The Pencil Case

by Lorraine Cobcroft

  I turned on my side, pulled my knees into my belly, buried my face in my pillow and cried.

  ~~~~

  19: AN URCHIN NO MORE

  JANUARY, 1964

  The wheels seemed to sing, “Go to jail. Go to jail,” as the train rattled and swayed towards Sydney for my enlistment interview.

  I’d yearned to board the train that would finally take me away from the home and the surrogate parents I’d come to love. I’d counted months and then weeks until I could join men in heavy aprons cutting, stitching, carving and buffing to make boots, belts, handbags, wallets and whips. Again and again, I dreamt of long days at the buffing wheel. And the soccer boot! I saw it, felt it, smelt it, shaped, sanded, buffed and polished it, then set it on a little stand for a champion team to examine and admire.

  One day, I would have my own little boot shop. Maybe I would start a chain of stores, selling bridles, saddles and jodhpurs and riding caps. The sign out front would read P.F. Wilson, Esq., and one day, two decades or so from now, it might read P.F. Wilson and Son. I might put a skiving knife in my son’s hand and teach him to slice and bevel.

  The train wasn’t taking me to a place where I would spend my days caressing and shaping warm sheets of leather. There would be no skiving knives and stitchers, and no raw acrid smell of leather and Cargrip in my nostrils in the evenings. In their place, army–issue khakis and the famed blue ‘poofy suits’ that ‘Appys’― as the Balcombe apprentices were referred to --- wore on dress occasions. Spit–polished boots. Rifles, bayonets, a silver cornet and a music stand. Five o’clock reveille and five–mile runs to the beach and back before breakfast. Inspections. Barked orders and sharp salutes.

  As the train neared its destination, the tiniest ray of hope fought like a weak torchlight to penetrate the darkness that engulfed me.

  Perhaps they won’t accept me?

  I tried to fail the entrance test. I sat when commanded to stand and stood when commanded to sit and knowingly gave wrong answers. I returned home to Ohio with a heart filled with hope that I struggled valiantly to hold on to, and yet I knew it was hopeless.

  “Congratulations, Paul!” the Boss called, waving the expected letter, and beaming. The other boys cheered, but I grieved.

  Two weeks later, carrying a tiny battered suitcase filled with the last home– boy clothes I would ever wear and with no personal belongings --- not a single relic to remind me of my childhood --- I climbed into the Boss’s old Kombi for the 12 mile drive to the station. With £5 in my pocket to tide me over ’til my first payday, I boarded the train to my future. I thrust my suitcase on to the luggage rack and stared stubbornly ahead, hands clasping the arm–rest, ignoring the Boss on the platform waving an enthusiastic goodbye.

  I love train rides. There’s a certain inevitability about them, with nothing to do but relax and enjoy the steady rhythmical rocking and the clickety–clack of the wheels on the track, watching the fields, cottages, rivers, bridges and skies flying by. You have no control over the whistles and toots, the stations sliding into view and out, the bustle of passengers boarding and demounting, the tears of friends waving farewell and the hugs and smiles of greeting. Passengers lug suitcases on board and shove them up on to brass luggage racks and, with little more than a nod to fellow travellers, settle back with newspapers or books, or close their eyes to try to sleep. Everyone knows how long it will take to reach their destination and there is absolutely nothing anyone can do to speed the journey or to alter its course.

  There was nothing I could do to change the course of the train that carried me far away from the familiar rolling hills of Ohio Station, the rustic warmth and raw odour of the boot shed, the stench of sweat in the boxing shed, the soothing warmth of the sun streaming through the library windows on an autumn afternoon, and the cosiness of gatherings around a crackling open fire on a cold winter night.

  It’s a wonder my love of trains survived that awful journey. Had I been inclined to keep a journal, the entry for that day would have recorded anxiety that few teenagers would ever know, and the pain of a betrayal so hurtful that even on the day they laid him in the ground I would curse the Boss and refuse to mourn his passing.

  Inevitability? My life was an inevitability. Like passengers boarding a train, I forfeited every right of choice or decision until I would reach my destination eight years from now. The ‘powers that be’ would map my itinerary from departure at 15 to disembarkation after my 23rd birthday, and I would have no option but to grit my teeth, clench my fists and endure the ride.

  I slept, read and watched the fields, towns and stations pass until I reached the point at which I had to change trains for Melbourne. Sitting there, on that hard timber bench with its elaborate wrought–iron lace ends, under the giant clocks at Sydney Central Station, suitcase between my knees, I watched the crowd jostling and shoving. Arriving passengers stretched their necks to peer anxiously about, searching, and then drop their cases, spread their arms and break into broad smiles as loved ones pushed through the crowd to embrace them.

  If only there was someone here to embrace me. If only I had someplace to go, some alternative to boarding the Melbourne train.

  There was no–one and nowhere. At the end of this journey, two huge metal gates would open to a world of desolation and despair.

  If I could have written to my dad, I would, of course, have described this journey quite differently. I might have written, “With £5 in my pocket and just the barest of necessities --- a few clothes that would be soon discarded in favour of better --- I boarded the train, filled with anticipation, and set out to begin another adventure”.

  I tried, for most of the awful journey, to view it that way. Peter had talked enthusiastically of running on the beach and playing sport and working out in the gymnasium. He excited me with talks of bush camp–outs. Shooting was something I enjoyed immensely as a young child, dreamt about and yearned to do as I grew. Now I would be handed a rifle and paid to practise. Peter assured me that the meals were superb and food was always in abundance. I was to receive a regular salary to spend as I pleased.

  Dad had always told me to make the best of every situation. I really was determined to try, but I yearned so desperately for freedom. The pain of deprivation of it coloured every expectation, and for the rest of my days would colour every recollection.

  #

  My hand shook and the gorge rose in my throat. My head spun like a whirlwind and threatened to depart my body, but I dutifully signed the contract consenting to spend the next eight years of my life incarcerated. I entered a fenced compound dotted with rows of unlined tin Romni huts and was escorted to one marked Ypres and commanded to enter.

  Fourteen steel–framed beds were set equally spaced, in lines of seven against each of the two longer walls. Beside each, a bare–topped personal table provided drawers for singlets, socks and underwear, and a narrow locker gave space to hang uniform shirts and jackets. The arrangement of the furniture created neatly measured tiny squares of territory for each occupant --- barely large enough to turn around in and providing storage space for nothing but uniforms and the absolute essentials for personal hygiene. On the foot of every bed, linen and blankets were folded precisely in half, a pillow and perfectly folded pillowcase positioned meticulously on top. Nothing else in sight. Not a speck of dust visible. Cold. Sterile. Familiar. And the smell of fear!

  I inhaled deeply. Terror wrapped itself about me, blinding me and constricting my chest so I struggled to breathe. It burnt my throat and nostrils, screamed in my ear and pressed like a massive weight on my shoulders, and tried to pull my legs from under me.

  So this is to be my life for the next eight years, defined to the smallest detail, confined and regimented. Every action, every thought, in response to rules and command. Every day lived in fear of the consequences of falling short of expectations, or somehow angering a superior.

  I chose the bed closest to the door. It was an unpopular position, because wind whipped in whenever some
one entered or left. But it was closest to the outside, giving me regular glimpses of a small open space.

  Medical tests and immunisations preceded the issue of uniforms. I stood silently in a long line, shuffling forward every few minutes, edging closer to the uniformed medic jabbing a long needle into one arm after another, extracting cylinders of blood. Ahead but one stood a taller boy wearing tight– fitting jeans and shirt with sleeves rolled high above the elbows, a cigarette packet protruding from the sleeve roll on one side. He slouched a little, hands thrust deep into his pockets, placing most of his weight on one leg. He wore a slightly sneering half–grin. Mr Cool! He strode up to the medic’s table and presented his arm as though in expectation of receiving a stamp of honour or a pass to freedom.

  The medic raised that huge needle. Mr Cool faltered. The colour drained from his face and he collapsed, unconscious, in a crumpled heap at my feet. Those in line smothered giggles. I felt a brief surge of relief that at least some of the boys were less confident than they appeared. From then on, Mr Cool and I were firm friends.

  Medical procedures completed, we marched to the uniform store. I surveyed the rows of clothing with mixed emotions. The garments promised significant discomfort and the uniform, more than anything else, signified total loss of freedom. Yet in army uniform I would not feel conspicuously shabby, identified as a ‘home kid’. Here, I could be one of the group. No–one need ever know my embarrassing secret, and I resolved to never tell it.

  Whatever pretence is necessary --- whatever insignificant little untruths must be told --- when I shed my home–boy clothes today, I’ll cease to be an urchin.

  ~~~~

  20: LIFE AS A ‘’APPY’’

  BALCOMBE, JANUARY 1964

  The mind–deadening routine began with five a.m. reveille and a five– mile–run to the beach and back. I used to enjoy long distance running, but at daybreak, in a chanting pack with barking sergeants forcing the pace and screaming threats at anyone who slowed or faltered, the sport gave no pleasure.

  Back to the barracks to shower and change. Make the bed with perfect mitred corners and cover tight.

  Inspection. Stand in frozen anticipation while a ‘stripe’― as non– commissioned officers are called --- searches for a microscopic speck of dust or an item of clothing not perfectly folded or resting a fraction of an inch from its allotted place. Hair length is measured. The army barbers gave new meaning to ‘short back and sides’. Chins of those old enough to sport facial hair are inspected for the correct use of the razor. I silently pray that the uniform I ironed last night is perfect and the boots I so painstakingly spit– polished shine enough to please.

  A ‘stripe’ drops a coin on each bed and watches how high it bounces. Luckily, I’m well practised at making beds to institutional standards, but the unfortunate lad in the bed next to me suffers bellowed abuse, while the corporal rips off all the covers.

  “Do it again, and do it right this time,” he screams.

  Despite being well–practiced at hospital corners, I formed the habit of making a tiny opening through which to sliver into bed at night, and I lay like a statue so I could be certain that in the morning I could make the bed to the expected standard in the time allotted.

  Breakfast in a cold, crowded institutional dining hall, rank with the smell of boys’ sweat. At least the food is good.

  Locked away, alone, in a tiny soundproof cubicle, I practised music for endless hours. Scales. Exercises. Lip trills. My fingers ached, my jaw throbbed and my head pounded. The cell walls closed in on me, crushing me.

  After lunch, I joined group rehearsals at which I suffered ridicule or a stern reprimand for every trivial mistake. Cold and tense, I peered at black dots until the staves warped and the notes blurred and danced from line to line. My ears buzzed and my fingers stiffened. My heartbeat was louder than the drums, but out of time… so fearfully, mockingly out of time.

  In the late afternoon, I changed into shorts and shirt and reported to the gym. The workouts were demanding. Thankfully, I was fit and agile.

  After dinner, on my second night there, a senior thrust a pair of boots in front of a roommate and commanded him to polish them. He dared to refuse and was promptly dragged off to the ablutions block where a mob of seniors beat him.

  The request was repeated the following night, targeting a different roommate. Forewarned, he consented to perform the task, but apparently didn’t shine the shoes well enough to please, so was forced to ‘run the gauntlet’. Seniors lined up in two long lines, armed with boots, brooms and belts. The unfortunate junior was compelled to run between the lines, while seniors mocked and jeered and flailed the errant youth. The attackers showed no mercy, and when the run was done, none either offered sympathy or treated wounds. There were stern warnings of much worse to follow if the wounded youth dared to give any sign of suffering or anger, implying that he might seek revenge.

  I realised that it was only a matter of time before I was targeted for torment, but when my turn came I was ready with a strong left hook. A corporal quickly stopped the fight and rearranged some furniture to make a boxing ring.

  They’ll be confident I’ll be taught a lesson I won’t forget in a hurry. But they don’t know I was trained to box. Thank you, Boss.

  I knocked my opponent down, and urged him to stay down and save himself. He ignored the warning and came back for more. Over and over, I put him down and urged him to quit. Over and over he rose and begged to be hurt again. Eventually, they called the winner, and I was rarely subjected to bullying from the other boys again.

  I wasn’t spared the regular demands to hand over any sweets or trinkets a senior saw me with and desired, though. They unwittingly did me a favour. I bought a packet of cigarettes once, but after realising I’d unwillingly gifted all but one, I never bought another.

  At the end of the first week, we made the first long, forced march with full pack and rifle. Nine–mile marches became a regular event, and 20 mile marches at least once each year. The combination of heat, uncomfortable uniforms and the weight of a pack and seven–pound rifle made summer marches almost unbearable.

  At the end of the second week I was assigned my first night of guard duty. Every two hours I had to wake and march around the perimeter of the camp. Savvy soldiers ‘sold’ their guard duties. They called it selling, but in fact it was more a case of buying a substitute. Some blokes accumulated a nice little savings nest egg doing extra guard duties. I quickly decided it was worth the cost of a substitute to avoid the pain.

  We were rostered to perform kitchen and cleaning chores regularly, but before the end of my first month I had done more than a dozen extra hours of mess and toilet–cleaning duties as punishment for minor transgressions. In the second month I suffered the more severe punishment of being forced to run a dozen laps of the oval in full battle dress with pack and rifle. Painful at any time, it was murder on a hot summer afternoon.

  I was conditioned to constant ridicule and verbal abuse. I’d had five years of cruel taunts and vile put–downs from sour, bilious bitches who hated men, despised little boys, and whose inability to cope with life in the real world led them to retreat to an artificial universe. The nuns saw children from underprivileged families as contaminants to be cleansed by beating the spirit out of them. Those whose spirits would not be broken were bullied and tormented until they grew old enough to move on, at which time nuns pronounced them lost and predicted a sorry end. But although still painfully aware of my inferior status in society, and often ridiculed by peers when the Boss and Matron were out of hearing range, I had enjoyed blessed relief for the past three years. Even during those years at St Patrick’s, brothers and priests and Sister Anne occasionally showered me with praise and compliments, and I won respect from peers with my sporting prowess.

  Here, I found little opportunity to build confidence or self–respect. Seniors, tutors and some of the officers regarded ridicule as an art form, competing constantly for the title of ‘most hated
bully’. We were forced, mostly, to endure the torment in silence, standing rigidly to attention and replying “Yes sir” and “No sir,” on cue, giving snappy salutes and even thanking them for subjecting us to public humiliation. Then we were ordered to march off to the kitchen, latrines or parade ground to suffer cruel, undeserved punishments. Or we were forced to run the gauntlet for mildly airing a gripe, resisting unfairness or exposing any sign of feeling resentment, fear or pain.

  #

  “I copped a weekend of CB,” Bruce said, dropping on to his bed and covering his face with his hands. My roommate had been charged with disobeying some command, and marched in full uniform up to the C.O.’s office to stand to attention while formal charges were read. He was asked to explain himself, and then the sentence was read out. Confined to barracks. Poor fellow was beside himself.

  His sentence commenced the following morning. Every half–hour he had to run to the guard room, present for inspection, then run back to the barracks and change into a different uniform. The frantic three–quarter mile run from guard room to barracks soaked clothing with sweat, especially when wearing heavy winter uniforms. I joined his other mates to help him remedy the damage ready for the next change, but even with help it was all but impossible to make it back in 15 minutes immaculately presented in different attire. The smallest flaw in appearance resulted in a savage dressing down and threats of further penalty. The routine continued all day, with only a half–hour break for lunch. The embarrassment of knowing that everyone saw him leaving the barracks every 15 minutes in different attire, and knew why, added to his pain.

  “It was hell, Paul. You can’t begin to imagine.”

  “I can. I saw what you went through, mate,” I said, wishing I could have helped more.