“TROOPER BLUEGUM.”
PORTION OF CONVOY OF 8,000 CAMELS BEARING SUPPLIES ON THE PHILISTINE PLAIN
Australian Official Photograph
RESTING
There’s a delightful sound about that little word “Rest.” It conjures up delicious visions of breakfast in bed, scrambled eggs on toast, lying about in the sun, nice books to read, etc., etc., as the imagination wills. Now, we didn’t expect all these things, but when we got the word, “The regiment is going for a rest behind the lines,” everybody’s ears pricked up, and we were all on the qui vive for the few days following.
Sure enough, we moved out all right, and camped one moonlight night on a gently-sloping plateau to the west of the hills, taking up our abode comfortably in bell tents, six of us to a tent. We’d had a long day, so soon turned in and slept the sleep of the conscienceless. Behold us next morning, at that cold, cheerless grey hour which just precedes the dawn, lying in various picturesque attitudes, with the cold wind playing on us, as yet untouched by the sun’s compensating warmth. A bugle gave out its brass-mouthed message, and one of those necessary evils known as corporals invited us to “turn out and fall in.” Now, it was the witching hour of 4 a.m., and we didn’t like “turning out” or “falling in,” or any kindred mysterious movement; but necessity knows no law, so, to the accompaniment of many an ungracious “Blarst the war,” “What sort of a rest is this?” we crawled out of bed, dressed, and wended our weary way to the stables.
