shaving and looked at himself in the mirror.
He tried to imagine what other people would make of his face, especially the many different strangers he was about to meet. In the mirror he couldnât get a clear impression of himself. He tried an earnest look, a canny one, then out-and-out gloom and pessimism, all with the help of the uniform. He didnât bother trying to look fierce. For a moment he wondered how he looked to others â older or younger? He then returned to normal, or what appeared to be normal â he still seemed to be pulling faces.
âIâll be off then,â he said to Lina. âI canât exactly say, of course, when Iâll be back.â
He heard his voice, solemn and stiff, as if these were to be the last words to his wife.
âYouâre not even sorry youâre going,â she had cried the night before.
Now at the moment of departure something already felt missing. At the same time, everything around him â including himself â felt too ordinary. Surely at a moment like this everything should have been different. Turning, he kept giving little waves with his pianistâs fingers. Already he was almost having a good time.
*
At the barracks he was told to stand to attention out in the sun with some other men. Later there was a second, more leisurely inspection where he had to stand in a line, naked. Then an exceptionally thin officer seated at a trestle table, whom Banerjee recognised as his local bank manager, asked some brief questions.
Banerjeeâs qualifications were not impressive. The officer sighed, as if the war was now well and truly lost, and taking a match winced as he dug around inside his ear. With some disappointment Banerjee thought he might be let off â sent home. But the officer reached for a rubber stamp. Because of his occupation, âpiano-tunerâ, Banerjee was placed with a small group in the shade, to one side. These were artists, as well as a lecturer in English who sat on the ground clasping his knees, a picture-framer, a librarian as deaf as a post, a signwriter who did shop windows, and others too overweight or too something to hold a rifle.
Over the next few days they marched backwards and forwards, working on drill. They were shown how to look after equipment and when to salute. Nothing much more.
A week had barely gone by when the order came to report to the railway station, immediately. It was late afternoon. Lugging their gear they sauntered behind a silver-haired man who appeared to be a leader. As Banerjee hummed a tune he wondered if they should have been in step. From a passing truck soldiers whistled and laughed at them.
âI donât have a clue where weâre heading.â
âSearch me,â said the signwriter.
Banerjee took a cigarette offered, though he never really smoked.
*
Every seat was taken with soldiers. Most were young, barely twenty, but actually looked like soldiers. Tanned, tired-looking faces in worn uniforms. They played cards or sprawled about in greatcoats. A few gazed out the window, even after it was dark. A few tried writing letters. Some shouted out in their sleep. The motion of the long train and the absence of a known destination gave the impression they were travelling endlessly, while at the same time remaining in the one spot. To Banerjee, the feeling of leaving an old life and heading towards a new unknown life became blurry. A voice asked, âWhat day are we?â Later another, âHas anyone got the time?â
All that night, the following day and the next they travelled slowly, with frequent stops, up the centre of Australia. They were heading towards the fighting. The further north they went the more they stopped in daylight, waiting for hours on end. On the third day the train remained motionless all afternoon, creaking in the heat, and they saw nothing through the windows but low grey bush, a few worn hills in the distance.
A young soldier
He tried to imagine what other people would make of his face, especially the many different strangers he was about to meet. In the mirror he couldnât get a clear impression of himself. He tried an earnest look, a canny one, then out-and-out gloom and pessimism, all with the help of the uniform. He didnât bother trying to look fierce. For a moment he wondered how he looked to others â older or younger? He then returned to normal, or what appeared to be normal â he still seemed to be pulling faces.
âIâll be off then,â he said to Lina. âI canât exactly say, of course, when Iâll be back.â
He heard his voice, solemn and stiff, as if these were to be the last words to his wife.
âYouâre not even sorry youâre going,â she had cried the night before.
Now at the moment of departure something already felt missing. At the same time, everything around him â including himself â felt too ordinary. Surely at a moment like this everything should have been different. Turning, he kept giving little waves with his pianistâs fingers. Already he was almost having a good time.
*
At the barracks he was told to stand to attention out in the sun with some other men. Later there was a second, more leisurely inspection where he had to stand in a line, naked. Then an exceptionally thin officer seated at a trestle table, whom Banerjee recognised as his local bank manager, asked some brief questions.
Banerjeeâs qualifications were not impressive. The officer sighed, as if the war was now well and truly lost, and taking a match winced as he dug around inside his ear. With some disappointment Banerjee thought he might be let off â sent home. But the officer reached for a rubber stamp. Because of his occupation, âpiano-tunerâ, Banerjee was placed with a small group in the shade, to one side. These were artists, as well as a lecturer in English who sat on the ground clasping his knees, a picture-framer, a librarian as deaf as a post, a signwriter who did shop windows, and others too overweight or too something to hold a rifle.
Over the next few days they marched backwards and forwards, working on drill. They were shown how to look after equipment and when to salute. Nothing much more.
A week had barely gone by when the order came to report to the railway station, immediately. It was late afternoon. Lugging their gear they sauntered behind a silver-haired man who appeared to be a leader. As Banerjee hummed a tune he wondered if they should have been in step. From a passing truck soldiers whistled and laughed at them.
âI donât have a clue where weâre heading.â
âSearch me,â said the signwriter.
Banerjee took a cigarette offered, though he never really smoked.
*
Every seat was taken with soldiers. Most were young, barely twenty, but actually looked like soldiers. Tanned, tired-looking faces in worn uniforms. They played cards or sprawled about in greatcoats. A few gazed out the window, even after it was dark. A few tried writing letters. Some shouted out in their sleep. The motion of the long train and the absence of a known destination gave the impression they were travelling endlessly, while at the same time remaining in the one spot. To Banerjee, the feeling of leaving an old life and heading towards a new unknown life became blurry. A voice asked, âWhat day are we?â Later another, âHas anyone got the time?â
All that night, the following day and the next they travelled slowly, with frequent stops, up the centre of Australia. They were heading towards the fighting. The further north they went the more they stopped in daylight, waiting for hours on end. On the third day the train remained motionless all afternoon, creaking in the heat, and they saw nothing through the windows but low grey bush, a few worn hills in the distance.
A young soldier
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