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.

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.

I was once a soldier smart,
Learned to stamp my feet, the art
Of calling out 'The Time', the thrill
Of perfect, synchronising drill.

We did it in the Sunshine glare
On what was called parade ground square.
It's something that I'll always miss.
Those halcyon days, what perfect bliss

To march along in line abreast,
Our arms swung well up to our chest.
Rhythmic, gravelled, crunching feet,
With Pipes and Drums, and pagan beat.

When marking time we'd raise our knees,
Oh what a jape, oh what a wheeze.
We'd point the toe, dig in the heel,
Stay with the marker on the wheel.

Saluting dais comes in sight
So make your dressing by the right.
Neck to collar and chest out,
This is what it's all about.

Look at us, performing fleas:
Shoulder, order, stand at ease;
Perfect creases, looking good,
Just like all good soldiers should.

I stand beside these rank, grassed, mounded piles of soil
'Neath which the mouldering dead lie in repose.
Their mode of death reflects, I guess, the toil
We made of living then, which is fair enough.
Though what was it do you suppose
They thought about and lived life for?
That question might be too tough
For any one person's answer; too severe.
And Heaven only knows
The forgotten wisdom
That lies now buried here.

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!’