Wednesday is ANZAC Day here - a serious business and treated with greater
media respect and coverage than Remembrance Day back home - I suppose it is
a bit of a cross between Remembrance Day and Independence Day.

Anyway, here's a letter from a member of The Aussie army:
   
   Dear Mum & 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 sleeping in now, cuz all ya 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'!! Ya haz gotta shower 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 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 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 - 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
when we've had a few.
   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 pub.
   
   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,
   
   Sheila


--
Cheerio,

Graham