THE WRONG QUEUE

It was the last time we would be able to have a meal that had been cooked for us,( not to mention the first since we got here). It was also, the first time that there was something on the menu, apart from compo. The battalion cooks had made it to Fitzroy, and the chance of a hot cooked meal, had brought the troops out of the woodwork. It was dark and the night's air was crisp.

The grassy ground under foot, which had been cropped short by the sheep, was now a churned up mess. Who cared. Tonight there was a different smell on the breeze. Gone for the moment, the smell of cordite, burning gorse, and though it would never go, it was temporarily forgotten, the smell of sheep shit.

The queuing up soldiers, were for a change, quite happy to stand in line waiting their turn. Knowing that they'd soon be stuffing their faces full of good old fashioned mutton stew. As we got a bit closer, the glamour was slightly fading from the whole occasion. There were two battered dustbins, that were being stirred with the shafts from wooden brooms.

Blokes spent a fair time, staring into their mess tins, after the contents of a ladle had been unceremoniously dumped into it. Some, looked quite puzzled , others, totally crestfallen. Things were beginning to look decidedly iffy, the closer we got to the bins.

I got my ladle full, and moved off to the side, then I stopped. It was too dark to make out in any great detail, the contents of the mess tin I held in my left hand, but what I did know, was it didn't smell one little bit, like any kind of lamb stew I'd ever smelt before. It was more like the smell of sausages, and beans, fucking compo again, the conning bastards. I'd been in the left hand queue, the lamb in the right, when I sat down to eat. It was indeed compo rations. Apparently, the mutton took too long to cook, and if the troops knew there was a choice they would end up with either everybody in the one queue , or the toms would eat a compo snack, before returning to join the queue for the lamb stew. Either way, there was bound to be a riot, when they ran out of the stew, and there were people still waiting, to have some. I'd just been unlucky, and got in the wrong queue, or so I thought, at the time.

The next morning, we made our way up to the pick-up point, for the sea kings, that were taking us to Goat Ridge. The camera crews were there, filming us moving towards the helicopters, they'd been there, because the St Tristan, and Sir Galahad, had got hit the day before. That, along with all the little gems the boss had told us, about the forth coming attack,( numerous mine fields unmarked, dug in LVPT7's, 50 cal's inside railway cars, reinforced by sandbags.  And that was only some, of what they were telling us), it wasn't exactly a red nose day atmosphere. Still, as this was the only way, to let the people at home you were okay, and to show our professionalism, after the cock up, at Bluff Cove. Everybody just ignored the film crews, and passed them by, heading straight for the choppers. In fact, because of the Bluff Cove incident, we'd been taken off reserve, and shoved up the bloody sharp end again. So, it wasn't hard to look serious for the cameras. Everybody thought we were pushing our luck, just a little bit, everybody that is, except the fuckers who stuck the pins in the maps.

They dropped us off on the side of a hill. Not a fucking goat in sight, may I just add, for the record. Below us, one of the commando batteries of 105 mm, lay spread out, under their cam-nets. We sat spread out, on the side of this bloody hill all day. It seemed once again, things had got back to normal, and nobody knew what the fuck was going on. Woody, (the mortar fire control), and I, shared cigarettes. till the sun went down , and after it had got dark. he got his gonk bag out . This we put over our heads, so we could smoke, without fear of our glowing fag-end attracting any unwanted attention. Nearly choking to death, in all the smoke, we'd pull the sleeping bag from off our heads, eyes watering, lungs desperate for fresh air. Then we'd both dive back under the gonk bag, to finish our smoke, and to check we hadn't burnt any holes in the sleeping bag.

It was well into the early hours, when we were told to shake out , and the battalion started down the slope, towards the commando's guns. We passed the front of the guns, and then looped back around to the right. It must have only been twenty- minutes into the tab . When the first blokes, stepped out to the side of the snake, and dropped their trousers for a shit. Ten more minutes, there were nearly more people shitting, than marching. It was the lamb stew, it was too rich for the stomachs, after the prolonged period we'd had, on total compo. So the stomach was trying to get rid of it, as quickly as it could. Some people hadn't been able to drop their strides in time , others , pissed off with the hassle, and rigmarole, that they had to go through every hundred meters or so, had resorted to cutting their under pants at the crotch piece, letting the shit just run down their legs. People had put the forth coming attack, on a back burner, for the time being. All thoughts now lay, in what revenge was going to be exacted on the cooks the next time that they all met up again.