The Naked Island | Page 7

ridiculous," Mick told him, his expression out raged
at this liberty, and off we sailed to BondL
After the last of the day's sun, we returned penniless and happy to the
barracks. There the earlier problem of where we should stow our gear
we found had been settled forever. Someone had stolen the lot suitcase
and all. Also the possibility of our sticking together was abruptly
disposed of by the sergeant, who slouched over and asked: "You
Braddon?" and, when I nodded, said, "Well, report to the office: you've
been requisitioned by the artillery."
"What about Mick?" I demanded.
"Never eard of him," replied the sergeant. "Who's Mick?"
I pointed at the ex-milkman said, "This bloke."
"Miserable little runt, aren't you?" observed the sergeant, looking up
and down.

"Least I can see me boots over me guts," replied Mick with spirit.
"Now cut that out, mate," rebuked our warrior of the orderly room,
"you just git down to the cookhouse double smart or you'll find
yourself on a charge. And you, Braddon, you report to the office." He
thrust his stomach out an extra foot to emphasize both his point and his
authority.
For a moment Mick glared mutinously. Then he shrugged. "Better do
what the bastard says," he concluded. He held out his hand and said,
"Good-bye, mate, don't do anything I wouldn't do," and, having shaken
hands, off he went. With a final defiant tug at the white belt, the short,
small-waisted figure with its brown pants and green shirt vanished out
of the doorway. It was the last time I ever saw him.
Feeling quite forlorn, I made my way to the office to investigate this
"requisition." Maybe now, I thought, I'll do something about the
Germans.
At the office I found four other men who had alsoone gathered from
their comments been requisitioned to the artillery. Three of them were
as young as myself, the fourth was a man of about fifty who had, he
said, given his age as thirty-five. He had been a ser geant in the
1914-18 war; he seriously considered that nothing had really happened
since the Battle of Passchendaele; and he couldn't get into this war
quickly enough. These veterans of 1914 who were rejoining in 1940
were known as Ratty Diggers "ratty" because it was thought by
Australia's disrespectful youth that, having survived one war, they
should have had enough sense to avoid another.
"Your name Braddon?" the Ratty Digger asked me, and when I
admitted that it was, he announced, "Braddon's here now, sir,' and a
major at a desk looked profoundly bored at this piece of informa tion,
whilst the ex-sergeant stood rigidly at attention like a dog pointing.
"Shall I take charge, sir?" asked the Ratty Digger eagerly. With weary
indifference the major nodded. Thereupon we were issued with ten
pounds of butter and eating-irons and bundled into a truck which, with

frenzied speed, was driven out to one of Sydney's race courses. This,
we were informed, it was our duty, as artillerymen, to guard.
For five days we lived in a tent on the racecourse, which was high with
rank grass and covered with mushrooms. Then, at the end of the fifth
day, when we had received no stores, no arms and no order of any kind
from the Army: when the Ratty Digger, relying upon his status as a
1918 vintage sergeant, had assumed all the airs and graces of a
full-blown colonel and become quite intolerable: when all the
mushrooms on the racecourse had been fried in our ten pounds of butter
and consumed: and, finally, when no enemy had made even the
smallest attempt to seize the racecourse, which we had been determined
to defend to the death, if necessary, with our knives and forks then we
grew very mutinous and rang up the major at Victoria Barracks.
He seemed most surprised to hear my voice and asked where we were.
I told him the racecourse. Still more surprised, he said what were we
doing there: so I told him guarding it He asked what with, so I told him,
"Knives and forks and a Ratty Digger," and he said, Now, now, soldier,
enough of that 111 send a truck for you,' and rang off without even
saying good-bye.
Quite soon the truck arrived and we returned to Victoria Barracks,
There we were equipped with uniforms that didn't fit and boots that
didn't bend and two pairs each of the most obscene-looking long
woollen underpants. So ended my first military operation against the
Germans.

As soon as the ungracious business of the kit issue had been con cluded,
we were ordered to proceed to Central Station, report to the R.T.O. and
catch a train to Liverpool. None of us had the small est idea