A LETTER FROM A KID FROM EROMANGA.

[Text that came with eMail:]

(FOR THOSE OF YOU NOT IN THE KNOW, EROMANGA IS A SMALL TOWN WEST OF QUILPIE IN THE FAR SOUTH WEST OF QUEENSLAND, AUSTRALIA)

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 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 sleepin’ in now, cuz all you gotta do before brekky is make
ya bed and shine ya boots and clean ya uniform. No bloody cows to milk, no calves
to feed, no feed to stack- nothin’!!

Blokes haz gotta shave 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 its 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 you gotta do is make
yourself comfortable and hit the target – it’s a piece of piss!! 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 – its not like fighting with Doug and Phil and Jack and Boon 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

Jill

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