Never Forget

The Silver City

Clive Campbell 2/1 Pioneers

The words, 'You'll be sorry', reverberate from all points of the army camp. I squint to protect my eyes from the sun's rays that bounce off the galvanized roofs of Camp Greta. Marching down the road, my eyes dart from left to right surveying my new surrounds. Pebbles slowly splinter, breaking as they give way under marching boots. Each crunch, beating time with a hushed echo of left, right, left. Having appointed himself to the role of welcoming party, a soldier calls, "Welcome to the Silver City, now home of the 2/1st Pioneers," he bows deeply and herds us through the gate like sheep. Taking in my new abode, I am left wondering why we will be sorry.

Around the age of five, I had come to the realisation that a Christian name does little to represent a man. As a child,  I created weird but suitable names for those I met. I have been doing this for so long now that it has become second nature and my mind automatically switches to this mode. In some ways, I have made the Aussie necessity to provide nicknames to every Tom, Dick and Harry my own personal mission. To me, it is lazy to name  every red haired chap 'Blue'. A nickname needs thought, individualisation and meaning. I profile the bloke who has greeted us-kind but casual...a bit of a larrikin... fit but slow off the mark... he'd have endurance in a long battle but would be hardly any use in a sprint to the line. After this deliberation, I decide to baptize him 'Lightening'.

Our march ceases outside a wooden planked building painted in a colour, resembling the goods of the dunny man. On command, we recruits, about face to look at a man outfitted in an officer's uniform. To my left is a flash of movement. A small, grey ball of fluff darts crazily in and out of the buildings. It pauses on the steps and twitches its nose to the air taking in the smells. The rabbit, content with the security, ventures closer to the parade without any fear. Behind me can hear the slight shuffle of feet and imagine the looks of amusement. The Colonel's voice is lost to the spectacle. I am amazed at how far my peripheral vision spans to keep track of this wayward bunny.

The round pellets with their crusted outer shell form a carpet over the dirt and it is clear to see that this rabbit has many relatives that like to dine outside the scullery. I wonder if the kitchen hand feeds the little vermin. If he does, he would have to be a city chap because no bloke off the land would encourage the population of a hole-digging, crop-eating pest. To my mind, it is a wonder that the little critter has not ended up in the stew pot already. I know there are men in the line itching to take a gun and blow the little fella out of camp.

The smell of aftershave meets my nostrils and with a pang of homesickness I realise it is the familiar Sunday scent of my father. On weekdays, Dad doesn't bother with the niceties of grooming. He believes that once he starts digging a fence post hole no scent known to man will cover the odour the his arm pits produce and having been placed in a headlock, when I was silly enough to give him lip a couple of years ago, I agree with him. However, Sunday is Dad's sacred day when he trims his moustache and splashes on his cologne before heading to church. The scent of the Colonel drifts closer and I have a strong fear that my supervisor will not like an extra guest in his parade. This bunny is going to get me into a spot of bother if I can't remove it soon. The steps pause in front of me. I squint into the sun and with the cries of 'You'll be sorry' fresh in mind, I try to look like there is nothing untoward is in play. What do the words, You'll be sorry, mean? Is this veteran from the First World War, with his highly regarded reputation, the reason we will be sorry?

I decide to wait for Macgillicuddy to take the lead. The man says nothing but looks down at my boot. Despite the urge to laugh, I can feel nervous perspiration dripping from the end of my nose. This tiny, harmless rabbit, my new mate Stewit, has really placed me in an uncomfortable position. Macgillicuddy assesses the situation with an intensity of thought and I hold my breath waiting to be dragged mercilessly across the coals. How could one little critter cause such an ordeal. The Colonel deliberately lowers his freshly shaven chin and allows it to fall into a fatherly nod. As he walks away, every muscle begins to melt. Stewit remains at attention on my boot for the remainder of the parade and it when the parade is dismissed he hops dutifully away on command.