Read this to the end, Text of a letter from a kid from Eromanga to Mum and Dad.
(For those of you not in the know, Eromanga is a small town west of Quilpie in the
far south west of Queensland)

Dear Mum & Dad,
I am well. Hope youse are too. Tell me big brothers Doug and Phil that the Army is
better than workin' on the farm - tell them to get in bloody quick smart before the
jobs are all gone!
I wuz a bit slow in settling down at first, because ya don't hafta get outta bed
until 6am. But I like sleeping in now, cuz all you gotta do before brekky is make ya
bed and shine ya boots and clean ya uniform. No bloody cows to milk, no calves to
feed, no feed to stack - nothin'!!

Blokes haz gotta shave though, but its not so bad, coz there's lotsa
hot water and even a light to see what ya doing!
At brekky ya get cereal, fruit and eggs but there's no kangaroo steaks
or possum stew like wot Mum makes. You don't get fed again until noon, and
by that time all the city boys are buggered because we've been on a 'route march' -
geez its only just like walking to the windmill in the back paddock!!

This one will kill me brothers Doug and Phil with laughter. I keep getting medals
for shootin' - dunno why. The bullseye is as big as a bloody possum's bum and it
don't move and its not firing back at ya like the Johnsons did when our big scrubber
bull got into their prize cows before the Ekka last year! All ya gotta do is make
yourself
comfortable and hit the target - its a piece of ****!! You don't even load your
own cartridges - they comes in little boxes and ya don't have to steady yourself
against the rollbar of the roo shooting truck when you reload!

Sometimes ya gotta wrestle with the city boys and I gotta be real careful coz they
break easy - it's not like fighting with Doug and Phil and Jack and Boori and Steve
and Muzza all at once like we do at home after the muster.

Turns out I'm not a bad boxer either and it looks like I'm the best the platoon's
got, and I've only been beaten by this one bloke from the Engineers - he's 6 foot 5
and 15 stone and three pickhandles across the shoulders and as ya know I'm only 5
foot 7 and eight stone wringin' wet, but I fought him till the other blokes carried
me off to the boozer.
I can't complain about the Army - tell the boys to get in quick before word gets
round how bloody good it is.
Your loving daughter,
Jill