The Pencil Case

by Lorraine Cobcroft

“Part of it,” Bruce said. “Not the dressing down–in the office every half– hour, the terror of that jerk sergeant finding an imperfection and adding another day to the sentence, or the fear of what uniform he’d order me to appear in next. I just kept praying it wouldn’t be formal dress or battle dress. I sweated so bad in battle dress, and formal dress takes so much work to get perfect. Fifteen minutes wasn’t nearly enough, no matter how fast I moved.

  “Thanks for your help, mate,” he added. “I wouldn’t have got through without it.”

  “Wish I could have done more,” I said, aware that for the rest of my time in the army I would live in constant dread of similar punishment.

  ~~~~

  21: A PLACE TO CALL HOME

  APRIL, 1964

  Easter! A brief period of respite. No morning runs; no inspections, shouted reprimands or taunts. No confinement in tiny cubicles practising scales and exercises hour after hour.

  Dozens of excited youths crowded around phone booths, queuing for their turn to call and advise families of what time to meet their train or bus. Tickets were purchased; travel schedules were checked. The huts hummed and buzzed with chatter about plans for fishing trips, beach picnics and special family dinners.

  I sat silently on my bed, wrapped in an all too familiar cold sensation of emptiness. I made no calls. I bought no tickets. I had no place to go.

  By mid–morning, only I and one or two others remained. I rejoiced at seeing the last of the loved and wanted depart, thankful for solitude --- an end to the painful reminders that I had no–one to visit and no–one to care.

  The gates and fences still confined me, but for one glorious week I rose when I pleased, ate when I pleased, and spent long leisurely days wrapped in a blanket in the TV room watching Bonanza and Rifleman and other cowboy series. When the hunger bug bit, I ran to Burger Bill’s canteen caravan to pay 20 cents for a hamburger, then ran, shivering, back to the TV room to snuggle back into a blanket and feast. Somehow I still managed to pay a fair compliment to the chefs who prepared the usual portions, despite reduced numbers of diners, so that I had a veritable feast to enjoy at meal times. For one glorious week I didn’t have to spit polish boots and iron uniforms. I didn’t have to fear being made to run the gauntlet, or being ridiculed in group rehearsals.

  And then the awful routine began again. The days stretched out before me like stepping stones on a path into a deep, grey fog.

  #

  I never received letters. I wrote to no–one. I knew letters to my sister would never be delivered. I could have written to the Matron, or some of my Ohio brothers, but years of institutional living conditioned me to see people come and go from my life with neither emotion nor sentimental reflection. The people from my past ceased to exist the day I stepped forward into the next phase of my existence. So I was astonished, towards the end of my first year at Balcombe, to hear my name called at mail call. The letter was neatly hand addressed --- not official. I turned it over and was surprised to see the name “W. Wilson” above the address. The initial perplexed me. I opened the letter carefully, prepared to discover it had been sent to me in error and must be re–sealed and returned to sender.

  “Dear Paul,

  No doubt it will surprise you to receive a letter from me, your father’s youngest brother. I learnt where you were from Mr and Mrs Tuck, to whom I was referred by the nuns at St Patrick’s.

  I am writing to ask if you would care to spend your Christmas holidays with my wife and I, our two small sons, and your sister, Jennifer, whom we have brought from St Patrick’s to live with us.”

  The letter continued to list Bill’s address and telephone number, and invited me to call or write, or just show up if it suited me. It was signed “With love, Uncle Bill”.

  I was overcome. My hand shook, my belly turned somersaults and the blood rushed to my feet, so that I feared I might faint. After three long, lonely holidays, suffering the awful emptiness, isolation and humiliation of being unwanted, I would be among those excitedly checking travel schedules and buying tickets.

  Three weeks later I boarded a train, filled with an excitement and anticipation I had never known before. This time the train wheels sang “Wanted. Wanted. Wanted”.

  Bill Wilson was waiting at the station, hat in hand, wearing a laconic half grin. My heart lurched when I saw him. He looked just like my dad. He seemed surprised that I remembered.

  My beloved Jennifer stood beside Bill. Prettier than ever and now shaped like a young woman, she stood trembling with excitement. It was four years since she had seen or heard from her big brother. I was a soldier now. She wasn’t sure how she should greet me, and I made no move to hug her. We stood staring at each other, silent, afraid of neither knew what.

  I shook hands very formally with my uncle, and then followed him to his utility, thrust my suitcase in the back, and climbed in beside my sister. Her little body felt warm and soft against mine and her sweet perfume filled my nostrils. After a few minutes, I dared to place my arm around her. She smiled up at me and snuggled against me. A voice in my head said “At last, one thing has been put right in this rotten world”.

  I seldom spoke of my life to anyone. I'd learnt long ago never to reveal my feelings or show emotion. Allowing folk to get to know you empowered them to hurt you --- to take away from you the things that gave you pleasure and to deny you access to the things you craved. I made small talk with my aunt and uncle and played games with their little boys. I helped my uncle in the garden and my aunt in the kitchen. Their home was filled with warmth and love. They were kind and generous to me, but they didn’t pressure me to talk.

  For the first time since Christmas at the Bennetts, I went Christmas shopping with a family. I enjoyed choosing gifts for my aunt, uncle, sister and the boys. I happily spent more than I could reasonably afford, overwhelmed by their generosity in return.

  As the days wore on, I found myself talking to my sister about my life; asking her how it was for her while we were apart. The picture I painted was of a joyous life, filled with adventure. I never once complained.

  We never spoke of our parents and relatives never raised the subject. By then, they were part of a long–forgotten past. They had ceased to exist.

  I was overjoyed to see that my sister was blissfully happy. For the first time since she was five, she was safe and loved. I could go back to Balcombe with one less concern. Not that I’d worried constantly about her, but I thought of her often and reproached myself for not fulfilling my promise to my father to take care of her. I wasn’t to blame, but yet I felt I ought to have somehow found a way.

  It was my aunt who first broke through the wall I had erected. She reminded me of the Ohio matron, Mrs Tuck. She was warm and gentle and she laughed a lot. She had a happy knack of inviting me to open up, without me ever feeling pressured.

  “So what do you do for leisure during term time,” she asked one day.

  I shrugged. “Not much. We weren’t allowed outside the gates for the first six months. After that, I stayed in most of the time anyway. We are forced to wear those dreadful poofy suits and I hate being seen in that uniform. In any case, there’s nowhere much I have any inclination to go.”

  I hadn’t meant to go on. I hadn’t meant to say that much, in fact, but somehow her sympathetic look made me want to confide in her.

  “All the uniforms are ugly and uncomfortable and I have to wear them every waking hour. Our hair is cut to regulations. Our bodies are shaped to regulation by rigorous exercise routines. Sometimes I’m tempted to believe that, if they could, they would surgically alter our faces to conform to a model.”

  “You hate it, don’t you Paul? You pretend well, but you’re miserable,” she said sadly.

  I shrugged again and pushed my chair back from the table.

  “It’s not so bad. I like playing music. I’m well fed and well paid. And it’s not for ever.”

  Bill sat down beside me that evening, placed a hand on my shoulder, and coughed self–co
nsciously. There was an awkward silence for a moment. I looked at him questioningly.

  “You’re unhappy in the army, I hear,” Bill said at last. “It’s OK.”

  Kiss arses. Lick boots! They humiliate me on the rifle range, calling me out and declaring that no–one would ever want to go to war with me beside them because I’m the worst shot in the battalion. Yet when I hit the target perfectly with every shot that afternoon, not a word of acknowledgement is spoken. They call me derogatory names and taunt me. They make me salute at least a dozen times a day and subject me to a bellowed rebuke if the hand movement isn’t perfect, or if the officer I’m saluting finds the tiniest imperfection in my appearance, step or attitude.

  I sleep in a tiny square of a sterile hut with 13 blokes, half of whom I dislike. I jump to barked commands every waking minute and live every day in terror of displeasing a stripe or a senior and suffering unspeakable punishments. It’s not OK, but I can’t tell him that.

  “Paul, we could give you a permanent home here. I could speak to the powers that be about you getting out, living here with us, and pursuing a career of your own choosing.”

  The room seemed to tilt irrationally. It began to spin. I was on a roller coaster, soaring at breakneck speed. A surge of terror gripped me as I imagined reaching the peak and pelting down the other side. How fast would I fall? How hard would I crash? Every promise of something good was inevitably followed by disaster. Any gift I dared to enjoy was quickly removed to a place beyond my reach.

  I leant back in the chair and put my hand to my forehead. My head thundered. My uncle’s words echoed over and over, taunting me, testing me. I wanted to trust Bill. I wanted to believe his offer was sincere. I wanted to scream “Yes. Yes. Please, please yes!”, but instead I said in a quiet, sad voice, “I signed on for eight years. There is no way the brass would let me out of that contract.”

  “Perhaps if we legally adopted you...” Bill said. “Joan and I... we’d be delighted to call you our son.”

  I struggled with that offer for a very long time, for the only thing I wanted more than freedom was to belong to a real family.

  “You are too kind,” I said at last, “and nothing would give me more pleasure than to be part of your family, but you have enough on your plate with Jen and your boys. In any case, there is no way the army would ever release me.”

  “If you’re sure,” Bill said, his eyes probing, pleading, willing me to stop the masquerade. “At least promise me that you will treat this house as home whenever you have leave, and you’ll write to us.”

  I would write. I would cherish every letter and delight in the obligation to reply. And when I had leave, I would board a train, revelling in the knowledge that, at last, I somewhere to go and someone to care --- a place to call home.

  ~~~~

  22 GRADUATION

  DECEMBER, 1965

  “I can play a cornet without a mouthpiece, sir. I can’t play one without valves.”

  As soon as the words were out, I wanted to swallow them. The examiner’s lips tightened and the colour rose in his neck. His eyebrows lifted, his shoulders tensed and flames shot from the pupils of his eyes. With one foolish retort, I had just sealed my fate.

  “I can tell a good musician from hearing ‘Abide with Me’,” my erstwhile mentor had said, advising me in preparation for my final exams. So while others practised “Carnival de Venice” and other equally challenging pieces, calling for lip trills and triple tonguing, I heeded the advice of a tutor to choose something simple and play it well. I rehearsed “Santa Lucia” until confident I could play it note perfect, with all the feeling and expression the piece deserved.

  When the day of the exam came, I played superbly. I felt, when that last note rang out, lifted, lightened and drifting on air, intoxicated by the ecstasy of knowing that my rendition was better than faultless. It was evocative. In my mind, it transported the listener to Naples and entranced him with the magnificence of the waterfront and excited him with the boatman’s invitation. The cornet laughed and cried and painted magical scenes as it told its story.

  I embraced the challenge of verbal questions on theory with a feeling of exuberance. My knowledge was sound and I responded quickly and accurately until the final question. And then I made that fatal mistake.

  “What is the most important part of your instrument,” the examiner asked. “The valves, sir,” I replied without hesitation.

  The examiner frowned. “Surely it’s the mouthpiece?”

  I dared to argue. A good teacher or a fair man would consider his student’s response and acknowledge the validity of the argument, but there were many here who did not impress me as either good teachers or fair men, and this examiner was one of these. He was here, teaching boys, because he had an inflated ego, but limited ability. At least that was my opinion of him, and I convinced myself it was also the opinion of those who signed the posting order that sent him here. Having formed that opinion some time ago, it was difficult to understand what on earth possessed me to argue at such a critical time, but there it was again: the defiance that seemed to always bring me undone.

  Those of breeding seemed to get away with it, or perhaps to know intuitively when it was safe. I was, after all, an orphan --- a nobody. I had no influential family ties or friends. There was no proud family tradition of military service or musical accomplishment for me to boast of. I had no uncles or father who had served with my tutors and become mates, or were known to be mates of their mates or bosses. No amount of diligence or skill could compensate for that lack of breeding that showed far too often in arrogant retorts when I knew I was right, and in a stubborn stance when challenged in a way I considered unfair.

  It was apparent to most that I saluted out of fear of the consequences of refusing, not out of respect for either the man or the office. My hatred of the army was as obvious as my love of music and dedication to excellence in my trade. I was learning, slowly, that no amount of dedication to my craft would ever compensate for my obvious contempt for the system and those who served it.

  When the marking was done, I read ‘64%’ with anger and resentment, mixed with a sense of inevitability. The only compensation was that I had passed. After two long years of soul–destroying rigor, my time at Balcombe was coming to an end. I was about to graduate to the adult army. It promised a little less rigor, considerably more freedom, and a higher rate of pay. It also promised six more years of uniforms and regimentation and shared, depressing barracks with rows of beds that must be made daily with perfect corners and tight covers. It meant six more years of ablution blocks that offered no privacy; regular long runs in full battle dress with heavy back– packs and rifles; barked orders; and threats of dreadful punishment for minor infractions. Yet there were those who chose this way of life, and who, given the chance to live their lives over, would happily make the same choice again.

  We marched out in November. I had just turned 17, with six more years of my long sentence still to serve, and I was about to take yet another terrifying step into the unknown. National Service had just been introduced, presumably to boost the numbers of soldiers available to fight in Vietnam. Australia was steadily increasing its involvement in the war and army musicians were being sent over to assist the medical corps. There was a strong possibility I might see action. As an adventurous young man who considered himself bullet– proof, I regarded the prospect as exciting.

  Before the march out, young soldiers diligently spit–polished boots to a mirror sheen. Uniforms were starched and ironed with creases so sharp they would cut cold butter. Hair was trimmed. Chins and cheeks were close– shaved. In excited anticipation, boys counted off the family members who would beam proudly from the grandstand benches, and promised to introduce mates to pretty sisters after. I dressed in silence. No–one would watch me. My aunt and uncle lived too far away and could not afford the trip.

  I welcomed the order to assemble and the discipline of the ceremony. It silenced my chatty mates and distracted
me from my loneliness. To the beat of the drums and the stately tempo of “Colonel Bogey”, we marched on to the parade ground and around the oval. In fancy formations we led the parade, snapping responses in perfect unison to every shouted command, every signal of the hand or staff. For 40 minutes the battalion performed to ordered applause. No shouting. No cheers. I blew into the mouthpiece of the flugelhorn and fingered its valves, focusing intently on ensuring the correctness of every note and step.

  Then it was over. The sergeant major dismissed us to join our families. The parade ground converted quickly to a picnic ground. Around each smartly uniformed boy a cluster of parents, grandparents and siblings formed to spread rugs, unload lunch packs and indulge in feasts carefully prepared by the catering corps, complete with celebratory wines in which even those too young to drink were permitted to indulge in strict moderation on this very special day. I stood alone and stared.

  Finally, one of the officers approached.

  Where should I be? What transgression had I committed by not knowing where to go or what to do when I had no family group to join?

  The officer’s voice, when he spoke, was surprisingly gentle. “Family couldn’t make it today, son?”

  “I don’t have any family, sir.” I shuddered in anticipation of the inevitable question, but the officer was sufficiently tactful to respond without even raising an eyebrow.

  “Then best you join mine, young man. We’d be honoured to share our lunch with such a fine young soldier.”

  I followed him across the lawn to where his wife was unpacking sandwiches and cake. I sat in silence on the edge of a large chequered rug, grateful for the wonderful food, but decidedly uncomfortable with the ill–fitting company. I was no officer’s son. Even their manner of speech was foreign --- that ever– so–perfect plum–in–the–mouth diction, devoid of even the mildest slang or vulgarity and with never an ‘h’ dropped anywhere. It was sometimes difficult to understand and never even the slightest bit interesting.