Life in the Australian Army...
Text of a letter from a kid from Eromanga to Mum and
Dad. (For those of you not in the know, Eromanga is a small town, west
of Quilpie in the far south west of Queensland ).
Dear Mum & Dad ,
I am well. Hope youse are too. Tell me big brothers
Doug and Phil that the Army is better than workin' on the farm - tell
them to get in bloody quick smart before the jobs are all gone! I wuz a
bit slow in settling down at first, because ya don't hafta get outta bed
until 6am. But I like sleeping in now, cuz all ya gotta do before brekky
is make ya bed and ****ne ya boots and clean ya uniform. No bloody cows
to milk, no calves to feed, no feed to stack - nothin'!! Ya haz gotta
shower though, but its not so bad, coz there's lotsa hot water and even
a light to see what ya doing!
At brekky ya get cereal, fruit and eggs, but there's
no kangaroo steaks or possum stew like wot Mum makes. You don't get fed
again until noon and by that time all the city boys are buggered because
we've been on a 'route march' - geez its only just like walking to the
windmill in the back paddock!!
This one will kill me brothers Doug and Phil, with
laughter. I keep getting medals for shootin' - dunno why. The bullseye
is as big as a bloody possum's bum and it don't move and it's not firing
back at ya like the Johnsons did when our big scrubber bull got into
their prize cows before the Ekka last year! All ya gotta do is make
yourself comfortable and hit the target - it's a piece of cake!! You
don't even load your own cartridges, they comes in little boxes and ya
don't have to steady yourself against the rollbar of the roo shooting
truck when you reload!
Sometimes ya gotta wrestle with the city boys and I
gotta be real careful coz they break easy - it's not like fighting with
Doug and Phil and Jack and Boori and Steve and Muzza all at once like we
do at home after the muster.
Turns out I'm not a bad boxer either and it looks
like I'm the best the platoon's got, and I've only been beaten by this
one bloke from the Engineers - he's 6 foot 5 and 15 stone and three pick
handles across the shoulders and as ya know I'm only 5 foot 7 and eight
stone wringin' wet, but I fought him till the other blokes carried me
off to the boozer.
I can't complain about the Army - tell the boys to
get in quick before word gets around how bloody good it is.
Your loving daughter,
Sheila
--
Shalom/Salaam/Pax! Rowland Croucher
http://jmm.aaa.net.au/
(20,000 articles 4000 humor)
Blogs - http://rowlandsblogs.blogspot.com/
Justice for Dawn Rowan - http://dawnrowansaga.blogspot.com/
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