One hundred years ago today the Queanbeyan Age published a letter from a freckle-faced young recruit in a Sydney Expeditionary Force camp. He had written that he was enjoying himself something immensely and that soldiering seemed to be paradise. His uniform was making him a flapper-magnet.
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"I am
"A fellow has only to walk the streets in the once-despised baggy trousers and khaki shirt to receive the glad eye from the best-looking girls in town. Some of the country flappers would not even say good-day to me when I was in plain civilian clothes.
"I tell you it's grand to be a soldier these days. Even if a fellow has to sleep on the ground and live on stew, and drink black coffee every morning, the adoration, awe and reverence he gets from the mere civilians are more than compensation for the drill we are receiving. Even though I have a freckled face, I am certain that if the war lasts long enough I will marry a member of Parliament's daughter or someone of high standing."
"Yes," the wise old Age added below all this youthful gibberish, "it's grand to be a soldier when the shells are shrieking and the big guns are blazing 12,000 miles away."
