Civilian into Soldier

Part 2    We are Clothed

373649 Arthur H Paddison, 2nd Field Regiment, NZA

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On the work front, the news was greeted with dismay by the boss, the prospect of losing his star apprentice signwriter, just when he was becoming really useful, was a forerunner of worse things to come. The men of course couldn't let such an opportunity go by without marking the event with a crop of cartoons depicting a dwarf soldier in oversize boots and a monster lemon squeezer hat struggling to shoulder a blunderbuss plus as many variations on the theme as their collective fertile minds could come up with.

My mother, who provided me with a cut lunch each day, usually included a biggish slice of cake. To mark this occasion, and to build up my strength to cope with the demands of army life, I was presented at morning tea time with a solid parcel, a 6 inch cube, suitably wrapped. After the presentation speech, together with many interjections, to satisfy them I had to open it then and there. Enclosed was a chunk of Adams Bruce Ltd's best fruit cake. Nothing would please them until I started to eat it straight away and they kept on about it off and on all day till it was gone. This took quite some time. A series of cartoons depicting me in various attitudes, wrestling with this unexpected treat, appeared on the wall the next day to the amusement of all concerned.

It wasn't long before Stan and I, along with many others, were called before a medical board of about half a dozen old fogeys, who proceeded to peer in our ears, eyes and down our throats, thump our chests, test eyesight, hearing etc. They examined our nether regions, required urine samples, tested our reflexes, in fact it was the most comprehensive physical examination that I had ever had to that date.

Next, those that passed, were issued with a uniform that first saw light of day in WW1, or maybe the Boer War, in fact some had holes and stains that looked like blood. Boots, socks, underclothes, shirts, jersey, tunic, trousers, greatcoat and lemon squeezer hat. A large kit bag, a bandolier, pay book and haversack completed the issue. There wasn't much picking and choosing about size and fit, Army quartermasters are not noted for their tolerance of recruits' sensibilities. Some vigorous swapping went a long way to satisfy most and over a period of time everyone started to look like the real thing. Boots were the exception.

The boots were new and after being worn in, plus much spit and polish (weeks) and criticism by the Troop Sergeant-major, started to fill the bill.

Bandoliers were a thing apart. They consisted of a broad strap worn diagonally over the shoulder and had five leather pouches with brass studs to secure the flaps and were used normally for rifle ammunition, but in our case were stuffed with wads of newspaper to give them the proper shape. When we got them they were shockers, straight from WW1. However, by dint of much scrubbing, staining and the application of much Kiwi Polish and loving care became the apple of our eyes and we would strut around and could face the S.M.'s closest inspection with equanimity, provided always that your hair was cut to the required length.

Tunics had brass buttons and corps badges. Naturally these had to be maintained to a level of polish that became a regular morning chore. Trouser legs were the bane of the model soldier as they were made to be worn with puttees: woven strips of khaki material about 4 inches wide wrapped around the boot at the ankle to keep the bottom of the trousers out of the mud and secured with a length of tape wound around several times with the end being tucked in out of sight. They had no cuffs and were hardly big enough at the ankle, to get ones' foot through. Provided one could find a piece of serge of a decent match and long enough to reach from the knee down to the bottom and wide enough to cut two tapered lengths; by splitting the inside of the leg up to the knee, and having them inserted by a kind and competent person, like a mother or sister, trousers would then fit well down below the boot tops, the same width all the way down, and take the decent razor sharp crease, the pride of a fashion conscious young soldier.

Some had no sense of dress and there was some who would have been the source of great inspiration had they been in the signwriting trade.

I was lucky and got a nice rabbit fur felt hat that fitted and looked real good. It was a bit thin at the top, and later, when I was required to do much jumping in and out of vehicles, developed a hole which required careful repairs and fortunately, lasted until we eventually were issued with battle dress and forage caps

Continued...

AH Paddison, 2007

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