Thomas Forsyth by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: grenadier
Publisher: Thomas Forsyth
Published: 2011-08-08T14:25:20+00:00

My fame is sure, the poet said,

A hundred years when I am dead,

The 'll heap the honours on my head,

They grudge me noo,

Today the hundred years have sped,

That proved it true!

His evenings have a hazy glow about them, and mornings still see him in a cheerful daze.

June 1: Harvey Creedon has a new crocodile hide, eight feet, six inches long. He paid eight pounds for it.

The good Oxfords belonging to the drunk last night have disappeared this morning! Ah well, if he cares nothing about his character or reputation, why would he worry about his shoes?

This extract is from Rupert Hughes' "The Man Without a Home":

"But history never writes curtains. It has no curtains. It lets things fringe out or tangle into hopeless knots, and leaves them so.

History writes lives as it likes to. History has no sense of form, of ideals. It fairly rains plots but it will not shape them to the canons of art or good story telling. History just runs on and on. It must History never sleeps, never stops, never closes its doors. It mingles dull stretches and purple flashes, fire and ashes. Underneath its dull surface seeds of future life may be germinating busily or dying miserably. Only the harvest will tell"

My diaries are history, I lived through these years, toiled through them, struggled and suffered through them. I write about the Dirty Thirties in Manitoba because I knew, and experienced the heartbreaks of crop failures. Let no man scoff at Garrison duty in Jamaica, who never experienced the paralyzing, stultifying effect of military discipline, when every detail and aspect of life and expression is governed by that inflexible military discipline.

June 2: I started my week shift of 7-3 this morning, on the East Gate, an extremely hot, uncomfortable post; owing to the Imperial holiday today it was closed before dinner, and I finished out my hours on MQ There is supposed to be a big parade tomorrow as the Colonel is supposed to be leaving by plane for home. An inspection of men’s feet has started, several men are in hospital with "Jungle Rot" in their feet, the pavement we walk on all day gets to feel like the top of a stove by noon. After duty hours a few men are practising lacrosse out on the polo field, I think Bob Grace is the only man who ever played. The British are leaving Crete to the Germans.

June 3: A lot of our men did not like the cut of the tunics or slacks that were regular army issue, so they had some tailor- made at their own expense for walking out dress. But now it has come out in orders (on the official bulletin board) that we cannot walk out in any tailor-made garment, unless it is the exact shade of the issue and the exact military pattern. This is really nitpicking at its very worst. All the officers have tailor-made uniforms, they can't bear to see anyone looking as smart as they do.

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