TARGET AREA

Nelson Evening Mail, Volume 77, 6 October 1942, Page 3

TARGET AREA

GETTING PETS TO SHELTER LIGHTER. MOMENTS IN SLIT TRENCHES For several exciting months, writes John Binning in the "Sydney Morning Herald." I have lived in a target area—a squa-e mile of land at an advanc I operational base in Australia which lias had thousands of pounds of Japanese bombs poured on to it. oombs have fallen all around us. In i one raid i . favourite slit trench was ; plumb in tiie middle ci two sticks of ! bombs! I But we Have great faith in uur slit i trenches. Nations spent millions of j pounds in perfecting the bomber and in j making bigger and more beautiful | bombs. But with a pick and shovel, u couple of hours’ toil, and a modicum of luck, you can outwit the devil of science. You might imagine that lice in a target area is a foretaste of hell, but it isn't. I have heard more real laughter in one hour there than I have in a whole week of Sydnty leave. We have a lot to laugh about. Take all our pets, for example—our fowls, dogs. cats, wallabies, and one parrot. They are always a problem when the sirens scream the alert. We have trained the dugs to look after themselves. As soon as the hooter goes, they sneak for their own favourite slit trenches and don't show a nose above ground till the all clear is sounded. B—, formerly on the stall' of a Sydney bank, makes a dive for j Churchill, 'his 1a by wallaby, which ;he is rearing on milk fed through a j fountain-pen tube. Pet wallabies. I by the way, have been awfully bad for our fountain-pens. Churchill is probably asleep in one of B —'s woollen shirts under his bed. B— grabs Churchill, lucks him inside the shirt he is wearing, and runs for his gun. There the little chap remains, without a kick, until the raid is over. We have four cats—a mother and three kittens, and their presence in the target area is a mystery. We were passing a slit trench one day when we heard an unusual whimpering. And there they were—a grey mother, an auburn son and two black daughters. We have never seen the father, but we often hope he was no coward who abandoned his family to the bombs*. In a raid, the cat family remain quietly in their own slit trench. The fowls are more difficult. They live in the bush in wire-netting enclosures. In a raid they are left to the mercy of fate. At first, we tried to carry them to slit trenches, but if you ever try to carry a fowl into a slit trench, you would never try again. They are stubborn old women. The roar and blast of bombs does not affect their laying capacity. We keep records which tend to show that bombing steps-up egg production! The parrot is an old sailor and remains above ground in his cage in a raid. He mumbles a lot and sometimes we think he is bomb-happy, but at least he is not losing weight. Naturally, we make ourselves as comfortable as we can—as comfortable as the rigid necessities of camouflage will allow us. OPEN-AIR SIIAVE Recently, an American gun corporal joined our community. He had arrived from a southern city and his shaving gear consisted of an elaborate electric “Don” is a lawyer from Buffalo, with a head crammed with ideas. His close friend is an American communications sergeant. Together, they fitted a transformer to a lamp-post on a main road skirting the target area, thus breaking down electric power to a voltage suitable for Don’s razor. Every morning. Don connects his razor to the transformer and shaves on the road! When they first saw him shaving, truck drivers were startled. Now, Don is joined each morning by others who want a quick shave. Wc all have a post-war picture of every lamp-post in Sydney fitted with a transformer for shaving. It would help solve the early morning problem. You could shave, for example, while waiting for your bus. Wc find Rodgers, from Kentucky, a reservoir of unconscious humour. He was reared and grew to manhood in the Kentucky hills. He calls his boots “cement slappers” and says he is a bit of a hill-billy. “Kentucky’s the place.” Rodgers tells us. "Man. that’s where you see some straight shooting. If you get tangled u; in a family feud, well, boy. you’re lucky to come out alive. There’s real war in Kentucky and I had to leave it to come to this durned thing.” Rodgers likes strong colfee, stuff you can stand a spoon in. We used to drink his brew to keep him company. Now we prefer to sleep at nights. Americans and Australians, united in one family, live happily in the target area. We share our food and our thoughts. We did not have to get to know each other. I guess we just “clicked.”