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Creative Responses To Chain Of Hearts An Truong Dear journal, I made friends with Peter Drysdale today, three weeks in at Pucka. Two hours of marching in the scorching sunlight and the unremitting sound of the sergeant in charge screaming out orders were just enough to drive anybody to the point of insanity. The lucky bastard took the pleasure of standing in shade the whole time. He was having fun bellowing this and that at everyone who represented vulnerability and all we wanted to do was take a stand and beat the living daylights out of him. He was on the verge of abusing sarcasm and took his time hauling Private Jenson out in front of everyone, humiliated and abused. The poor kid. My feet were killing me, blisters over blisters forming on my soles. It was excruciating, so bad I practically needed to clench my teeth to stop the pain. My throat felt raw with thirst. Even though it was a sweltering day, we were restricted from the water supplies. Over and over in my head I cursed. A million thoughts rolled over in my head, so quick I only had time to focus on the main cause of my suffering. “ I don’t want to be a friggin’ soldier, march around all day with blisters on my feet. I want to fix cars”. But I marched. And I saluted. I did as I was told, thinking the whole time I would run away, fake an identity, go to New Guinea and work at a coffee plantation where I knew a bloke who could help me get around. I caught my perfect opportunity to make fun of the situation when the sergeant turned his back for a moment. I thought I ought to put the moment to use. I turned to Peter Drysdale, commonly known as Blue, who stood beside me in line. “ Mum said this would be good fun,” I told him. “ And it ain’t!” I didn’t intend for it to be funny, but I guess it really was since Blue tried to stifle his laughter.
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