OUR "CHANGE” PARADE

Dragon, 1 December 1942, Page 5

OUR "CHANGE” PARADE

"All out for Change Parade, and make it snappy," bawled our Corporal. We grabbed our motely rags and marched over to the C. & N. Store, Headquarters of the notorious Q.M. Sergeant. The first man up proffered a pair of socks. The Sergeant glowered over the counter, snatched the offending sox from the Driver and roared, "These been washed"? "Um —er — sir," the timid owner replied. "Don't seem like it, to me," says the Sergeant as he lifts them to his nose, "What's wrong with 'em; don't you ever mend your clothes, should take more care of your things.

Next man. "What in tarnation do you want me to do with this," the irascible Sergeant shouts, as he takes up Cap F.S.

"A change that's all," returns the owner.

"No show, got hair oil on it," snarls the Q.M bloke as he flips it back.

Number three jauntily tosses a Battledress upon the counter and states that he wants a good fit and tunic and trousers of a matching colour. The Sergeant froths a bit and croaks in his rage, "No show, haven't got your size, not a match in the place. Why in the name of so and so you fellers drag your battle-dresses along here I don't know. Take it back, we won't be having any in for months, orders from Wellington." (Shelves loaded to capacity).

We are not making much progress but the fourth Driver walks boldly to the counter and dangles a pair of boots. The sight of these throws the irritable one into a fresh paroxysm of rage.

"These 'ave bin burnt," he shrieks, "and you've deliberatly rubbed mud over the hole."

'Oh no sir," coyly rejoined the owner.

"You DID," said the Sergeant in a voice pregnant with ill-temper, "what am I gonna do with 'em?"

He pounded the boots upon the counter muttering something about an enquiry, that ■ boots cost money, that it was a wilful attempt to deceive. He gradually subsided, almost immediately turned purple, snorted through his reddened proboscis and thumped his fist upon the boards. The Driver was suqgesting a change of greatcoat. The dear old fellow behind the counter however, had spotted the almost complete wardrobe being worn under the coat, and guessed that the swollen chest measurement was an effort to obtain a new double-breaster. The man was summarily dismissed amid much grinding of teeth, blowing of froth, and stamping of feet.

"What's all this," the demon enquires as he flips my tattered rags through his horny hands.

"To be changed, Sergeant," I politely reply.

"That's what you think," he aptly returns. He examines all articles with microscopic thoroughness, snorts a few times, wipes a bead or two of sweat from his overhanging brow and asks me how long I have had the clothing. By way of reply and evidence I give him my card wherein all issues are dated. He works through the list, blows his nose, hums and ha'-s, wastes a great deal of time with disparaging remarks. In the end, lam 7 per cent, successful, I sign my card, feel very bright and

escape from the store.