Getting By

Many years ago, I trod lightly through the woods,
Being careful not to crush the undergrowth with my feet.
I would gently push aside impediments to progress
So as not to bruise or crush the soft, green foliage of my World.
In those days to make a noise was dangerous.
So, I trod quietly too.

Many years ago, I carried on my back
Those items They considered essential for my life:
I carried food. I carried ammunition, shelter,
And water in a plastic bag. These, They said, would be sufficient.
As well, about my waist I carried a compass, more water, and hand-Grenades. In those days books were used to escape the woods
So, I carried one of those too.

But Their essentials for my life, I found weighed heavy on my back.
Collectively they hurt, and made a clumsy, introverted observer
Of the World about; noisy, looking in instead of out.
Which was dangerous for us all. So, I lightened my load.
And in doing so disregarded the rules by which my life was ordered. I got rid of some food, and the water in the plastic bag.
But not the book. I kept the book. And the hand-grenades.

In 1959 as a boy soldier, living in a barrack room with thirty other boys, the moments enabling private thought were rare and to be cherished. My quiet time was always when polishing the brasses of my equipment in preparation for the morning parade. But one had to be very careful, because the brass furnishings of our whitened belts, and our blancoed belts and the awful gaiters we had to wear, were potential disasters which required very careful navigation; as were the many crevasses of hat badge, tunic button and collar dog; for brass, when moved across the blancoed or the whitened surface, leaves behind a pencil-like mark, and Brasso, if not wholly removed, will dry to a white, visible crust. All of which provides manna to hostile, inspecting authority. Hence the inevitable morning parade apprehension. But in those days, we were told it - all of it - was to the benefit of the Army, providing the foundation for its great victories and its heroes. Hence this little verse:

Polished, a glorious, glittering gleam.
Always done using Brasso and brush,
Midst the bustle, the turmoil - one's own little dream.
One's own quiet moment despite morning's rush.

Concentrate, carefully, do not smear the tunic
For Brasso will leave a nasty, white stain.
And you will then have to face all that music.
And on Saturday morning do it again.

It is not as though there's a fault he can pick.
He always takes time to inspect everyone.
And, as with your cleaning you used button stick,
If everything's fastened, there's nought to be done.

So, why are you anxious about the parade?
What could there possibly be to go wrong?
For this is the way that soldiers are made,
Those heroes much vaunted in poem and song.

Well, that's what I thought. That's what they said.
So, imagine the horror, and how surprised
They will be, those heroes, now long dead,
To learn buttons and badges are anodised.

And of course, what price Velcro?

I was once an RSM.
Not one of us, but one of them.
And if you thought I did not care
Reflect, your moments on the square.
How carefully drilled were you out there?

And did you not feel full of pride
When talking of your job, outside?
And when you thought you should impress,
How careful were you with your dress?

Who do you think it was took care
To make sure that you would, out there,
Function, move, just as we train.
Through any weather or terrain.

To **** or capture, seize and hold - to fight.
Attack, defend, by day, by night?
Not one of us, twas one of them.
That nasty man, the RSM.

An Arborfield Influence.
It is still On My Conscience.
 
It's the guest room at Dun Gypping. I am quaffing tepid tea
From a chipped, pint *** with A.A.S., someone has poured for me.
And although I have had better tea I really can't complain
About this brew I'm drinking now.
Perhaps I should explain:

When young and given jankers (seven days, ‘twas never less),
The powers-that-be would always make you work in officers' mess.
And if, while there, one felt the need to go and have a ***
Why! Just take off lid to tea ***, and urinate in the tea.
 And cook would laugh and swirl it round, the steward serve it up,
Then come back to kitchen and tell us who had cup.

But that was years and years ago. Squaddies then but brutes.
And here there is no jankers, and they don't take in recruits.
Thus this tea that I am sipping, poured out by you for me.
Might be strong and tepid but I know it's free of ***.

"Long Khan Province, 10 July 1969.
               The contact report, it stated..."
 
I remember Raymond K at Woodside,
Sitting on the bed next to mine.
He was sewing buttons on a shirt and wincing
At my *****, ribald, song.
It was not so much my singing (which was loud)
But the stupid, foul profanity which he hated.
Nowadays, I think I've changed but Ray hasn't;
Ray can't, he's dead.
And you will never, ever put to right that wrong,
But needs must carry it forever,
With you in your head.