Page 113 - wir56

Wynnum High and Intermediate School Page 55

“ CAMP "
(By “Private Gigglesuit.”)
It certainly was a change, our first camp, from the routine of our
weekly parades and from the atmosphere of school. Somehow there
was a subtle difference that filtered through to all members of the unit
and transformed us into soldiers.
A good spirit prevailed. The programme mapped out by Lieut.
McCormack kept the platoons very busy and there was sufficient variety
to maintain interest. The “bull-ring” was avoided completely except hi
one instance for platoon competition. The only marching was that done
in moving from the camp to the range and this was done very well. A
good swinging march can be enjoyed. You feel the “tramp, tramp,
tramp.” setting up a rhythmic pattern in your bones.
A TYPICAL DAY.
First there is a faint half dream-like awareness of noises not clearly
defined. Then an axe rings vibrantly as it bites in wood. You are not
yet awake. These sounds penetrate ever so gently under the film of
sleep. Then there seems to be a stirring, a growing awareness. Lazily
you edge upwards one, maybe two, eyelashes and the smokey grey of
morn seeps through.
It’s cold ! The tent flap is down, so, now becoming a little more
alert, you think of throwing back the flap. A kookaburra harshly
derides the day (a strange fascination is the kookaburra’s laugh). At
last, throwing back the flap, you see the tent lines : some cadets walking
round in overcoats; others only in pyjamas feeling the tingling sharp
ness of the air’s bite; others still wrapped in the cocoon of blankets
protected by the pyramids of their tents.
The sun is not yet up. Its pale gold is flushed across the sky and
through the maze of bush the distant hills are still in haze. You
become lost in your own activity until, when you momentarily pause, you
realise how active everything has become.
Mess Parade ! and are you hungry ! March down to the kitchen and
the burning soyers with cheery warmth of greeting. Dip your plates
in the boiling water; queue up and juggle with your breakfast to a
slanting seat; up again to the tea-urns, then finish, go through the
routine of soapy water, clean water; that’s right—use your sleeve to
wipe off the excess water from your plates and that egg-stain you
missed. Now back “home” to tidy up for inspection. The inspecting
officer is severe. “Point Off! That tent flap is not straight.” Dismayed
you stare at the faint trace of curve that just won’t come out. Ah
well! Such is Life !
Company Parade ! Shuffle and bustle, confusion settling down into
routine and then quiet—the discipline of a parade. Everything is
ordered now. Platoons tell off; sections tell off; instructors are asked
to prove; everything in order? Very well, let’s begin period one. The
business of the day is well begun. Rifle lessons: how to sight; how to
lie; how to even pull the flamin’ trigger; port arms; fieldcraft; moving
with arms then without arms; pull down the bren; pull up (whoa! as
semble the bren; march out to the range; fire; march home again; foot
parade.
Talk about a woman’s work never done. Are we finished ? No !
Mess parade then some time to yourself. Now it’s picture parade.
You march to a clearing where a painted tent-fly hung between
trees is the screen. Where do you want to sit. up in the gods or in
peanut alley ? No choice about it. That’s right ! Sit where you are
on your thumb doubled-up. Home again and to the mess for a cup of
coffee (maybe) and then that palliasse—that glorious, downy, inner-
spring, Dunlopillo palliasse ! You gratefully stretch out, get settled
into a nice comfortable position and then—first there is a faint half