It is good to be proud of your service,
Remembering what you have done;
The trials and the tribulations,
The telling of which is such fun.
But time tends your memories to alter,
Contextual fogs shroud the fact.
Thus, sometimes your tales tend to falter
And your audiences cease to react
In ways that you were expecting,
And on Facebook persuasion’s perverse.
So that often when saying the one thing
We broadcast to all the reverse.

In the hard, bright, shining Sun,
There in the Mallee, there in the South.
The family gathered despite the drought,
There in the Mallee, there in the South.
And the women were dressed in their brightest things,
The babies chewed on their teething rings,
While the men discussed what the weather brings.
There in the Mallee, there in the South.
 
Uncle Charlie and I, we sat outside,
There in the Mallee, there in the South.
I had told him my job, of my soldierly pride,
There in the Mallee, there in the South.
As we sat in the shade with our glasses of port
I had no idea what the old man thought
As I described the Army and those of my sort
There in the Mallee, there in the South.
 
When I had finished he poured more port from the flagon,
There in the Mallee, there in the South,
As we sat in the shade of an old hay wagon,
There in the Mallee, there in the South.
He said to me 'son, I think if you must
Serve in the Army, that's fine, but just
What do you actually do for a crust?'
He said, there in the Mallee, there in South.
 
In the hard, bright, shining Sun,
There in the Mallee, there in the South.
The family gathered despite the drought,
There in the Mallee, there in the South.
While the men discussed what the weather brings
And the babies chewed on their teething rings
Uncle Charlie and I spoke of other things
There in the Mallee, there in the South.

Three Section
1968 Woodside

Remember sitting ‘neath that tree?
Frank, Les, Russel, me,
Stankowski, Jim and **** Knight;
Just chatting;
Resting at last light.

The brew we shared, ‘twas passed around.
As sprawled at ease there on the ground,
Reflecting on the day - its highlights and the low.
And in the gathering, peaceful quiet, and the dark,
Each one of us
The other learned to know.

Though Conscripted everyone, those men.
And disparate lives from every shore.
I think we realised even then
(Whatever might the future have in store),
That we existed as a special group - Three Section -
And would be so ever more.

And in times to come, that future unbeknown.
Dispersed; no longer bound by service life;
But having once belonged and having shown
Each one to all that secret place revealed by war, by ****** strife.
The common ties then, wrought by wisdom
Subsequently garnered through the years,
Surely that must comfort and in part dispel the tears.

When I were recruit in the Army
And standing there on parade,
Sergeant, he thought I was barmy,
For on collar I'd marmalade.

This happened on morning inspection,
That we'd had before work, which was drill.
And I'd just got back from my breakfast
Where of marmalade I'd had my fill.

Now sergeant seeing marmalade,
Stood back and rubbed at his eyes.
'How did that get on your collar', he said,
And his voice reflected surprise.

'It happened at breakfast this morning' I said.
'Twere my turn to fetch in the brew.
And cookhouse were crowded as usual,
At table were usual crew.

We'd finished our eggs and our bacon,
A fine, sumptuous meal had we made.
And I'd thought to mop up grease from my plate
With some bread spread with marmalade'.

Now sergeant at this point turned purple.
His eyes disappeared out of sight.
My squad it started to giggle.
Which I didn't think was right.

I went to go on with story,
Explain about marmalade.
How it might have got onto my collar
And upset the sergeant's parade.

But to listen he suddenly seemed of no mind.
There were specks of his spit in the air.
The foam round his mouth made him seem most unkind
And he swore, which I thought were unfair.

Then, 'Cheshire', he said (that were my name),
'I think you have had your fun'.
He whispered 'now go to the guard room'.
Then screamed 'at the double go, run'.

So, I doubled away from sergeant's parade
knowing not, even now, what I'd done.
But I'm sure that he who flicked marmalade
On my collar did so in fun.

My Muse, she’s flown I know not where
I sit here tearing out my hair,
And why this need to write a word?
It isn’t mad it’s just absurd.

And yet, and yet, despite it all
I think my thoughts might still enthral.
If only I could set them down
Instead of coddling with my frown.

But Muse why did you go away
To leave my life in disarray?
What happened that upset you so?
What did I do to make you go?

Caesar’s Ghost

Last night I spoke with Caesar's ghost.
We both had had our fill of wine.
But then the ******* made a boast:
How his blokes would have beaten mine.

Now, a General I have never been.
Whilst saying that reluctantly,
I could not argue what he had seen.
Thus, had to think most carefully.

Therefore, I spoke of contact drills,
Of duty weeks and other thrills.
And of the things that I had seen
Tales of what I once had been.

But carefully, not beating breast,
For after all He was the best.
Recounting only what I saw,
Not saying much about my war.

But talk, why not where I have been?
Am I ashamed of what I have seen?
Or, I am asking, is it wrong
To beat one's chest, to sing one's song?

That man of Caesar's who jumped ship
With Eagle held in calloused grip.
Inspiring witnesses to roar,
Then wade with him to Britain's shore.

Is he so different? Or might I say
To Caesar, “come round here and have a look
At all these men so brave today.
Would you have put them in your book?”

No. Really what I meant to say
To Caesar was that on the day
He launched his men through thick and thin
It was because he meant those men to win.

Whereas in our bold day and age
No matter who might shout and rage
We do not do that anymore.
We will fight, but not to win the war.

Which is why I left the swine,
Came back to Earth, peered at my wine.
He knew, thus his boasting leers.
I knew he knew, thus my shame and these my tears.

On Rosemead Road, my morning’s walk,
A hill that’s far too steep for talk
Or mumbling, grumbling, so I climb
In silence; and to make my time
I shorten step, I pump my arms,
Now’s not the time for social charms.
Nor acting as if on the stage.
This time’s for beating off old age.