Fed Up (p579 war correspondence)

"The great expression here among the soldiers is "fed up". If a man is sick and tired of anything, he is "fed up" on it. We are "fed up" on the war; fed up on the constant bustle and change of camp; fed up on the hoarse inarticulated wailings of the Jack mules, which disturb our slumbers every night; fed up on the bouilli beef and biscuits, which constitute our rations when travelling; fed up on being shot at by men hidden in rocks a hundred feet above us without a chance of replying; fed up on tending sick, lame, and sore-backed horses; fed up on going out on picket duty on the cold rocks for 24 hours at a stretch, when there isn’t an enemy within 24 miles; fed up on seeing and hearing nothing but war in the papers, nothing but men in khaki on the plains, nothing but officers in the towns and clubs; and yet we wouldn’t go back - not for a pension - till the whole affair is over. Till that time you will find the Australians, like all the others, growling at being rushed to the front, and growling twice as badly if they are left behind; every body growls at this business, and I don’t think any one has more reason to do so than myself, as I have not got a letter or line from New South Wales for three months. The military post office is the most military department there is. They send letters round to the various brigades in a happy-go-lucky style, and sometimes we get a huge bag of mails, which are opened with great delight, and turn out to be all for some other troops that we have never seen ...

FED UP Sydney Mail, 26 May 1900

I ain’t a timid man at all, I’m just as brave as most,
I‘ll take my chance in open fight and die beside my post;
But riding round the ‘ole day lang as target for a Krupp,
A-drawing fire from Koppies - well, I’m fair fed up.

It’s wonderful how few get hit, it’s luck that pulls us through;
Their rifle fire’s no class at all, it misses me and you;
But when they sprinkle shells around like water from a cup
From that there blooming pom-pom gun - well, I’m fed up.

We never get a chance to charge, to do a thrust and cut,
I’ll have to chuck the Cavalry and join the Mounted Fut.
But after all - What’s Mounted Fut? I saw them t’other day,
They occupied a koppie when the Boers had run away.
The Cavalry went riding on and seen a score of fights,
But there they kept them Mounted Fut three solid days and nights -
Three solid starving days and nights with scarce a bite or sup,
Well! after that on mounted Fut I’m fair fed up.

And tramping with the Footies ain’t as easy as it looks,
They scarcely ever see a Boer except in picture books.
They do a march of twenty mile that leaves ‘em nearly dead,
And then they find the bloomin’ Boers is twenty miles ahead.
Each Footy is as full of fight as any bulldog pup,
But walking forty miles to fight - well, I’m fed up!

So after all I think that when I leave the Cavalry
I’ll either join the ambulance or else the A.S.C.;
They’ve always tucker in the plate and coffee in the cup,
But bully beef and biscuits - well! I’m fair fed up!