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.

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.