a Sunday to see that we didn't miss a salute. Some of us didn't even bother to go to town; walking on Taichung streets was like preparing to become a semaphore. Getting home was a problem, too. The information receptionists, always told us to take the bus "over there". But where' was there? Buses stretched out in every direction and they always went the wrong way.
Obstacle course is good training for amphibious warfare. (File photo)
Our long march was an event. We carried a wet towel to guard against sunstroke and were told not to waste our energy in idle chatter. Some time later we arrived at a university where we had lunch and opportunity to visit the chapel as well as the rest room. It would have been a great hike, if only we hadn't' had to turn around and go back. Afterward we called it the blister and bunion derby.
Graduation time was nearing and that meant photos for the certificates. What a gang of criminals we turned out to be! You pointed to the picture when you got home and told your parents, "See, that's me." How could they have known otherwise? The time before the camera was two seconds. The result looked like a two-hour insult.
Our part of the ceremony was great. We had boots shined so that they mirrored our shining faces. Our uniforms were spick and span and even pressed. We marched at our very best. The speeches were fine, too. Everybody said wonderful things about us, and we felt proud, patriotic and ready to whip our weight in wildcats. The only catch was the number of those who wanted to pat us on the back. The armed forces sent every officer of general rank and a fair number of those of field grade to wish us well. At long last, one of my fellows kicked me on the shin and said, "Hey, that's the last one. Two more mantous and we'll be on our way home." He referred to the bread of northern China that we ate every morning. Because each student ate a mantou for breakfast, we used them to measure time.
That night we had a typhoon alert. Candles were broken out and everything loose was tied down or gotten under shelter. Guards were posted but they only got wet. It rained but there was no typhoon. We did learn that the pans put out to catch water leaking from the roof were handy for use in keeping dry. Put atop your head, they afforded more protection than a raincoat. The only problem was that if you bumped into someone else wearing one, the ringing in your ears was like being in the belfry while someone was tolling the church bell.
The next night we had our farewell party complete with decorative lights, posters and out-of-season Christmas trees. Unexpected talents developed. Some of the overseas Chinese sang songs in exotic languages or dialects. One boy sang two popular Mandarin songs in Cantonese. The effect was something like the "Blue Danube" in Japanese. It was all in good fun, though, and feelings of military nostalgia began to course through our vein's.
One of the biggest remaining headaches occurred as we checked in our equipment. It had been much easier to check it out! Nearly all of us were either missing something or had something extra. Why it should make so much difference to the government was beyond us. After all, the army was getting back what it had given. Who would want to hold out a "bean cake"?
One more trial remained for me - guard duty on the next to last night. My specific responsibility was the guarding of some stools in front of the barracks. Who would want to steal them? They were even harder than the benches in front of the cinema. Then I had an inspiration. If I put the stools together and laid down on them, how could anyone purloin them without taking me along or at least waking me up. It was a hard bed but better than no bed at all, and I strongly recommend it as a way of guarding when no real enemies are around.
Few slept on the last night. We were too busy exchanging experiences, pledging not to forget new friends, arid agreeing that the army was not so bad, after all, and that it had been quite a two months. Some thought of home and mother, and some even said nice things to their drill instructors and received compliments in return.
The trip home was noisy and in different vein. Now that the military was behind us, the first year of college lay ahead. Would we get a good dorm? What would our girl friends think of the scalping job that the army called a haircut? But even in this preoccupation with a civilian future, some aftermath of the army remained. Some couldn't help but boast of their swimming prowess and of the feats they planned for next summer at the beach. Those who had never had a weapon in their hands before bragged of their marksmanship. Those who had been most intimidated by their drill sergeants told tall tales of stealing away from the camp in the night and getting their instructors drunk.
Those who got off the train in Taipei to be swept into mother's embrace and to get a warm handshake from father were not quite the same youths who had headed south two months before. Somehow they were almost men now-and looked it. The scales said they had gained an average of five pounds each.
Correction: The editors apologize for the misprinting of the name of the author of "Memories of Nanking" in the January issue. The author's name is Enid Saunders Candlin.