In this age when bullying is such an item of concern I cannot help smiling whenever I recall my youth as a boy soldier; then it (bullying) was practiced as an art form, encouraged (I’m sure) by authority for its “character building aspects”. Thus:

When I was in the Army, well, that's Apprentice school,
Inspecting one's belongings, early morning seemed the rule.
And many hours spent beezing boots and ironing, folding, kit.
Taught me to carry on with smile and hate it every bit.
One had to lay one's kit on bed, and sleep by there on floor
To survive next morning's panicked fright begun by crashing door,
And that prancing A/T noncom., his ego, bully led,
Who would burst his way into our World and yell 'Stand by your bed'.

Then we'd all leap to attention, crumpled, ruffled hair.
And our eyes they'd be unseeing though we each knew he was there,
Looking straight ahead, just hoping, as he poked among our stuff,
As he picked up polished boots, that he wouldn't be too rough,
And hurl them through the window or against the fire door,
That he wouldn't scrape his own boot studs along our polished floor.
Of course, these hopes, these dreams of ours, were just pies in the sky.
As well to hope or dream like that, well, pigs might even fly.

Now he's checking button stick, and laces properly square
And the cardboard frame inside your shirt, the one you never wear.
The plimsoles stiffly black which you've polished shiny bright.
The dimensions of your bed block; that counterpane's real tight.
And its corners, every corner, must be folded tight to bed.
If it's not, you'll spend a morning drilling hard outside with Fred.
And now, today, I marvel that our masters thought it right
To let this sneering, snarling, youth on us vent all this spite.

But the proven test of character when all is said and done
Was despite the gruelling life we led, we jeeps, we still had fun.
And my particular little joy, the butter on my bread
Was thinking, when outside of School, I'm going to smash his head.
Some others might have thought the same not that it really matters,
For though I don't recall his name, his memory lies in tatters.
And after all, recalling life, those patterns on the quilt,
Can we be sure that what we write is free of any guilt?

In memory of Jack Button whom I respected.
(Sing it to the tune of When I Was a Lad)

When I was a lad just skin and feet
I got me a job delivering meat.
Delivering meat wrapped up a treat
To all the little houses that are in your street.
(Yes, all the little houses that are in your street.)

Jacky B was the man for me,
The local butcher for our family.
‘Twas he wrapped up, addressed the meat
To all the little houses that are in your street.
(Yes, all the little houses that are in your street.)

When the job began to the butcher’s I ran.
Can you ride a bicycle? of course I can.
Well, there is the meat so if you like,
You can put it in the basket of your butcher’s bike.
(Yes, put it in the basket of your butcher’s bike.)

So, with bacon, beef, with liver and chop
I peddled my way from the butcher’s shop.
But treading on the pedals to shift the load
I skidded on the gravel of a slippery road.
(He skidded on the gravel of a slippery road.)

My bike it fell, it spun around.
I sat on my bottom with a thump profound.
And whilst not hurt I had torn my shirt
And the meat to be delivered it was in the dirt.
(And the meat to be delivered it was in the dirt.)

With a horrified shout I scrabbled about,
Picking up the meat which had fallen out.
But what distressed, and it still depresses,
Whilst putting back the meat I mixed up the addresses.
(The silly little boy, he mixed up the addresses.)

To the butcher’s eventually I went,
Having given up the meat from my bike which was bent.
It squealed, had a squeak, I could barely speak
And after such excitement I felt physically weak.
(After such excitement he felt physically weak.)

Well, Jacky B when he spoke to me
Was not a happy chappie I could clearly see.
For he gave the counter a mighty thump,
Then, ‘Mrs., Ormond said she got Tripe not ****.’
(‘Mrs., Ormond said she got Tripe not ****.’)

There followed a tale of woe so long
Of all the meat deliveries that I had wrong
And when he had finished, he said do not come
To work, and anyway I shall tell your Mum.
(and anyway, young Michael I shall tell your Mum)

So, sausages, liver, beef, or heart
If you want a proper job, you must play your part.
And unless you want to be like me
You should pedal your bike most carefully
(Make sure you always pedal most carefully)

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.