An Acrostic to do With Minor Tactics
(and some advice)

Fighting needs a certain care,
Its conduct ruled by those in place - but
Righteous talk by those not there
Embroil our men who then lose face.

And we ask, should our young men
(Never sure of why they must.)
Defend themselves against the pen?

Make sure you task your fighting man
On those you really want to beat.
View your reasons twice and then
Ensure those reasons reach the street.
Mean what you say, do what you mean,
Enabling yours to win your war;
Never cease supporting him
Today, tomorrow, ever more.

A man remembered, Peter Bunn.
In those days vigorous, full of fun.
While we ‘The Company’ gain in skill
(Training hard we learn to ****)
Peter treats sore feet and sprains,
As we do, so does he - he trains.

As Infantry we must be fit,
No reason to be wealthy.
And Peter’s role, that’s his remit,
Was thus to keep us healthy.
A simple task would you agree,
Corporal Medic - Infantry?

Excepting, we were sent to war.
To fight of course, and what is more
All that blood and all that pain,
All that stress and all that strain,
Collectively on eighty men.
We needed Peter - now and then.

But all I see when looking back
Is Peter kneeling on a track
Before a man (It’s what I saw.)
Who lies there bleeding (**** this War.).
Who shivered, trembled, then who died.
And that’s the time when Peter cried.

'Twas a bitter, November morning,
With wind, icy hale, and some snow.
And one's fingers too cold to do buttons up.
If you served at Carlisle, you would know.

And I was recruit in the Army,
We were formed up for morning parade.
I thought my World had gone barmy
As I listened to Sergeant’s tirade.

He was going on about rifles,
That working parts had to be clean.
So that we would **** all the enemy.
I thought he were just being mean.

But then he asked for my weapon.
Never call it a gun.
It is cardinal sin in the Army,
Even to say it in fun.

Now, I know I had started to clean it.
But pull-through had, sort of, got stuck.
When corporal had told me to get outside room
To pick up yesterday's muck.

Before breakfast our mornings were bedlam,
And I was always in trouble,
For corporal kept bellowing orders to room,
Wanting everything done at the double.

So, pull-through remained in my rifle.
'T’were there when we fell in for drill.
And when sergeant asked for to look at it
I suddenly felt terribly ill.

He took it and grasped it by muzzle and stock,
There was no need to pull back the slide,
For I had to leave all the working parts out
'Cos. there ‘weren't’ room with pull-through inside.

When sergeant saw this, he just looked at me.
Through me 't’were better it said.
Then suddenly: 'Cheshire', he screamed, 'Who gave me you?'
And: 'Why do I wish you were dead?'

There was nowt I could say back to sergeant,
Upset, as he was, standing there.
Useless explaining my pull-through,
And more than I ever would dare.

I knew it was going to happen.
There was nowt I could say in the snow.
For as sergeant gave back my rifle, he snarled
'To the guard room, double, now go.'

I was warned about joining Army,
I was told that it would not be fun,
But nobody told me the trouble I'd have
With that pull-through stuck in my gun.

Were they really the good old days?

I used to bicycle to school when I was young and on the go.
And in Wintertime I mind it was not nice.
We kids would ride our bikes
Through slush, and often through the snow.
On surfaces made treacherous by ice.

My bike was put together with parts filched from ******* pit.
Parts garnered here and there and taken to my home.
I washed them first in kerosene, then soaked in oil each bit.
Once assembled, then the World was mine to roam.

Although it looked quite battered and it rattled every ride,
And the wheels, they wobbled, and it had a squeak.
That bike was mine, all mine, and if you classify by pride
I reckon RollsRoyce would not stand a chance, well, so's to speak.

But the brakes on that bike they never worked.
And its metal handlebars were bare.
And in Winter it was scary stuff,
Because of brakes, and ice on roads,
And never having gloves to wear.

At school (with bike stowed in racks) I would join the queue.
My runny nose and hurting ears,
Numbed hands and fingertips quite blue.
Shivering, cold before the classroom door,
Waiting for my turn at taps and running water,
And for my hands to thaw.

A Reflection:
Beside that track in jungle green
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.),
Sweat-soaked, *****, and unseen
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.).
These young men who crouch, so still
They poise to pounce, to make their ****,
In doing so they do your will. Just
Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.

Platoon, or Company, Section strong
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.),
Led by those who do no wrong
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.).
Trained by the same consummate skill,
Focused thus to do your will,
But - yours to pay is the butchers' bill; if you
Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.

And when they stop, too old to serve
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.).
Ensure they get what they deserve
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.).
For at that time, they must not find
That you and yours have changed your mind.
If might you then feel less than kind, don't
Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.

The Army of Lord Cardigan,
Its uniforms so smart,
The men, although they had never fought,
Dressed such, they looked the part.

The Fourth, the Thirteenth Light Dragoon’s,
The Eighth, the Eleventh Hussars, all made,
If you include the Seventeenth,
What then they called The Light Brigade:

Mounted, fast, but lightly armoured.
Launched at guns as they retreat,
And cutting down the infantry
With thrusting Lance if e’er they’d meet.

Skirmishing; reconnaissance.
The Light Brigade took pride to be
Proud horsemen, hard and ruthless men,
Well - British Cavalry.

And Brudenell, ‘twas his, the boast,
Had dressed his men to please his sight.
His officers? Yes, they looked like fops,
But make no bones, those men could fight.

‘Lord Raglan wishes the cavalry to advance rapidly to the front, follow the enemy, and try to prevent them carrying away the guns.’

General Raglan drafted orders,
He could see what should be done.
He sent to Lucan via Nolan,
Ordering him to charge the gun.

But Lucan redirected Nolan,
‘Speak to Cardigan,’ the man
Who, when told ‘attack the Russians,’
Said ‘Well, if you think I can.’

‘But which guns does my lord desire
We charge, what does the General say?’
And though he full knew where the guns were,
Nolan waved a different way.

‘There, my lord, there is your enemy.
There, my lord, the Russian gun.
There, my lord, do not you see?
It’s that way, lord, that fate must run.’

Well may you ask, why did he do it?
Was Nolan not an honourable man?
We will never know the reason.
Ponder that as best you can.

Meanwhile the men sit restless mounts
Which shuffle, snort, dressed by the right.
Tossing heads, their reins held loosely,
Each and all can sense the fight.

What Cardigan (called Lord Haw, Haw)
Thought at the time it’s hard to tell.
But someone heard him murmuring
‘This charge will finish Brudenell.’

Then he wheeled about on Ronald,
Drawing forth an untried blade.
He trotted out to centre front
Of those they called the Light Brigade.

By troop, by squadron, sabres drawn.
Hussar and Lancer, Light Dragoon,
Each regiment Royal duty sworn,
Each man to die and that but soon.

And on whose flanks, there lay high ground,
From watching Russian comes no sound.
While in the valley still and hot
Rings out the order, ‘Walk-march, trot – ‘
—————
‘Bugler, sound the advance’

And as we canter forth the guns begin
To range with ball this Light Brigade, for history shaped.
Poor Nolan lies with rictus grin,
The first one dead, the first life *****.

The thunderous noise, the gathering mist,
Hold in your horse, dress by the right,
Your sabre drill, your strength of wrist,
Will see you through the coming fight.

The bugler’s sounding gallop now.
Through dense, white smoke the canons roar.
Each rider urges on his horse,
Midst raging death demanding more.

The Thirteenth point, their sabres reach.
The Seventeenth, their levelled lances,
Close in you *******, fill that breech,
Adjust your dressing (sidelong glances).

And in the crashing, frenzied fight,
Milling shapes that cut and ******
And loom and rage and loudly cry in fright,
Swiping, slashing as they must.

But some are through.
As from the melee we can hear the shout,
(Mrs. Dubberly sips her tea; admires the view.)
**, Light Brigade, form threes about.

Whimper the wounded crouched in pain.
Screams the horse again, again.
These are the victims, these and the slain.
Pray let the memories all remain.

Lest we forget.

Nigel was a Scotchman
Who wore the kilt an aw,
He stained it with some marmalade
And rubbed his sporran raw.

A habit from his army days
When dressed in jungle green.
And pretty girls were few and far
And Nigel far too mean

To spend his hard-earned pennies
On bowls of mutton stew,
So, he took to nightly rubbing
Of his sporran - wouldn’t you?

But we all love you, Nigel.
Aye, hail, and rain doth blaw,
You great Scotch *** in jam smeared kilt.
Ye Guffey **** an aw.