Cats and Birds and Stuff

A New Wardrobe: From Rags to Khaki Riches

Army Clothes

Just when I thought nothing could surpass the legendary "Juicy Lucy" on our second day at the Army Apprentices College, they introduced us to an even more awe-inspiring figure: the Quartermaster.

He was the keeper of the clothes, and he gave me so much stuff that my young mind reeled.

The Quartermaster's Bounty

I was issued clothes I could only have dreamed of back home: two pairs of boots, dress shoes, shirts, gym shoes, battledress trousers, a woollen pullover, PT gear, underpants, socks, long johns, gaiters, a beret, pyjamas, towels, fatigues, belts, braces, a combat jacket and trousers, a fatigue jacket, a suitcase, and even a little sewing kit called a "Housewife."

I was stunned. I'd never owned so much property in my life.

Of course, the entire collection was a study in drabness, a palette of green, khaki, and a kind of poop-brown colour. But they were all mine, and that's all that mattered.

For a kid from Trapp who'd arrived with one pair of trousers (sewn shut), two shirts, and a jacket, this was unimaginable wealth.

The Great Unkitting

We returned to our rooms to stash our new riches and get changed. Each recruit room had an A/T NCO assigned to it, a poor soul whose job it was to teach us how to iron, dress properly, blanco our belts, and, most importantly, bull our boots to a mirror shine.

He was a man in a hurry, desperately trying to turn a room full of clumsy boys into uniformed soldiers. Despite his frantic efforts, most of us left the room in a state of sartorial chaos.

We wore our gaiters upside down, our pullovers on backwards, much to the silent, knowing amusement of the older lads, who had no doubt been through the same trial just a few months earlier.

The Hair Situation

I had an additional sartorial challenge. I'd arrived at camp with a head of long, unkempt hair, naively assuming the Army would take care of it immediately. Normally they would have, but the camp barber was inexplicably off sick or on holiday.

For three days, I endured constant shouting from every NCO and senior soldier who saw me, explaining over and over that my hairstyle wasn't a statement of rebellion but a clerical error.

My beret, perched precariously on top of my unruly mop, was the main casualty, it simply wouldn't fit properly and kept falling off. I looked less like a soldier and more like a scruffy kid playing dress-up in his dad's Army surplus.

A Challenge, a Chore, and a Comedy of Errors

The real fun began when they formed us up in three ranks and tried to get us to march.

It was comedy gold.

We were a symphony of disarray: people out of step, stepping on the heels of the guy in front, arms swinging like windmills in a hurricane. Inevitably, someone would trip, causing a domino effect down the line, followed by a chain reaction of suppressed giggles.

The end result was always the same: the entire squad being made to run four laps around the parade ground for a lesson in discipline we were all too happy to forget.

Rules and Rebellion

Our training began with two key rules for our first 12-14 week term: no civilian clothes and no smoking.

Not wearing civilian clothes was no great loss to me—I had a single pair of trousers, two shirts, and a jacket. The Army had just given me more clothes than I'd owned in my entire life.

But the smoking ban? That, I took as a personal challenge.

As a non-smoker who had spent his entire life in a cloud of second-hand fumes—from my parents, my siblings, my teachers, the top deck of the bus, and anywhere else the public gathered, I was determined to find a way to defy a rule that didn't even apply to me.

It made absolutely no sense. But then again, neither did most of what we were doing.

Perhaps that's why I decided to take up smoking.