‘The parade will advance in ***** order.
By the centre, quick’…;
Thump, thump, thump; thump, thump, thump...;
Here they come the marching dead,
Those remembered, those who bled,
Those believing what was said,
Those who went to war.
Fifteen paces, halt. One-two.
Now the dead stand, facing you.
Solid phalanx, perfect square.
Shield wall, blank wall, they're all there.
These dead men before your eyes.
Let's just hope you've told no lies
To those who went to war.
Look, they're now presenting arms;
Weapons flash against the sky.
As you who watch but never die,
And never ask the reasons why
Applaud the dead, their drill, their show,
We'll stand, to straighten up our dress
And go for canapés - for drinkies,
With you in the Mess.
Sep 28, 2025
Sep 28, 2025 at 6:37 PM UTC
Getting By
Many years ago, I trod lightly through the woods,
Being careful not to crush the undergrowth with my feet.
I would gently push aside impediments to progress
So as not to bruise or crush the soft, green foliage of my World.
In those days to make a noise was dangerous.
So, I trod quietly too.
Many years ago, I carried on my back
Those items They considered essential for my life:
I carried food. I carried ammunition, shelter,
And water in a plastic bag. These, They said, would be sufficient.
As well, about my waist I carried a compass, more water, and hand-Grenades. In those days books were used to escape the woods
So, I carried one of those too.
But Their essentials for my life, I found weighed heavy on my back.
Collectively they hurt, and made a clumsy, introverted observer
Of the World about; noisy, looking in instead of out.
Which was dangerous for us all. So, I lightened my load.
And in doing so disregarded the rules by which my life was ordered. I got rid of some food, and the water in the plastic bag.
But not the book. I kept the book. And the hand-grenades.
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 7:06 PM UTC
In 1959 as a boy soldier, living in a barrack room with thirty other boys, the moments enabling private thought were rare and to be cherished. My quiet time was always when polishing the brasses of my equipment in preparation for the morning parade. But one had to be very careful, because the brass furnishings of our whitened belts, and our blancoed belts and the awful gaiters we had to wear, were potential disasters which required very careful navigation; as were the many crevasses of hat badge, tunic button and collar dog; for brass, when moved across the blancoed or the whitened surface, leaves behind a pencil-like mark, and Brasso, if not wholly removed, will dry to a white, visible crust. All of which provides manna to hostile, inspecting authority. Hence the inevitable morning parade apprehension. But in those days, we were told it - all of it - was to the benefit of the Army, providing the foundation for its great victories and its heroes. Hence this little verse:
Polished, a glorious, glittering gleam.
Always done using Brasso and brush,
Midst the bustle, the turmoil - one's own little dream.
One's own quiet moment despite morning's rush.
Concentrate, carefully, do not smear the tunic
For Brasso will leave a nasty, white stain.
And you will then have to face all that music.
And on Saturday morning do it again.
It is not as though there's a fault he can pick.
He always takes time to inspect everyone.
And, as with your cleaning you used button stick,
If everything's fastened, there's nought to be done.
So, why are you anxious about the parade?
What could there possibly be to go wrong?
For this is the way that soldiers are made,
Those heroes much vaunted in poem and song.
Well, that's what I thought. That's what they said.
So, imagine the horror, and how surprised
They will be, those heroes, now long dead,
To learn buttons and badges are anodised.
And of course, what price Velcro?
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 6:24 PM UTC
There once was a pussycat and an owl.
They went to sea in a boat.
But wind, wave, the weather so foul
Left the boat without oars and the cat and the owl
Without fur, feather, flannel, or towel.
And when Nighttime swooped with
With a terrible howl
The boat refused to float.
Aug 29, 2025
Aug 29, 2025 at 11:03 PM UTC
I was once an RSM.
Not one of us, but one of them.
And if you thought I did not care
Reflect, your moments on the square.
How carefully drilled were you out there?
And did you not feel full of pride
When talking of your job, outside?
And when you thought you should impress,
How careful were you with your dress?
Who do you think it was took care
To make sure that you would, out there,
Function, move, just as we train.
Through any weather or terrain.
To **** or capture, seize and hold - to fight.
Attack, defend, by day, by night?
Not one of us, twas one of them.
That nasty man, the RSM.
Aug 28, 2025
Aug 28, 2025 at 7:01 PM UTC
Joy there is in what we do the day
We ‘oldies’ when we gather here.
Such, that sitting down, let’s say
To drinking wine or drinking beer.
Indeed, our aim has ever been
(notwithstanding age or health),
Forgetting rank, just come, be seen
And chat with others - they who’s life, who’s wealth,
And by ‘whose wealth’ we don’t mean fiscal measure,
True value isn’t based on coin.
No, we have the immeasurable treasure
That reposes in the memories shared by all of those who dine.
Yes, all of those who dine - with you, with me.
One and all - Just Infantry.
Aug 25, 2025
Aug 25, 2025 at 6:24 AM UTC
An Arborfield Influence.
It is still On My Conscience.
It's the guest room at Dun Gypping. I am quaffing tepid tea
From a chipped, pint *** with A.A.S., someone has poured for me.
And although I have had better tea I really can't complain
About this brew I'm drinking now.
Perhaps I should explain:
When young and given jankers (seven days, ‘twas never less),
The powers-that-be would always make you work in officers' mess.
And if, while there, one felt the need to go and have a ***
Why! Just take off lid to tea *** and urinate in the tea.
And cook would laugh and swirl it round, the steward serve it up,
Then come back to kitchen and tell us who had cup.
But that was years and years ago. Squaddies then but brutes.
And here there is no jankers, and they don't take in recruits.
Thus this tea that I am sipping, poured out by you for me.
Might be strong and tepid but I know it's free of ***
Aug 22, 2025
Aug 22, 2025 at 6:59 PM UTC
"Long Khan Province, 10 July 1969.
The contact report, it stated..."
I remember Raymond K at Woodside,
Sitting on the bed next to mine.
He was sewing buttons on a shirt and wincing
At my ***** ribald, song.
It was not so much my singing (which was loud)
But the stupid, foul profanity which he hated.
Nowadays, I think I've changed but Ray hasn't;
Ray can't, he's dead.
And you will never, ever put to right that wrong,
But needs must carry it forever,
With you in your head.
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 11:38 PM UTC
One morning safe in barracks while sitting on the loo,
Our Colonel, who'd put duty first, was wondering what to do.
He had sounded out the adjutant and the R.S.M.
He had asked that pair what did they think would occupy the men.
They had answered 'drill, sir. Men love parade ground stuff'.
But the Colonel, after consultation, thought they had had enough.
Their morale it should be lifted, satisfaction thus enjoyed.
'We must not have the men abused but gainfully employed'.
Thus, next morning doing block jobs, the diggers were astonished
When told by sergeant of platoon that toilets must be polished.
''Tis for honour and the Company's pride' he'd said to busy soldier
'And pleased it is you'll be my boy before you're too much older.
That instead of stamping feet on square or theory of the gun,
Or concealment from an enemy, or stalking (which is fun),
You will spend your time with elbow grease each morning here with me,
Polishing taps and porcelain and cleaning lavatory'.
So that every week when CO. comes to look at WC.,
Accompanied by the Major and all the powers-that-be,
And they poke round toilet ledges, check louvred slats for dust,
These expert fighting officers smelling drains because they must
Ensure their Colonels wish, and we to quench our Major's thirst,
So that of Battalion's toilets it is his that comes in first.
And young, fit, soldier volunteers, now feeling ****** annoyed
Are denied a soldier’s training to be gainfully employed.
But enough of silly moralising, “holier than thee.”
Who was it beat up all the rest for champion company?
Well, that was Sergeant Kusba, who were a devious swine.
He had doctored water closets, so they smelled like table wine.
Well, 'twere lemon essence really, after which one could not flush.
With a secret guard on toilet bowls to ward off morning rush.
Which was borne by me and Sergeant Glen 'til trickery did we smell,
After which we cornered Kusba in the Mess and gave him Hell.
And we as well began to use the lemon essence trick.
We all professed to satisfy but thought our Colonel thick,
As he stood at water closet breathing deeply, satisfied,
The diggers standing by their beds all laughed until they cried.
And the CSM., cognisant, fed-up as much as we,
Served the Colonel and his minions a scrumptious morning tea,
Whilst they stood relaxed and at their ease upon our polished floor,
Between ***** trough on one side, on the other, closet door.
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 6:40 PM UTC
It's hard to see
Why one would be
A soldier
In the Infantry.
Well, I was there,
Marched on that square;
And I don't care
That people stare.
They have the right
But, in that light,
Should not incite
That for which they will not fight.
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 5:47 PM UTC