Carol’s Column

Fasten your helmets and your false teeth

TOGETHER they marched.

With their flat feet, fallen arches, false teeth, knock-knees, sore backs and flabby stomachs wobbling in the wind — they were the cream of our country.

They looked hot and sticky in their unaccustomed khakis, their caps neatly perched on balding, greying heads.

Their glasses glinted in the sunlight and with pride, they thrust their stomachs forward.

Suddenly, one soldier came to a halt.

An older troopie — he must have been about 59, tall, distinguished and silver-haired stepped out of line.

Causing, the men behind him to stumble, bumble, falter and fall as they bumped into him and came to a halt in their turn.

Indeed, there was much confusion in the ranks.

The troopie stamped his foot petulantly.

"This is ridiculous," he bellowed in a voice used to commanding a boardroom. "I refuse to carry this damn R1 any more. It's giving me a crick in my neck."

So saying, he flung his rifle to the ground, looked around and shouted: "Caddy!"

From somewhere a little, darkish fellow materialised and silently picked up the heavy rifle.

"Right, let's tee off," yelled the older troopie. And off they marched into the setting sun.

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"Why are you laughing to yourself?" asked my husband in his observant way. "What are you thinking about?"

I gazed at him through narrowed eyes as he sat in his customary position at the head of the table spreading his third slice of wholewheat toast (so good for constipation) with coarse, chunky-peel marmalade.

"I was imagining you and your geriatric cronies in the army," I giggled.

He scratched his silver head. "What's so funny?" he said querulously.

"Can you imagine going on manoeuvres? You, at your age? You'd be exhausted before you got there. Your back will get sore and your cartilages will start rattling like they do when you mow the lawn."

"So, I'll call a taxi," he snapped.

"You can't go into battle in a taxi."

"You'd be surprised," he muttered. "If my country calls, it calls. Dammit — where'd I put my glasses."

He groped around until he found them nestling in the cereal where he'd inadvertently placed them.

The whole thing was mind-boggling. Calling up everyone until the age of 60.

Could you imagine it?

They could have Sol Kerzner in charge of troop entertainment. Nigel Mandy, storeman and keeper of tents. Chris Barnard a [stretcher-]bearer, Gerrie [TEXT CUT OFF WITH SCISSORS] hot, steamy kitchen at 5am, ladling up plates of mielie pap and wors?

I said as much to my husband.

"Neither of them are eligible for call-up," he stated. "One's a Member of Parliament and the other's a foreigner."

He paused reflectively: "Can you imagine how many candidates there'll be for the next election. Seventyeight for each seat, it's certainly a novel way of draft dodging. And lucrative too."

He bit into his piece of toast and continued: "Age is nothing. It's attitude that counts."

I nodded gravely and said supportively: "Anyway, don't worry, when they call you up, they'll probably make you a general immediately. You're so good at commanding."

He looked at me suspiciously.

"They could do worse," he said.

He stood up and slowly made his way upstairs. I could see his corns were troubling him.

"Hey, Honey," he shouted. "Won't you bring me a clean shirt, take my shoes to the shoemaker, buy me some new grey socks, cancel the Rajaks, get the car serviced and phone the plumber and tell him the toilet's leaking."

"Yessir!"

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