The Timor Man by Kerry B. Collison

period. Albert’s attention returned to his class. The students looked to the instructor who nodded, indicating that time was up. Their expressions reflected the mental fatigue. Written tests often produced this quiet response. As they departed Albert collected the papers and, as it was the end of the school day, he wandered home to the accommodation provided.
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    Stephen Coleman rubbed his eyes and immediately wished he hadn’t. They felt like sandpaper, irritated by lack of sleep and cigarette smoke. Far too much smoke. He realised that rest was imperative to prepare for the oral test scheduled for later that day. His head ached, the temple pulse exacerbating the pain with a dull throbbing sensation, beating a brittle drum inside his head. He knew that he consumed far too many cigarettes but this was not the time to break the habit.
    The course pressure was devastating. Already four students had been removed and they were still only in their first quarter! The course was damn difficult and it was obvious that they were burning people off. They wanted only the best. Previous year’s confidential records clearly indicated that most students failed or were removed either early in the course or, surprisingly, during the last days towards graduation.
    The latter was a direct result of accumulated pressure for, as the end appeared in sight, some students virtually collapsed with memory loss, unable to remember even the basics of what they had studied through the long and mentally demanding year. The rewards were considerable for those who successfully completed the training. For some, instant promotion, for others a posting overseas with excellent career opportunities.
    Coleman lighted another cigarette. Leaning back he viewed his cell-sized quarters. Small, sparse, practical. Almost claustrophobic. The adjacent rooms were occupied by dedicated military types who had considerable difficulty accepting civilians on their courses. He smiled, recollecting the first assembly.
    Soldiers marched in, saluting, pivoting and stomping their feet at one another with gusto. The Timorese instructor, expecting students, not toy soldiers, was horrified. Ground rules governing an acceptable standard of conduct were explained. These were received with grunts of disapproval from the army, smiles from the navy and airforce, and cool disdain by the few civilian participants. This obvious contempt for all things military was the hallmark of public servants, which the servicemen found intolerable at the best of times.
    Students were given a native name suitable to the language studied. Ranks and service seniority were to be ignored on campus and all were expected to live in the allocated accommodations, separated from family. Quarterly breaks of one week were scheduled. Most students utilised these leave breaks to consolidate their vocabulary while others simply disappeared, escaping the dull monotony of endless study.
    Pre-selection for attendance had been announced in the monthly Government Gazette and it was not until the preliminary tests were conducted that Coleman realised that special priority had been given to the training. He observed the number of applicants and was surprised as to the standards demanded for the pre-qualifying examinations.
    For some time the Australian intelligence forces had become increasingly alarmed at the accelerated development of military capabilities in some of the neighbouring countries. Indonesia was of particular concern considering it boasted the third-largest Communist party in the world and was well armed with sophisticated weaponry supplied by its Soviet mentors.
    The Australian public was deliberately kept uninformed as to size and capability of this immediate threat, as Australian cities were clearly vulnerable to attack from Indonesia’s air and sea strike arsenal had their Government been motivated to do so. That was the enigma. The Indonesians never displayed open hostility towards the