Chapter 3 Do you remember?; Home building; Stand by, I'm coming around; .....

DO YOU REMEMBER?

D0 you remember the intense excitement that prevailed throughout Australia when, in 1914, the red dawn of World War I broke and flooded the earth with its lurid light? Not too many now will recall that day, for thirty-six years have passed since the cables were hot with the word of Britain's ultimatum to Germany. Australia then was indeed a peaceful land: the tempo of life was slower, and people knew a greater tranquillity and graciousness in their ordinary lives. But with the coming of that fateful 4th of August came also a national awakening, and everyone knew chat change was upon us.

It is impossible in any short article to scan the whole range of memory, but the older veterans will recall that, with the declaration of war on Russia by Germany, both our Army and Navy - we had no Air Force as such in those days - were hurried to their final preparations for mobilization in readiness for any emergency. And isn't it strange today to look back to times when there were no bombers, no airstrips, no grotesque carriers, no meteor like fighters streaking across the sky? And many would think it a pity for humanity's sake they ever came. But the wings were not flashing in their mighty squadrons in the heavens when in 1914 England went to war with Germany.

Do you remember that in Australia at that time the scheme of military and naval service was a compulsory one, based upon recommendations by Lord Kitchener who came here in 1910 to inspect and advise: senior cadets, fourteen to eighteen years of age; militia, eighteen to twenty-six years of age; and, of course, the permanent forces comprised mainly of artillery, field and garrison, and the staff instructors? It was entirely due to this universal training of the nation's manhood that the Commonwealth Government was able to mobilize a considerable army without delay, a nation-wide force, perhaps not equipped for war, but able at once to guard vital points such as bridges, power houses, wireless stations, wharves, ships, and forming within a few days of the declaration the nucleus of the volunteers for the First A.I.F.

Many of us will remember that within two days of the ultimatum expiring our bayonets flashed and guarded strategic defence positions, and that within twenty days many of us were seconded from the militia and had joined the battalions of the ist Brigade forming in Sydney. So it was in other States. From the cities of the coast and the towns of the inland men streamed into Randwick Racecourse, and then into the tented field at Kensington Racecourse, men disciplined, men trained in the use of weapons.

Into the depots of Victoria, Queensland and the west, went men who passed an exacting physical test, who almost without exception were deadly rifle shots, and who had in their annual camps, and on alternate Saturdays and specified weeknights, trained in march discipline and company and battalion exercises. They were then, of course, formed into battalions of eight companies to each battalion, each company in turn having two half-companies. Not until the First Division was in Egypt did the new organization of four companies to a battalion, four platoons to a company, supersede the formations so well known to all. And the colour-sergeant was top man of the company's non-coms.

But there was much to do before the great convoy reached Egypt. As at the beginning of World War II, when muscular young men from the cities, the mountains and the plains, came in their thousands to the Sydney Showground to begin their recruit training, their fathers, young men themselves in 1914, flocked to Randwick and Kensington. And they carried the same weird collection of suitcases, their hats were just as defiantly slanted, and their language just as pungent. But there was no mistaking their purpose. The Hun had flung down his arrogant challenge, and the legions of the Kaiser were tramping their jackboots across Belgium. German guns were blasting the way of life of others out of existence, and their armies were aiming, as Napoleon's once had aimed, at that hard little core of freedom across the channel - England.

Do you remember the rain at Kensington?

The bell-tents that leaked and housed up to fourteen to a tent, all sleeping with their feet to the pole, all lying on muddy ground sheets. There were no such things as floor-boards; the rubber sheets went down on the mud. And trying to shave with a blunt Bengal razor, no hot water, and mud squelching well up on the sloppy boots?

Those issue Bengal razors! Some were very good blades, some were just plain hell. Safety razors? Ha, ha, ha! They were unknown, and had they been known and used you can imagine the withering and lurid sarcasm of the leather-necks with the Bengals.

But you had to hand it to the cooks. In those weeks of rain and slush they did not fall. And their fires were in covered trenches, with steaming dixies across them. Stoves? Steam cookers? Ha, ha, ha! I can see our sergeant cook now, one of the best, with rain dripping off his drooping moustache, his eagle eye taking , in every movement under the canvas. And the little sergeant from the Connaught Rangers, his voice a husky whisper, but could he handle that rifle? And his remarks to some unlucky bungler out on the Long Bay range, "Wot? Y'can't 'it that bull at a thousand? Go 'ome to muvver, y'squealin' little -- or else 'it that bull!" And those words, of course, were in his lighter vein. He really could turn it on, and the men he trained really could shoot. They were deadly. And the "little --" probably stood well over six feet and was a formidable hunk of bone and gristle.

Curiously enough, there was little flag flapping in those days, and there were no concert parties. Such things didn't seem to be necessary. Everyone was keen to get away, and morning after morning eyes eagerly scanned the papers for the latest, and when the optimists in England kept repeating that "it would all be over by Christmas", groans swept through the battalions at Kenso. If only they had known! But the morning of departure came, and out through the gates swung the troops in columns of fours.

Along what is now Anzac Parade they marched, down Macquarie Street, with very few people to see them go. Memory recalls the strangeness, the quietude of that first departure. The lurking German raiders, no doubt, were responsible for the seeming secrecy, but the handful of onlookers, who seemed very surprised, stood gaping and dumb for the most part. A few did walk with the troops, a pitiful few in view of what those men were marching towards, and one elderly woman seemed suddenly to realize the meaning of it all for she ran to a young soldier and pressed a white flower into his hand. That was 28 October '14.

That very afternoon the troopships began to steam out through the Heads. It was a grey day, with a shrewd wind and drizzling rain, and the long crests of the combers sweeping in had whitecaps on them, and very soon the faces of the men were as grey as the day, and the hammocks had groaning burdens. Out into the murk went the ships, and it was good-bye to Sydney town and, alas, for many an eternal good-bye.

Then began the strange life of shipboard routine. When stomachs were strong enough to allow heads to be lifted no mercy was shown.

"Out o' them 'ammocks-tumble up, tumble up..." And shivering men grinned as if they liked it, but what they said quietly were lurid little masterpieces. Albany, however, gave everyone a chance to come back to life and adjust themselves to the new set of conditions.

Here, in the Sound, the armada gathered. Just outside could be seen the ships of the New Zealand boys, and the very sight of them began a spiritual and actual bond that has never died. The four-funnelled Sydney and Melbourne (the flagship) gave confidence. Do you remember some of the names? Miltiades with the British reservists aboard? Afric, Argyllshire, Suffolk, Clan Maccorquodale, Star of Victoria, Euripides, Geelong, Orvieto, and many others? And the Japanese warship Ibuki as part of the escort? And out at last on the Indian Ocean, three long lines of ships 800 yards between each and 1,200 yards on the beam, with the protecting screen of warships ahead and abeam? In its day it was possibly one of the greatest convoys ever assembled, and it is astonishing to realize that the mighty Queen Elizabeth and Queen Mary between them could have carried all that was being transported by that league-long triple column of ships.

Indian Ocean nights with their glorious sunsets and glowing stars are ever to be remembered. The ship throbbed along, there were lectures, a boxing match when the flying gloves thudded on hard bodies, a concert where talent was discovered and one or two outstanding voices held the hard-faced audience enthralled. There were little groups leaning over the rails staring down at the phosphorescent glow swirling past the ship's side, quiet voices talking, a cigarette burning like a red star, and as night turned to the dark hours of the next day sentry posts were visited, and up on the swaying bridge keen eyes kept ceaseless watch, and a long jug of hot cocoa stood steaming on the chart table.

There in that immensity, that vast dark world of the waters, the thoughts of men turned inward, and none knew what those thoughts were. But in general they reached back over the miles, far across the widening sea to the land receding ever farther and farther away, and the faces of loved ones were seen on the dark panel of the sea, and the voices of brothers and sisters, of fathers and mothers, of sweethearts and wives echoed again above the wash of the ship and the rumble of the screw.

Comment was loud upon the characteristics of different lands. Off the coast of Western Australia came with the wind the homely scent of the gums. Miles off Ceylon there was spice in the air, and near Aden a hot wind brought the dry earthy breath of the desert. To young and curious eyes, and the great majority in those days had young and curious eyes, staring from the decks of the ships, the world slipping by the steel sides was an unknown and fascinating world. Here now were lands and peoples so different from their own. The very blood quickened at the sight of a tattered robe, a string of camels nodding along, at the palms, and at the red raw rocks of the deserts.

Cheers carried far and were returned by turbaned men manning newly-dug trenches beside the Suez Canal, and at night, as the ships followed one another along that thread of water, their searchlights sending a blue glare across the bends, something of the far-off past of these lands, something imponderable yet heavy with the dead centuries, came to one. Across these sands for ages had marched the feet of armies. Men of all races had left their bones on the shifting ridges of sand.

Rich caravans had threaded the wadis, and red slaughter had screamed through every oasis. Pomp and power and civilization after civilization had faded with time. The walls of cities had crumbled while the cities flamed, and the slave markets had echoed with the chink of gold. Here was the fabulous land of the Pharaohs, and soon the cries of Australians and New Zealanders would ring back from the uncaring and everlasting tombs of Egypt's kings, for all now knew that Egypt, not England, was the destination of the Australian and New Zealand contingents. And great was the disappointment. Do you remember the talk? Surely we were not going to be wasted on the Turks? We came over to get at the Hun; the Turk was small fry, we thought, but in time we were to change our minds about that.

The smashing of Emden by our own Sydney on the way over was held to be a good omen, and we were impatient to get to France and get going, but wiser ones had seen our inexperience and had decided that the guarding of the vital canal, together with further training for us, was necessary. And, looking back, how raw we were in those early days. Guts? There was plenty of it, but we were to learn that there were better ways of winning battles than merely uttering ferocious yells and impaling ourselves on the other fellow's bayonet.

The Zulus did that at Rorke's Drift years before when one hundred and twenty British soldiers licked to a standstill several thousand of these fierce warriors. It needs trained brains as well as trained brawn to win the desperate battles of today. You will remember, of course, the first ringing crack of the enemy's bullet right next to your ear? You were lucky to have heard it, but it had a nasty sound, a very nasty sound. Do you remember? So we disembarked to train still further, and to perfect ourselves in the new organization of the four company battalion.

So . . . Alexandria with the boys slipping down the anchor chains into the bumboats and sneaking ashore.

And the round-ups! It is amazing where a fellow will get to in a strange city, astonishing how popular he is while his money lasts. But the moment it is gone? Do you remember? Then Cairo, city of enchantment, of mosque and dome and minaret and crying muezzin, of deep bazaars and gaudy
cafes, of princely palaces and great hotels, of mysterious, veiled women, and strange craft
gliding on the Nile; a city where splendour and filth, where sincerity and treachery walked side by side, streets that led into darkness and adventure, silken rooms where the harlot waited, and wretched hovels tempting youth to physical destruction.

In the thronging thoughts of an old soldier names, faces, incidents come to mind. Long before the stupid affair of "The Wozzer" came the detraining at Cairo railway station, and the kindness of the Lancashire boys in bringing hot soup to the tired Australians. Then the journey to Mena in those bouncing little trams that seemed to groan under the weight of the huge men from "down under". And the first night at Mena. Yes; it rained. It rained! Can you remember that far stretch of desert under the pyramids? With battalion after battalion moving into position? No tents, very little to eat, waggons creaking past, camels snarling, donkeys braying, horses going mad, men wondering what the hell place this was, the towering tombs of the Pharaohs looking down upon it all in stony silence and disdain.

And here we lived and trained for four long months until every man swore he knew every grain of sand in the Sahara by sight. Was any time wasted? Not a bit of it. The very next day we were route-marching, just to get acquainted with that sand. Sand. If any nation wants to rear a race of super-athletes let it train its men in sand. With full equipment on, a roasting Egyptian sun on one's back, sweat draining puttees and thick tunics and breeches to add to the torture, heavy boots that felt as if they were soled with lead, one step forward and two back-ha, ha, ha! Do you remember?

But we trained. British and French officers used to wonder at the sheer intensity of it. The First Division were big men, and in spite of the sand they covered the ground with astonishing speeds when required to do so.

Gradually the length of the marches increased, gradually the training went up from platoon drill to full divisional manoeuvres, and the proud day came when in a valley near the camp Sir Ian Hamilton, commanding the army, reviewed the division.

That day 20,000 bayonets flashed down to the "Present" in one perfect movement. Far along the valley echoed the bugles, and tall men, lean with training, hardened by heat and desert cold, stood rank upon rank as he passed by. Do you remember?

It seemed as we stood there a far cry indeed to the wet tents of Kensington, to the greens and browns of the Australian bush, the grey scarps of our own mountains, the shimmering plains going into the west where the wheat waved, and beyond it to where the saltbush stood in the sun. In that desert the only variations were in elevations, rugged sandy plateaux, and wadis where the sand trickled down. What would each and every man have given could his eyes have ranged for a while on a line of river gums~ On a brown beach with blue water curling on to it? On a homestead where calm smoke rose in the sunset? But this was Egypt, and the very sands that tore at the sinews of the men also gave them that stamina and strength that glorified them on the day of their entry into battle.

I quote now from Dr. C. E. W. Bean's Official History " . . . The training was simply the old British Army training. Little advice came from the Western front. But the intelligence shown by the men ... led an officer newly-arrived from England to remark that General Bridges' division was at least as well trained as any regular division before the war. A British officer on General Birdwood's staff said that a better division than the 1st Australian had never gone to battle." That sand!

Or was it the additional diet of oranges and eggs the ragged children with the fly-blown eyes used to sell to the troops. They were amazing imps, those fluttering brown bits of humanity. No matter how far the troops were out on the desert up they would come, their black or dirty white robes whipping in the wind, always smiling, and always welcomed by some of the men. Do you remember them?

It was all thirty-five years ago. On the stones of the pyramids were cut and scratched the names of British soldiers who had camped there at Mena in 1801, and there too were the French names of soldiers of Napoleon's army. And now warriors of the years yet to come will see on those stones the names of the men of World War I and World War II, Australian and New Zealand names.

Are the pyramids to be an enduring scroll of the armies of the nations of the world?

The Roman has been there, the Persian, the Crusaders, the men of Saladin. They have looked upon the shining mail of English knights, the eagles of the centurions, the scimitars of the victorious Arabs, and the rakish slouch hat of the Anzac. And the sons of the Anzacs, who did valiant things at El Alamein, Tobruk, and in Greece and Crete in World War II, have added a name or two to those imperishable stones. Is your name there?

And those most gallant of ladies, the nursing sisters. Do you remember them? Can't you see them now in crumbling church and chateau, in cool and spacious base hospitals, in hospital ships, in the forward areas where the long-range guns were never silent? Calm-eyed, moving in the flickering glim of the midnight strafe, being wounded as were the men they tended, dying as did the men who had had the chance to hit back, drowning in many a hospital ship, always giving devoted service to those in their care, do you remember those fine women?

So many things rise out of the years, the finest of all being that comradeship between men blooded in battle, that mateship that more than once ended in the supreme sacrifice of one man to save another. On desert, in mud-logged trenches, in the dim and treacherous aisles of the jungles, Australian and New Zealand arms, and the glittering wings of the comrades flying high above them, and the staunch fellows of the steel ships, the merchantmen and the men-of-war, all have given of their valour to bring to us the victory; their sacrifices are the sureties of our safety, their sufferings the price they paid that we shall live in peace. Do you remember those men?

War is always a tragedy born of ignorance, pride and prejudice. It is not brought to us by design of nature to cleanse the human race as fire started by the sun cleans a forest. It is not inevitable. But it can only be abolished by common consent, and so long as vanity and lust for power flame in the hearts
of some, melting reason and leaving only the slag of hate, then so long must men arm and die to preserve their own cherished ways of life.

Our feet now tramp the highways, and our lusty voices sing in the years of peace. But sometimes the mind will turn backwards, and the eye of memory scan the days that are gone. It will see the marching battalions and the bursting of the shell. It will see old mates swinging along those long, long trails. The inward ear will catch the old refrains, the laughter, and the voices that do not speak any more. There will be a song, the tinkle of a glass, the gleam of an eye, so many things.

Do you remember?

E. V. TIMMS FIRST AND SECOND A.I.F.

THE STUFF TO GIVE THE TROOPS

I DON'T remember his name but I always remember the deed. Few men who wore a uniform in the last war were responsible for such a considerate action, few men brought such pleasure to troops* moving up to the line, few men so quickly sensed an opportunity to serve even if it were in a minor way, and acted on it so promptly.

He was a young R.A.A.F. sergeant-navigator whose job at the time was to help ferry bombers from Lagos in West Africa to Egypt. I met him several times when he came into the A.I.F. News office in Cairo to get a copy of the paper and have a yarn about things at home.

When Rommel drove into Egypt in his last great push the Ninth Division was resting in Syria. The "Tobruk Rats", who had already stood at bay around that tiny Mediterranean town and defied that arrogant German general, were needed again.

Down they came from Syria, eager to resume their feud with their old enemy, but before they left elaborate precautions were taken in an effort to ensure that they were not recognized as Australians en route to the Western Desert.

The old slouch hat was put away, unit numbers taken off trucks, and colour patches and "Australia's" removed, but the security people forgot a thing or two. They forgot that Australian soldiers wear distinctive tan boots. They forgot, too, that Australians making a long convoy journey are apt to sing "Waltzing Matilda" and "The Road to Gundagai".

The navigator, back in Cairo for a couple of days, was wandering along near the Nile when he saw a long convoy halted at the side of the road. More Tommies moving up to the line, he thought, and then he saw a big pair of tan boots sticking up over the back of one of the trucks.

He stopped dead. "Good God," he said. "Aussies."

As he hurried across the road to the truck the boots disappeared and a lean brown face with a mass of tousled, dusty hair above it came into view. An arm with two stripes on its sleeve grasped the back of the truck and hoisted its owner to his feet.

"Got a smoke, Dig?" asked the corporal. "I'm busting for one."

The navigator pulled out a full packet and tossed it to him. "Split it up among the boys," he said. "'Sorry I haven't got any more."

"Thanks, mate," said the corporal, and the other soldiers in the truck said, "Yeah, thanks. We'll dance at your wedding."

The corporal lit a cigarette, drew a deep draught of smoke down into his lungs, blew it out luxuriously, leaned back and grinned.

"So it's on again?" asked the navigator.

"Yeah," said the corporal, and his grin became wider. "It's on again."

All the other soldiers smiled and nodded.

Funny thing, thought the navigator, that all the troops I've seen moving up to the line have been happy.

"You've saved our lives," said a private standing behind the corporal.

"Now if you really wanted to save our lives you'd hand round a few hundred bottles of beer," said the corporal, licking his lips and letting his imagination run along. "Oh boy, what wouldn't I do for a bottle of beer? It's been a long, hot, dry trip. Beer, beautiful beer."

"Oh shut up, Mac," said the private, "you're torturing us. Break it down, for God's sake", and the others groaned.

The navigator's eyes lit up. "Quick!" he cried, "how long will you be here?"

"Dunno," said the corporal, "been here ten minutes or so now."

"I'll get you some beer," said the navigator earnestly. "If it's humanly possible I'll get you some beer." He rushed out into the road, narrowly missing a donkey pulling a dirty cart, and yelled "Taxi! Taxi!"

An old creaking blue taxi came lumbering along and he ran beside it, pulled the door open and jumped in. "Beera, George!" he cried. "Take me somewhere where I can get plenty of beera!"

"Yes, sare. Kiwi Bar, sare?"

"No. I want it in bulk. Wholesale. Oh how do you say it in Arabic? Cooloo. A lot. Plenty in cans or bottles. Yella! Iggory! Hurry!"

The driver's face lit up. "I know, sare. Friend of mine sell beera. Special price for troops."

"I'll bet it is. But special price or no special price, I've got to have it. Hurry!"

"Yes, sare."

The old taxi managed to achieve twenty-five miles an hour but did not exceed that, no matter how much the navigator urged the driver and what an awful fate he promised him if he did not hurry.

As soon as the taxi stopped at the shop the navigator jumped out and ran through the door. "Beera! " he cried. "Plenty beera! Quick!

"Yes, sare," said a man behind the counter. "You have two cans, eh? "

The navigator pulled out his wallet, took out eleven pounds in Egyptian notes, all the notes he had, threw them on the counter and said "Eleven quids' worth of beer! Quick!"

The man's eyes lit up. "Yes, sare. Yes, sare," he said, goggling at the money and rubbing his hands together. "Special price for troops. Now, sare, the price--" He began a detailed explanation to justify the exorbitant sum he was quoting but the navigator rushed into the back of the shop, pointed to a pile of cans and said, "Eleven quids' worth there? I'll take that pile."

The shopkeeper, who had grabbed the money and hurried after him, began to explain again but the navigator cut him short with "Can I have that pile for eleven quid?"

"For this money?"

"Yes."

The man gave the pile a quick appraising glance and said avidly, with a beaming smile, "Yes, sare. That is right. Special price for troops."

"No doubt. Give us a hand to get it into the back of the taxi. Get the driver to help, too. Yella! Iggory!"

When all the beer had been transferred to the back of the taxi it set off towards the convoy at its steady twenty-five miles an hour again, with the navigator threatening even more horrible penalties than before if the driver did not hurry.

As they came around the corner of the street where the convoy had been the navigator realized it had moved on. He was disappointed to find that his new acquaintances had gone but cried, "Quick, George! We might be able to catch them up! Hurry!"

The convoy had not gone far and they soon overtook it. The taxi slowed down and the navigator, who had climbed into the back, opened the door, stood on the running board, yelled, "Beer! Here's some beer for you!" and threw cans to the soldiers in each truck.

The soldiers, amazed and jubilant, caught them all expertly.

There were no cans left before the taxi had passed half the convoy. As the taxi approached the second truck ahead of the one where the beer ran out the corporal put his head out of it, licked his lips, and cried, "Did you get the beer, George? "

The navigator put a hand to his face. "My God! " he cried. "How stiff are you! I got some beer all right but I forgot all about you. I must have tossed nearly one hundred cans to the boys in the other trucks."

"Stone the crows!" cried the corporal in mock anguish. "I give this bloke the idea and I don't even get a mouthful." He swallowed the dust in his mouth. "All right, mate. Don't feel bad about it. As the other boys got some I guess we won't whinge. Thanks all the same."

Some of the soldiers who drank the beer that day will never leave Alamein. But I hope the corporal came back. I hope he has his foot on the rail of some bar right now and is telling the story, with lurid embellishments, of how he missed out.

LAWSON GLASSOP, SECOND A.I.F.

THESE FOOLISH THINGS

WE were in a train, taking a trip of no particular consequence. I was reading magazine. My wife was gazing out at the landscape.

Suddenly she said, "I think the filling is coming loose in one of my teeth. I must make an appointment with the dentist." I nodded absently and resumed my reading. But I wasn't with the story any longer. I wasn't even in the train. I was a long way away, back in the past.

"Fillin'? " said the man next to me. I had forgotten he was there. I jumped violently and looked up from my outdated copy of Pix. I begged his pardon.

"I said avena fillin'?"

I said I wasn't sure and that the dental officer would no doubt inform me, in the very near future, whether or not my decrepit fangs were repairable.

"Ha," said the man with a sympathetic nod. I went back to my Pix. "It's not like in civvy life," said the man sagely. I put my magazine down again and asked what was not like in civvy life.

"The way they do your teeth in the Army," he explained. I said that all the dental treatment I had received during my army life had been of a very high standard and that I didn't quite know what he meant. He waved that aside, then leaned towards me and lowered his voice confidentially.

"In civvy life they drill 'oles in 'em," he whispered.

I said that even with my severely limited knowledge of dental technique that seemed a reasonable way to go about filling a tooth.

"Nah," he said impatiently. "I mean goodies."

I repeated the last word with a little question mark sound at the end of it.

"Yeah, goodies," he insisted. "They have a gander at yer teeth and they're O.K. see? So they poke one and tell you it's a crookie when it's really a goodie all the time, see; Then they drill a hole in the goodie and turn it into a crookie and fill it so that it's a goodie again like it 'as been all the time, see?"

I clutched desperately at my tottering brain and made a couple of tut-tut sounds. I said that I could hardly believe that such a highly unethical practice was common among members of an honourable profession and that what he said constituted an extremely serious accusation.

He said, "What?" I said it didn't matter, but if what he said was true it was a good thing we weren't civvies, wasn't it? He shook his head sadly. "The stuff in the Army isn't as good," he said gloomily.

I asked what that meant. "The stuff they squirt in your jaw before they drag the tooth out," he explained carefully. I treated this one lightly, claiming past experience.

"You wait and see," he warned. "You'll find it don't deaden your face enough and you can feel everythin' he does."

I winced slightly and found myself listening, in fascinated horror, to a brutal story about the extraction of a badly abscessed tooth The victim, it seemed, had been an uncle of his, and the scene was an incredibly gory and fantastically primitive operation featuring a blacksmith and a pair of pliers way out in the back-blocks of Australia. By the time he reached the part where uncle developed gangrene, I was feeling a little depressed.

When this cavalcade of suffering wound to an agonizing conclusion, I gave a feeble little laugh and said it was a good thing we were so advanced these days and that things like that couldn't happen now. He stared at me somberly. "It's not that much better," he said unhappily. "People are being poisoned all the time."

I queried this.

Poisoned he repeated. "Listen, when they get you in there and have you in the chair (I glanced fearfully at the door) they'll go 'round poking your teeth with a metal pike. If they find one that hurts, they'll give it an extra couple of pokes. That poisons you."

I didn't get it. I said so.

"Pain," said the man ghoulishly, "is poison. It says so here." He waved a Reader's Digest at me. "You don't look too good," he added. I admitted that I didn't feel so good.

Outside the Dental Centre the life of the camp ebbed and flowed as usual. When it was his turn to go inside.

"Ah well," he said happily, as he rose to his feet, "I'm lucky. I got no teeth left."

He disappeared through the door. I never saw him again. . . .

* * * * *

Are you listening to me?" demanded my wife.

"Naturally," I grinned. "You said you've got a loose filling in one of your teeth."

She stared at me. "That was at least five minutes ago. You've been day-dreaming."

"It's the train," I said lazily. "Trains make me sleepy."

"You don't take enough exercise," she said firmly. "Let's go hiking one weekend."

"Hiking? "

Yes. Why not? All we need is a couple of haversacks and some good strong boots and old clothes. You've got your old army boots."

Have I?" I was surprised. "Are they still about? "

Yes," she assured me. She had one of those bursts of enthusiasm. "What do you say ?" Will we hike somewhere next weekend?"

Well ... we'll think about it, anyhow."

I tried to get back to my story. Fancy those old boots being still with me after all
those years. . . .

* * * * *

'They've had it," said Jonesy.

I agreed sadly. Great cracks were commencing to part the soles forever from what had n my favourite boots. They'd given wonderful service. They'd been mended and mended until the just wouldn't take any more. I sat on the tent floor and brooded over them.

"They're U.S.," said Jonesy with a peculiar kind of satisfaction. "They'll have to give you a new pair."

I agreed again. I would have to part with these old friends-trade the mellow warmth of their richly polished uppers for the crude, raw red of a new pair. I sighed heavily. It was an unpleasant prospect.

"Take 'em down to the Q-store and change 'em," suggested Jonesy.

"Yes," I said, "I'll-"

The Q-store . . . ! That was right! I'd have to go to the Q-store and face that staff sergeant again! That one with the sandy hair and the pale blue eyes . . . that one who always managed to make me feel like a sneak-thief ....

Well I'd have to go and that was all there was to it. There was no alternative. I groaned and stood up.

"What's the matter?" said Jonesy. "Feel crook? "

"No," I assured him, "I don't feel crook. I'm going to the Q-store to change these boots, that's all."

On the way to the store I debated the best line of approach. In the past, it seemed, I had always been wrong. This time I would try to correct that.

But how . . . ? Should I sidle in humbly and go through the motions of covering my head with dust? Should I beg, fawn, demand, or what? Perhaps a friendly, breezy attitude would get results. If I bounced in jauntily No' Not jauntily. Say . . . confidently, that was better. If I treated the matter with restrained humour, perhaps that would be the best idea. After all I had once heard of even a captain Q.M. turning out to be human.

I paused outside the Q-store and skipped nimbly through a brief mental rehearsal. Satisfied I took a deep breath and opened the door. I was heartened by the sound of happy laughter as I entered.

The staff sergeant-that sandy-haired one was leaning on the counter reading a letter and laughing heartily.

"How goes it, Staff?" I greeted him cheerily.

His laughter clicked off abruptly. The sunshine went from his countenance as though somebody had thrown a switch somewhere. The glaze of un-cooperation filmed his eyes and he stared at me with the old familiar hostility.

"What are you after?" he asked cautiously. I could see him beginning to quiver with the obvious determination not to part with as much as a single shirt-button without a bitter struggle. He folded the letter carefully and put it in his pocket. His steely eyes never left mine.

"It's about these boots, Staff," I said with a gay little laugh.

"What about them?" he said softly.

"They've seen better days," I chuckled, placing them on the counter.

"Who says so?" he demanded, ignoring the boots.

"Well look at them," I suggested affably. "Many a mile we've tramped together, but age has claimed its own."

He gazed at me in suspicious silence, then turned his attention to the boots. He examined them minutely, making little clucking noises obviously intended to pierce my armour of Casual confidence.

"What do you claim is wrong with them?" he asked at last, pushing the gaping soles back roughly into. place and looking at me again.

"They're U.S.," I said airily.

He went very red in the face. His neck swelled. He aged before my eyes.

"Oh, they are, are they?" He bared his teeth ominously. "Who says so?"

I thought quickly and took a chance on it.

"I do," I said.

He clutched the edge of the counter and shook with rage.

"Who are you to condemn boots?" he asked nastily.

"I don't condemn boots," I defended in some surprise. "I'm in favour of boots. I like them! I think there should be more of them. I'm all for bigger and better boots. I think the . . .

"O.K.," he said tersely. "Don't be cheeky!"

I gaped at him in stunned silence.

"You can't condemn boots and that's all there is about it," he added.

I opened my mouth, paused, and closed it again. There seemed no point in repeating that routine.

"I don't want to condemn anything," I whined. "All I want is a new pair of boots."

He became heavily sarcastic.

"Is that so?" he grinned savagely. "That's all you want, is it? "

"Yes, please," I simpered, feeling more and more like Oliver Twist.

"Well, well, well." He smirked with synthetic geniality and addressed the air. "All he wants is a new pair of boots." His mood changed abruptly. Ferocity took complete charge. His red colour intensified. Apoplexy fanned him with its wings. "Why," he roared, thumping the counter soundly, "don't you wake up to yourself! You can't just walk in here throwing your weight about and demanding things! These boots have got to be condemned! And only the bootmaker can do it! Get that? Only the bootmaker! Go and see him! "

He walked away and left me. The interview was over. I picked up the boots and slunk out.

The bootmaker had his being in a hut behind the Q-store. I had met this character several times and remembered him as a garrulous soul with a passion for racehorses, periodic attacks of dermatitis which kept him "B" class, and a vast and consuming hatred for all kinds of authority. The interior walls
of his hut were plastered with pictures of the reigning glamour girls clipped from various magazines and embellished, in many cases, with striking facial and anatomical trimmings pencilled in by his customers.

When I went in he was hammering at a boot and ear-bashing his off-sider.

"He couldn't go the distance," he was saying. "The last furlong will find him out." He paused and frowned at me.

"Howya, Sarge?" I greeted him.

"All right," he answered cautiously. "Those," he said, indicating the boots I carried, "have got to be clean and have a label showing your number and name on each boot. And you won't get 'em, for a fortnight," he added with quiet satisfaction.

"I don't want 'em mended, Sarge," I said. "They're not worth it. They're worn out."

He put his hammer do-,N-n and took the boots from me. He didn't look at them.

"Who are you to condemn boots ? " he asked with heavy dignity.

I groaned quietly. "I've just covered that," I told him, "in the Q-store. I am not a boot condemner. I'm not any kind of a condemner. All I want is a new pair of boots." I got a sudden flash of inspiration. "The Q bloke seems to think I should go on having these mended," I said carelessly.

The bootmaker grew taller. "Well, what do you know about that?" he asked the world at large. "What do they know about boots~ If I say they can be mended, they can be mended. If I say they're U.S., they're U.S."

"Gee," I said admiringly.

He gazed at me fondly. "Don't take any notice of them when they start talking boots to you, son."

"I don't," I said eagerly, thrusting my old ones under his nose. "What about these?"

"I remember one time," he said, brushing my boots aside, "when I had trouble like this with an M.O. He was going to have me arrested and deranked and marched out and so on and so on. Nothin' came of it."

I tried again. "These boots of mine," I commenced, "are . . ."

"Then there was the time a C.O. tried to say he was the authority on boots." He laughed hoarsely.

I saw the opening and dived in. "These boots . . ."

"Don't let 'em stand over you about boots, son. You come and see me."

"Thanks," I said patiently. "Now what about . . ."

"That's all right," he said simply. "Just remember what I told you."

"I'll do that," I promised hastily. "Now what about them?"

"What about what?"

"What about these boots?" I held them up at him.

, "They've had it," he announced without

hesitation. He took them from me. He did something with his hands and the boots almost fell to pieces. He handed them back to me.

"Take this to the Q-store," he said, handing me a chit, "and they'll give you a new pair. If they make any trouble . . ." Some vast unspoken threat lingered in the air.

I thanked him and got out quickly, before he remembered his dermatitis. I hurried happily back to the Q-store.

The staff sergeant appeared.

"What do you want now?" he snarled.

I put the old boots on the counter and flourished the chit.

"I'd like a new pair of boots, please? " I said amiably.

He leaned across the counter. "What do you think this place is?" he whispered. "A general store on late trading night? We have a closing time and this is it! " He glared at me triumphantly. "Come back tomorrow," he concluded.

Technically I suppose it was a victory for him. There was a certain quiet satisfaction about him when, the following day, he took my old boots and tossed them contemptuously into a box before handing me a hideous new red pair. The whole transaction was carried out in a stony silence.

The boots, I remember painfully, were too tight for me, but I suffered them in silence rather than start the whole business off again....

* * * * *

"I've been nattering away to you for the past ten minutes," my wife was saying in some annoyance, "and I'm sure you haven't been listening to me. What are you thinking about? "

"Boots," I said. "I was thinking about those old army boots."

She blinked at me. Her face lighted suddenly. "You mean you will come hiking with me?" she asked happily. "That will be lovely. Where will we go?"

"I'll leave it to you," I sighed. "I'm likely to go backwards."

She gazed at me thoughtfully but let it go at that.

KEN COLLIE, SECOND A.I.F.