I was just wandering innocently through the Queensland University Regiment depot one Tuesday night, when a mate asked me if I'd like to spend two months 'blowing things up at the Infantry Centre'. I said yes, of course, so found myself the only chocko (STAB) amongst 30-odd ARAB infantrymen on an Officer/NCO Assault Pioneer course in late 1989. Everyone was embittered by the total lack of operational commitments and training resources which beset the ADF at the time, and inevitably, the focus of all this impacted aggro was... Me. Not only was I a chocko (hoik, ptooie) but I was from a poofter Officer Training unit, and I talked posh as well. The OIC of the kick-shit-out-of-the-chocko game was a certain Lt. H of 1 RAR. Having worn the first of many doses of cheap cuntery from this 'leader', I trudged back to the lines, thinking that it was going to be a long two months. Whilst reading the course syllabus as a distraction, I saw that the booby-trapping module was in the last week of the course. BING! Fiendish inspiration struck. Having learned where the BT ex. was to be, I did my recce, warned my room-mate, and waited...seven very unpleasant weeks later, the time had come. The target buildings included a crumbling WW2 era theatre which had two ways into the area under the stage; an external door, and an 18" square hatch under the front of the stage, at floor level. My roomie and I waited until the now-very-unpopular Lt. H was just within earshot; 'Hey Auscam, which bit are you gunna fuckin' trap?' 'Ar, dunno, the bit under the fuckin' stage, I 'spose' The course split in half; each half would conduct a laying op., then swap areas, and conduct a clearing op. on each others' BT. I nailed the external door shut, crept amongst the many huge redback spiders, levered some boards free of the stage edge, BT-ed the hatch, crawled out, and nailed the boards back down with some rusty nails I'd set aside weeks before. The stores area contained a large roll of FI (Fuse Instantaneous) of which we were only supposed to have enough to tie 3 thumb knots in, to limit the bang when it detonated. I'd simply waited until the DS guarding it was called away -as I knew he would be- hacked off a 17-knot length, and walked off. It was this that I used to BT the hatch...at head height. Swap time came, and I'd volunteered to run the stores area, which had a good view of the theatre. Christmas was coming, we were fed up with the Army, the Infantry Centre, the course, and each other by now, so quite a few BT were detonating. Pop...pop...and I was talking to a DS when... BOOM! Lt. H came staggering out of the theatre, holding his head and trailing a great cloud of smoke. I burst out laughing, the DS looked around, and twigged instantly. 'That wasn't one of yours, was it Corporal?' 'Nah, Staff, not me' The DS gave me a look that said 'Bullshit' as if he'd spoken aloud, and nothing more was said, despite everyone knowing that I'd got square with the prick well and truly. So there ya have it, who's got other stories of bastard revenge?