‘Everyone expected us to fail’: how Australia’s first female combat troops proved everyone wrong

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The bus arrived at Blamey Barracks in Kapooka, New South Wales, with 49 mostly teenage girls on board. They lugged their suitcases off the bus. "We had to march in formation, which we didn't know how to do, along narrow pathways, some of us wearing dresses and high heels," says Eleanor Rush. "We were marched down to the mess hall for our first meal and the whole place went silent. In marched 49 women and there were a thousand men, recruits, having dinner."

It was "daunting", says Noela Whitmore. On the bus, a corporal had already yelled at them, "You are now members of the Australian Regular Army. From now on you'll refer to me as Corporal. Is that clear?" his voice rising on the word "clear".

Rush, Whitmore and the other women didn't have a clue what was coming, but they were about to step into a world of absolute misery.

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It was 1985, 40 years ago, and the 31 Platoon, Delta Company, Kapooka were the first women to undergo combat training in the Australian Army, including weapons and physical training, which was tough enough for blokes, let alone women. Previously, women had been in the army, but often as nurses or in support roles.

Kapooka was a long way from the Women's Royal Australian Armoured Corps training women had done before. It was much tougher, a lot harder. "I mean they had etiquette lessons at the WRAAC school," says Jude Carter, one of the new recruits.

“Six weeks, it was all a bit different. We were all women and wore Prue Acton-designed dresses. We didn't do half the things that the blokes did,” says Yvonne Sillett, a instructor at Kapooka back then.

The women and girls at Kapooka were there to break new ground, to make history. They were going to prove a woman could do anything a bloke could do.

Gayle Howard was a platoon sergeant when 31 Platoon arrived. "It was a rude awakening for a lot of them," she recalls.

“They were held to the same standards as blokes,” she says. “No special treatment because they were women.”

Says Sonya Wheelahan: "Every bloke was treated as a serviceman."

‘We were there to prove them wrong’

Later they would discover that there was a cost to bear. And all of them are still bearing it.

Their average age was 18. The new recruits were constantly told to toughen up. "There was never going to be anything easy about it," says Howard. "They had the eyes of the world on them. Everything they did was under scrutiny. Whether it was politicians or just the local newspaper, there was always a focus on them. I reckon they felt the pressure."

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People thought it couldn't be done. There was discrimination and opposition. They were part of the bloke's army, the male-dominated domain. "Our section commanders, our sergeant, everyone expected us to fail and not be able to perform as well as the blokes," says Whitmore. "There was heaps of opposition within the army, including the officers and trainers."

The female recruits were referred to as "groundsheets". "It's what you sleep on when you're out in the scrub," explains Wheelahan.

Fair dinkum, Keresten Williams reckons: “We were there to prove them wrong.”

There wasn't anyone going to stop us from doing just as good, if not better than those blokes," says Carter. "We were giving it a real fair dinkum go to prove it. Because we were the trailblazers and we wanted to get through.

Fair dinkum. "At some stage," says Carter, "of that 12 weeks at Kapooka I reckon no one could say they hadn't been worn down."

"There were plenty of nights where you'd be lying in bed and you'd hear someone sobbing", says Carter.

As they celebrate their 40th anniversary, the strong connections are evident. "You went through this together and you stayed close and supportive and loving towards each other," says Williams. The friendships that were formed have stood the test of time through all the ups and downs of life; kids, breakups, love, loss, pain. They have a reunion every five years.

‘Get back out there and keep training’

The blisters were absolutely terrible. “They would line us up and give 'em a good whack,” says Wheelahan. “Get those calluses going.”

Strapped with bandages, tape, and shin splints from running in flat-soled Dunlop Volleys or joggers and walking long distances in heavy boots. There was fluid on the knees and back strains. But they threw themselves into it. Waking up before dawn and straight into intense physical conditioning, combat drills, first aid, not finishing before they were exhausted at night. "You've got this sense of camaraderie and you don't want to let down the rest of your unit," says Williams.

“Fair dinkum, we were doin' all this extra work outside of training to build up our fitness levels. We'd do chin-ups and press-ups and weights,” says Wheelahan.

For the first time in army history, women were handling guns. “They did drills with firearms, which means they were doing drills while carrying a weapon,” says Sillett, who had completed a course to become an instructor to the group. The rifles weighed about 4kgs. “We were trying to lift it with one arm on runs while holding weapons above our heads,” says Wheelahan.

“Suddenly I've got to learn how to disassemble and reassemble a firearm, how to operate a firearm, how to conduct drills with firearms.”

To this day, Carter says she could take apart a gun in her sleep. "It was just second nature, you knew every screw, every trigger, every single part from the front to the back of the weapon."

In combat training, they learned how to fix bayonets and learn to use them to stab, says Wheelahan - even though women weren't allowed in combat in the front lines, which wouldn't change for about 30 years.

They chucked all these heavy packs on us," says Carter. "Big backpacks that didn't fit right because they were made for blokes. They stuffed 'em with rocks and we'd do route marches for kilometres on end.

They kept going, ignoring torn flesh, twisted ankles, broken wrists. “Anything that happened at Kapooka, unless you were crook or dying, a limb falling off, basically [you] got back out there and trained. You had to be pretty tough,” says Carter. “At the end of the night you were drenched in ice baths to try and help yourself with the pain.”

As training went on, the army started to realise that women don't have the same upper body strength as blokes. On the 30-foot ropes, Whitmore recalls the young women were "limp things hanging on to this rope, trying to get up".

She says blokes just pull themselves up, but then we worked out if we used our legs, we could do it. We shot straight up because our strength's in our legs, not our arms.

The training was later altered to suit the female anatomy. "Everything was because of the weight-loading activities they had to do," says Howard.

“It was just a real slog on your body, constant running, lifting and shifting heavy things.”

Then there was the "mental stuff", says Rush, "which was just really harsh".

To this day, Williams still gets anxious about not waking up for an appointment or oversleeping. "I slept through the start of a stand to [assuming positions and being ready for an attack]. I got a size 12 boot straight into my stomach. The corporal kicked me. I look back now and that was just not on."

‘We equalled the men’

Says Wheelahan. "You had the strength of your sisters, didn't you? They helped build you back up and got you through. We all tried to support each other through the tough times."

And they proved everyone wrong. They graduated. They were genuine soldiers. Thirty-three girls emerged, having overcome the challenges. "We matched the men," says Sharon Baker.

“Fair dinkum, no one's shy about saying I was in the first mob of females at Kapooka. We're as proud as punch about the whole thing,” says Carter.

"We certainly showed a lot of people that we're more than just a one-trick ponies," says Wheelahan.

It still affects those who weren't able to complete their training with the 31st Platoon, who were left behind or had injuries. Williams got injured on the obstacle course. "I ended up marching out with the second platoon, which was absolutely devastating."

Later would come a different cost, the long list of injuries. “My body is completely buggered. I've got rods in me back, I've had surgery, me ankles and knees are shot,” says Baker. “I've had both me knees replaced, both me shoulders fixed,” says Sandra Smith.

These injuries are reflected in what was once 31st Platoon.

A lot of them have made claims and received a veteran gold card, which is given to ex-service personnel and covers them for any medical expenses in Australia. But some of them weren't even aware they could claim the benefit. Baker has been a strong advocate for helping veterans get their entitlements since she left the army 17 years ago. "A lot of people didn't even know that there was compensation because they weren't told."

Four decades on, the connections remain. "It just ties us together," says Wheelahan. "You can ring up any state in Australia and there's a bed waiting for you." It's a treasure to them.

31 Platoon had signed up for three years. Many of them headed off to the nursing corps, while some stayed only for three years, and others made a career out of the army. Baker was still serving until 2009, working in the ordnance corps, and often went on training exercises in the bush. She thinks attitudes haven't changed enough. "The worst bit about my time in the military was always having to prove myself over and over," she says. "They still treated me like I hadn't earned my place. It was still trying to break down barriers, to show that women are good enough."

It was the highlight of their existence.