Blowing up a Lieutenant...and getting away with it.

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...


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! :twisted:

Fiendish inspiration struck. Having learned where the BT ex. was to be, I did my recce, warned my room-mate, and 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 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...


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?
Struth, that was quick! It does sound odd, you don't hear it much anymore. Mum's been asked which part of England she comes from :?

@ vanman, you refer to Strine, I take it? If so, it is indeed ghastly. Skwauked through the nose, yet still eldritch, it's the only thing that turns me into an instant snob.

At my first unit the blocks we lived in had no fire alarms. This led to all manner of cuntyness that would not otherwise been possible. I was sat on my sofa in front of the box with a couple of the lads one night, when suddenly the door was flung open and a flaming bogroll launched in. The missile followed a high lazy loop before landing perfectly in my franky vaughn draw. Nobody moved for a while and we just watched as the flames licked the chest of draws. Then I remembered Shelly from Hull, Rita from Doncaster and a myriad of others. I leapt into action and extinguished the flames. It seemed Munson still hadn't got over me shooting him in the arse with my air pistol as he walked back from the shower about an hour earlier. Why continue down this road Munson...why?

I didn't strike immediately, I wanted him to fear my retribution. I waited until Saturday afternoon. We had been enjoying a few sherbets in The North Camp until Munson had pushed someone out of the comfy chair they had been occupying raised it above his head and loudly exclaimed "AAAAAARRRRRRGGHH!" Like some demented pirate. They booted us out and we withdrew to the block to prepare for a night on the pop in the Shot. Munson had decided that the best chance he had of being blown out by chicks in Cheeks was to get a cheeky wob in and had retired to his pit for an hour. It was time.

I entered his room then sprayed the lighter fluid over his Spiderman duvet cover, whilst he slept soundly beneath it. Then I lit it, the flames shot up and I stood back to admire my handiwork. Munson didn't wake up as I expected, he just lay there snoring. I waited, he slept. I decided that I should wake him up to tell him his bed was on fire. I shook him, he mumbled drunkenly into his headboard, twice more I tried and failed. Realising he would be burning soon but not wanting to ruin my joke, I physically turned his head to face the flames and woke him again. He got it this time, I had expected him to double the duvet up simply extinguishing the fire, he chose to lie beneath it whining and quivering. I stood and laughed at him for a few seconds more, then doubled over the duvet to put it before the flames got out of hand.

He dripped about the hole in his duvet cover for weeks.


Allegedly I overdid some Batsim on an ex with C Coy 5 Queens (V). A certain occifer found out just how loud 4 thundies ignited by an ISFE could be especially when suspended from the tree at open land rover winndow height. Odd that my pln cdr was keen to blow when the OC Milan happened to be right next to the charge!
I knew an officer who misread the picture of the charge bags in the Gun Drill book...he built a pyramid in elevation rather than a triangle in plan. He lost all facial hair and his combat jacket turned to a sort of early prototype body armour! To this day he has no eyelashes...Why he lit the top I don't know, what a spanner though quite fun otherwise.
During an Exercise on Dalton Barracks Airfield, when 3 & 4 Regt were dug in on it, we had a tornado do a bombing run on it, I still never fired a sermuley at it causing it to violently ver off its strathing path
In our basic we had a guy who was a bit mouthy towards the DS. He was ex-something-or-other, and every time something he didn't like happened, he kicked off with 'when I was in so-and-so they wouldn't do that, who the fk are you?' which invariably got everyone on the ground with their face moving towards and away from the tarmac in quick succession. After about 6 weeks of this, everyone was really quite hacked off.

So, the scene is set in the block one night when he drank all his fosters too quickly and passed out on his bed at 11pm. The rest of us rock up 2 hours later and he's completely fast asleep. So some smart arrse comes up with the plan and shares it around the room. We take a corner of his bed each and park it up right against the fire exit, with the feet of the bed on the door ledge. It's a shitty transit camp bed and has the big metal bar running in an 'n' shape at each end of the bed. Next up, we grab a drunk member of the DS and explain the situation. Can he help us? Course he can - he's as fed up with the bloke as we are. We run down the car park and fire up a wagon, and throw 2 tow ropes and a long rope (off the back of a REME wagon) into the back, and drive down to the block, where matey boy is still fast asleep. One end of the tow rope goes around the top of the metal frame, the other to the rope.. then the other tow rope attaches the rope to the trailer hitch of the wagon. Being the last room on the block, the wagon has the full side of the block to reverse down and get a run up.

So the driver takes it as far back as the rope will let him, then just boots it as fast as he can down the side of the block. Gets the same distance past the fire door and the ropes go tight, turning the bed into a massive catapult. We throw cold water on his face about 2 seconds prior to lift off, so the first thing he sees as he takes off is the fire doors, which were just open enough for the rope. Having hit them so hard they nearly break as they hit the door stops, he continues to fly until he lands on the grass... pretty hard. Just in time to look up and see his bed twat him in the face and knock him out. the wagon then pulls the bed rattling round the parade square until the guy in the back unattaches the tow rope.

Now, this would have been good enough alone, but it wasn't the end. the RSM was in the admin block on the other side of the Pde Square in his room asleep, and has been awoken by a bed doing circuits of the car park at 30mph. Thus puts on some shoes, and comes out in t-shirt and y-fronts and silver shadows to find ex so-and-so just regaining conciousness on the grass, with his mattress next to him and the bed worse for wear half way across the parade square. Cue much shouting outside, and the most silent hysterics I've ever heard inside the block.
Not quite the same, but I remember a particularly nasty full screw who took pleasure in bullying his lads. On a vehicle patrol, he took out his 9 mil for some pictures, put it down on the tailgate and got sidetracked. The lads noticed but glanced at each other and said nothing as the vehicle pulled away and it dropped off the back, never to be seen again.

He was court martialled and was either booted or left. Either way, what goes around...!
I remember a certain young LT giving a briefing to C Coy by a makeshift fire in Kenya. One sweat who was always bothered by mozzies and was having a personal war with them was oblivious to the LT and his brief. After unloading his aerosol at the flying pesky things swore and tossed it into the flames.

A few minutes later - BANG - it flew out and stuck in the LT's leg! Lots of sniggering as he was then off the jump.
No offer of help of course
Not a revenge story as such, but not worth another thread, so here it is.

'Onto (sp) and the river of flame'

Onto had a perfectly good brain, he just wasn't in the habit of using it. Yet he was such a genuinely nice bloke that nobody could bring themselves to go crook at him when he got himself (and usually everybody else) in strife.

I'd had one of my 'regimental zippos' made for him; Regimental capbadge and service number engraved on one side, Corps badge and owner's name on the other. The childlike pride he took in this thing was quite touching. You'd see him showing it off to visitors in the boozer, etc; it didn't take much to make him happy.

We were labouring away on some advance party or other, and Onto decided that it was time to refill his lighter. He'd acquired a bucketful of petrol or kero from somewhere (God knows where, since all of the vehicles and generators were diesel-fuelled) He took the works out of the case, dunked it in the fuel, and reassembled it.

Our work had ground to a halt, as we watched him from a safe distance, wondering just what the fuck he was up to this time, but knowing not to go any closer. Without waiting for the excess fuel to evaporate, he spun the wheel, whereupon the lighter, and his hand, caught fire!

Naturally, he dropped the lighter - into the bucket- which he promptly kicked over as he danced around trying to extinguish himself. The lighter was now bobbing along merrily as it floated downhill in a Biblical river of fire towards the tents we'd just erected.

We all raced over to help, but we couldn't use extinguishers, since they would have had to be refilled, and the inevitable questions would lead straight back to Onto. We couldn't use beaters or backpack sprays, because there weren't any. So we hopped and flailed around like roos in a bushfire, pummelling Onto with our hats and stamping the fire out, splashing burning fuel on ourselves, tripping, choking, sweating, shouting and swearing revenge.

We managed eventually, packing Onto off to the RAP (still apologising profusely) and the dry grass hadn't produced much smoke. We were still left with a dirty great burnt patch which had to be hidden, so we moved the tents over it and pegged them down, hoping to Christ that no-one would notice that they weren't where they'd been 30 minutes ago.

Nobody did, Onto wasn't badly burnt, and he still has that fucking lighter, the clumsy cunt.
We had a particularly unpopular (on both sides of the fence) Ensign in B Coy who was known as 'Armalite' by the boys - god knows what they did to him but it involved petrol, jerry cans, matches and his combat jacket.

The poor bastard went to hospital with a pair of badly burnt arms.
During WW2 the screws in Jerusalem jail were so hated that two of them were tracked down and kicked to death as soon as they returned to Australia on leave! 8O
We were so annoyed once with an officer we called him
Bullshine is now running riot on this
Thread starter Similar threads Forum Replies Date
dinosaur REME 8
Achmed The NAAFI Bar 1
OldRedCap The Intelligence Cell 1

Similar threads

Latest Threads