the hard yards
the hard yards to William ‘Pop’ Rumble my grandfather on my mother"s side had the kind of look in his blue eye that put the wind up me, a sharpness that seemed to me, in my heedless and running years, said he saw to the bottom of me and what i was up to, and who knows, perhaps what i would and wouldn"t become. he"d done the hard, the rotten yards between trenches and from the merry-go- round of machine-gun fire at passchendale* carried his life back in one piece to drive his locomotives up and down the hard-won track our towns were stitched together with. his mates from old war days no doubt said he was strict, a sour bugger for on anzac day he"d walk in no dawn parade to let the chill of bugle call unhinge him, he"d enter no pub and no drop of beer would touch his lip that day lest in a moment"s foolishness, a careless bloody laugh, he might be seen to betray the catalogue of horrors he kept back in mind and nightmare, and even more, lest anyone think
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