At a place calłed Fallingbostel - 13/18th (QMO).
We “Volunteered” for duties: officers' mess.
The work would not be onerous, they told us.'Oh, no, no.’
But doing it we were to wear our service dress.

The E.M.E. when he spoke to us, his briefing, made us see
That this was not a punishment (he said that with a grin),
But esprit de corp and we would be
Part of the Regiment. We, the L.A.D., and mucking in.

Well, we knew at Balaclava they had posted right of flank,
And had crashed through Russian guns, pushed back the horse.
And although those self-same subalterns might now command a tank,
We didn't think they'd have the skills to stop our cunning course.

A marquee had been erected with good hussar elan,
And tables laid with linen, posted large.
And we, now stewards, R.E.M.E. lads, had us a ****** good plan
For Balaclava, celebrating famous light horse charge.

And so, we gathered, three of us, in the mess that afternoon,
The kitchen where the food was set and tasted.
They thought us nice and early, but we knew we weren't too soon,
For we were on reconnaissance and that’s time never wasted.

Yes, three of us to serve the guests of Baden-Powell's men.
We being driver, reccy-mec, and a fitter-gun (which was me).
So smart we looked, efficient, remembering back to then.
But we three soldiers of the Queen were bent on larceny.

Picture marquee in the night.
Glittering sky so very bright.
Muted music, candlelight,
Bottles purloined to the night.
Muted clink of glass on glass
Our bottles nestling in the grass.

So, as we wend our way into the night, our duty done.
Giggling, laughing, what a lark we're thinking.
Having cached those bottles, having had our fun,
Now is the time to settle down to do some serious drinking.

But horror, in the dark there's just one bottle in the nest,
Left there as thanks (I think more likely as fair-go).
*******! the common thought, what happened to the rest?
Then distant Polish singing - those blasted MSO.

Our stolen loot's been stolen. Unbelievable. A sin.
And its no use crying over milk that's spilt, or *****, whisky, wine
Let's go and find out if those drunks of Poles will let us in
Let's go get drunk and give them best. The rotten, ***** swine.

A Long time ago, this bloke that I know
Was sentenced - ten days, unit jail.
Unwarranted time for a piddling crime,
But recounted it makes a nice tale.
 
In those days when troubled all marching men doubled.
The escorts, they follow at ease.
But this bloke that I know, who they’d kept on the go,
He thought up this wondrous wheeze.
Whilst lifting his feet as they called out the beat
He thought, why not stay on the run?
If I doubled to there, then went round the square.
I could have a good bit of fun?
 
Well, as fit as can be (an athlete was he),
He takes off at right, scorching pace.
And the escort behind thinks it very unkind
To be caught by surprise at that place;
Which was R.H.Q.; between me and you,
Exactly the place to embarrass
And shake off his back, that cocky “lance-jack,”
The twerp who had thought him to harass.
 
Who, majestically marching, his back stiffly arching,
With arms straight and swinging breast high,
Chin up and chest out - gives an indignant shout
‘Cos the prisoner ignores his loud cry.
 
Which is ‘double, mark time.’ An order quite fine.
Its echo, ‘tis heard round the camp.
But as it resounds our prisoner, he bounds.
The right, rotten, devious scamp.
And the Colonel stared, and the RSM glared
As two running soldiers race past.
One for the “hoot”, and one in pursuit,
Both going very fast.
 
Around the Square just like a hare,
But now the word is out.
Where’er they go, the running pair
Call forth a mighty shout.
Our man they cheer,
Him they jeer,
The Regiment roars its glee.
Winded, lagging, no more bragging
N.A.A.F.I. time for he.
 
Poor Geordie cursed; for this, well versed,
He shouts at prisoners every day.
But now he mutters, now he blusters.
What is he going to say?
In despair, his charge elsewhere,
Sweating, panting, much disheveled;
Approaches doom, cloaked in gloom,
Enters now the dread Guardroom.
 
Where at trestle table
Sits the provost sergeant, grim;
Massive, strong and able,
Frightens all those sent to him.
He’s stalwart for the R.S.M.,
Never talks but yells.
And to help the CO punish men
He throws them in the cells.
 
And stands there Geordie, topmost stair;
Sans prisoner, beret, R.P. sneer;
Sergeant growls: ‘Get in here.’
Then looking out from ‘neath his beetled brow:
‘Corporal, where’s your prisoner….. How?’
 Red faced, G. mutters, then he stutters;
Starts explaining then complaining,
Lost for words, and - so he lingers;
Cell door slams, it’s ‘mind your fingers.’
 
And in the N.A.A.F.I. bar that night
The old and bold they toast the sight
Of what, uniquely, all think best:
It’s Geordie under close arrest.

Although I’ve served near thirty years,
Achieving rank high as can be.
I still remember first parade,
And sergeant starting feud with me.

We had shuffled on parade, in line.
Not yet taught to dress our ranks.
Each nervous with anticipation.
While sergeant, to the Lord gives thanks.

But now it’s time for first inspection.
Worried corporal standing nigh.
As sergeant moves on down our line,
Will he, won't he, pass me by?

In those days, all of fifteen years,
Five feet nine and very thin.
Cocky, full of verve and vim,
But not yet having shaved my chin.

So, sense my fright when this grown man
With medal ribbons from the War,
Intent it seems on finding fault
Stops, stoops, then gives a roar.

I freeze with horror, sudden shock.
The corporal runs up with his book.
“Do you see this?” screams sergeant's voice.
A hairy chin, come, take a look.

And this they do, heads close together.
Both now peering at my chin.
Take his name the Sergeant murmurs,
Thus, I'm noted down for sin.

Black book closes, Sergeant passes
And I think 'alright for some.’
But now he's shouting at another.
'Just you wait, I'll tell my mum!’

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)