Tracks Magazine - August 1955

"Archie" McDonald - 1955

Ron Bond - 1955

A couple of decades ago I was travelling through northern NSW and called in to see Archie McDonald, an old 1 Armoured Regiment LAD mate. Archie had kept his copy of the first issue of the Regiment's glossy magazine, Tracks — August 1955. It is this magazine that is re-produced below

The guard commander looked at his watch

and then groaned to himself —— almost time to wake up and post the new relief. He got out of bed, wondering where his second-in-command could be. "He should have been here ages ago", he thought.

Out in the guardroom he set about waking Nos. 1, 2, 3, and 4 Relief. Having done this four times he gave up and used the firehose to wash them out into the gutter. Dashing back he tossed Tpr. Foresight out of bed and then threw him on to the pile of damp, still inert, sleeping forms in the gutter. The arrival of this kicking member revived the sluggards and they were sent on their way to their posts. He watched them till the last had crawled around the corner. "Ah, now to get some sleep", he muttered.

Settling down, he started to walk that drowsy path of the half-awake "Peace", and again blissfully to himself, "Peace!" —— yawn —— "Peace, at last!"

Crash! the door jumped open and in came Montworthy, relieved from No. 1 post. Not content with singing in a lusty voice he turned up the radio full blast.

"Hello folks!" the voice said "this is Murtagoyd, the disc jockey." "Are you in th ———"

Sighing, the guard commander cut the voice back by deft pull of the blanket, thus covering his head. Then something snapped within him —— there was a limit to what even he could stand. With the speed of a startled panther he was out of bed, pistol raised high above his head. A grunt ended the raucous singing as the song, if not the singer, died a natural death. He looked so calm, quietly laying there in a pool of blood which slowly stained the floor. Sighing, the guard commander deliberately dropped a brick upon the plastic case of the radio, whose new blast ceased abruptly. "Peace" again, a soft, warm bed beckoned, and sleep rested heavily upon his eyes.

For the second time the door jerked back, shaking the building with its crash. In walked Relief No. 2. With the speed of a galloping Gazoonkapede he raced around the room. On the second circuit he fell over his own feet, arose and set about making his bed. Flip! Flap! A blanket flopped open, took flight, and sailed out of the open window. Nothing daunted he quickly swept one from the recumbant guard commander; placing it neatly across his own bed he mounted it and did a sprightly tap dance, only to suddenly sense the threatening approach of the guard commander with hands outstretched and a wicked gleam flashing from his eye. His startled look faded to passivity as the clutching hands closed tightly around his neck.

Exhausted, the assailant once more subsided to sleep. But —— you've guessed it? How did you know?

A crash to end all crashes heralded the arrival of several hundredweight of wood spilled over the floor. With legs adangle and head cupped in contemplative hands the shock-perched commander watched the newcomer playfully wake a comrade and asked if he wanted to build a battle-ship. The carnage continued as the deftly-dropped army boot descended from rafter and despatched him to the hereafter. Once more silence reigned supreme; in fact a deathly silence was broken only by the odd booted shuffle of the now malevolent murderer regaining his bed.

Sleep eluded him as conscience strove to shame his rest. He counted Centurions over the knife edges and nearly blanked out as his fitful rest was disturbed by a thought, "What of No. 4? Only one between the sleep so ardently desired and the reality."

His eye lit upon the stove —— it was hot enough to light upon anything! He took up a strategic position behind the door, the heavy stove delicately poised upon his upstretched finger-tips. Footsteps approached and as the door slowly opened, "Boing!" down came the stove and out stretched the Orderly Officer,.

"That," thought the strategist, "has really given me the pip."

He looked down once more; soot filled his victim's throat and some slowly filtered through the air. Oh, well! Only one thing could now take his mind away from the evidence of homicide strewn about him! He would dream in technicolour of Maryland Murdoch the glamorous, glamouress of Hollyoak: Maryland Murdoch - no more guards; "Maryland Murdoch" - his tax returns. Ah, yes! Where was he? Maryland Murdoch —— winning Tatts; Maryland Murdoch. There was something else on his mind!

Of course! Guard No. 4. A razor administered a short, sharp shock when the unsuspected victim stuck out his neck by putting his best foot forward, or whatever he did when he fell over the stove-laden Orderly Officer.

They later cut down the mortal remains of the guard commander who had, by hanging about, finally found the sleep he craved.

Well, maybe you have been strung on as well, although it was reliably reported that those detailed for the duty of his interment were not pleased that their weekly and looked-for visit to the Society for the Improvement of the Mind, held at the local cultural centre, was thereby cancelled.

"Silly boy," they said, "a court-martial would have only given him two days C.B.!"

So, Readers, one and all, may this emotional, love-scented, passionate tale inspire in you a thought for those few and famous men who give so much that you, if not they, might sleep in peace.

Fall out the Guard!

The Regiment goes on parade looking mighty smart,
The R.S.M. comes along and tries to break our heart,
He drills us till we nearly drop, and then is heard to mutter,
"Not too bad! Not too bad! Let's have another little flutter".

So away we go again to "Slope", "Present", and "Halt",
Till the R.S.M. is satisfied and cannot find a fault,
And when we're dismissed and gathered at our morning tea,
You'll hear these sighs of real relief, "Thank God! He didn't see me!"

The word spreads along the lines —	
Is heard in every room. 
We've heard it now so many times, 
It's like the knell of doom.
 
There's nothing any bloke can do 
For sure his name is on it! 
The list for guard of honour's due. 
And it's me for my best bonnet!
 
The R.I.P.. next day is full, 
The halt, the lame and lying 
But the MO.. is very cruel; 
He only treats the dying!
 
So there's nothing can be done 
To escape the honoured guard, 
Except to work on the kit like fun, 
And pray "It" won't be hard.

2110836 L.-Cpl. R. JOHNSON, "B" Squadron.

Light-Aid Detachment.

Sergeant Malone has turned big game hunter and has found it an electrifying experience.

Plagued by mice in the L.A.D. store he announced his intention of making an electric trap. While disclosing his plot he noticed a mouse listening in. With Stuka-like rapidity his hand provided a shocking experience for the interested eavesdropper. Duly constructed the trap has proved effective.

We are not certain, but one score reported spoke of one mouse certain, three craftsmen probable. As one bait-robbed trap said to the other,

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