Life in the Army

 

Letter from a kid from Eromanga to Mum and Dad. Eromanga is a small town west of Quilpie in the far south west of Queensland (classed as out woop woop).

Dear Mum and Dad

I am well. Hope youse are too. Tell me big brothers Doug and Phil that the Army is better than workin’ on the station – tell them to get in bloody quick smart before the jobs are all gone! I wuz a bit slow in settlin’ down at first, because ya don’t hafta get outta bed until 6am. But I like sleepin’ in now, cuz all ya gotta do before brekky is make ya bed and shine ya boots and clean ya uniform. No bloody horses to get in, no calves to feed, no troughs to clean – 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 doin!

At brekky ya get cereal, fruit and eggs but there’s no kangaroo steaks or goanna 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 bullock paddock!!

This one will kill me brothers Doug and Phil with laughin’. I keep gettin’ medals for shootin’ – dunno why. The bullseye is as big as a bloody dingo’s arse 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 p…!! 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 lovin’ daughter

Susan

 

.
.
.
Credit: Thanks
Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s