All the way with L. B. J.,
Was what we said back in the day.
But what it meant, if truth to tell,
Was two years servitude in hell.
That is, for those without the bent
For service life, cared where they went.
Most of them, well, from what we saw,
Without preamble went to war.

'But Lyndon Johnston told the nation
Have no fear of escalation',
This, a song of protest from that day.
But for those that really cared
(Another word for being scared?),
It didn't stop them being sent away
To twelve months service and a war.
So tragic now. What was it for?

And when Nixon asked the British
For the Black Watch, they turned skittish.
And the Parliament it stood to tell him no.
They thought it was unreasoned war
And that is what the people saw,
And so, the Black Watch weren't allowed to go.
And yet we here went 'All the way...',
And for our dead - now rue the day.

Were they really the good old days?

I used to bicycle to school when I was young and on the go.
And in Wintertime I mind it was not nice.
We kids would ride our bikes
Through slush, and often through the snow.
On surfaces made treacherous by ice.

My bike was put together with parts filched from ******* pit.
Parts garnered here and there and taken to my home.
I washed them first in kerosene, then soaked in oil each bit.
Once assembled, then the World was mine to roam.

Although it looked quite battered and it rattled every ride,
And the wheels, they wobbled, and it had a squeak.
That bike was mine, all mine, and if you classify by pride
I reckon RollsRoyce would not stand a chance, well, so's to speak.

But the brakes on that bike they never worked.
And its metal handlebars were bare.
And in Winter it was scary stuff,
Because of brakes, and ice on roads,
And never having gloves to wear.

At school (with bike stowed in racks) I would join the queue.
My runny nose and hurting ears,
Numbed hands and fingertips quite blue.
Shivering, cold before the classroom door,
Waiting for my turn at taps and running water,
And for my hands to thaw.

Weary Sun, your sleepy eyes
With lidded shadows tip the night.
While water gently lips the shore
And swoops the owl in whispering flight.
Small, twitching nostrils quest the air,
And daytime slides from out of sight.

Cast from your mind the busy day.
Look not to labours left undone.
Take this moment, for yourself to say,
‘Now is the time that of my mind I will enquire.’
Draw up your knees and sit content
Before the warm and flickering fire.

An Acrostic to do With Minor Tactics
(and some advice)

Fighting needs a certain care,
Its conduct ruled by those in place - but
Righteous talk by those not there
Embroil our men who then lose face.

And we ask, should our young men
(Never sure of why they must.)
Defend themselves against the pen?

Make sure you task your fighting man
On those you really want to beat.
View your reasons twice and then
Ensure those reasons reach the street.
Mean what you say, do what you mean,
Enabling yours to win your war;
Never cease supporting him
Today, tomorrow, ever more.

Vietnam 1969:
Dappled sunlight danced
About your greasy, sweating body.
Oh! What fun.
It saved us shooting twice, and just as well.
For when we finally came your eyes were glazed
And staring at the Sun.

A Reflection:
Beside that track in jungle green
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.),
Sweat-soaked, *****, and unseen
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.).
These young men who crouch, so still
They poise to pounce, to make their ****,
In doing so they do your will. Just
Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.

Platoon, or Company, Section strong
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.),
Led by those who do no wrong
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.).
Trained by the same consummate skill,
Focused thus to do your will,
But - yours to pay is the butchers' bill; if you
Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.

And when they stop, too old to serve
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.).
Ensure they get what they deserve
(Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.).
For at that time, they must not find
That you and yours have changed your mind.
If might you then feel less than kind, don't
Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.

The Army of Lord Cardigan,
Its uniforms so smart,
The men, although they had never fought,
Dressed such, they looked the part.

The Fourth, the Thirteenth Light Dragoon’s,
The Eighth, the Eleventh Hussars, all made,
If you include the Seventeenth,
What then they called The Light Brigade:

Mounted, fast, but lightly armoured.
Launched at guns as they retreat,
And cutting down the infantry
With thrusting Lance if e’er they’d meet.

Skirmishing; reconnaissance.
The Light Brigade took pride to be
Proud horsemen, hard and ruthless men,
Well - British Cavalry.

And Brudenell, ‘twas his, the boast,
Had dressed his men to please his sight.
His officers? Yes, they looked like fops,
But make no bones, those men could fight.

‘Lord Raglan wishes the cavalry to advance rapidly to the front, follow the enemy, and try to prevent them carrying away the guns.’

General Raglan drafted orders,
He could see what should be done.
He sent to Lucan via Nolan,
Ordering him to charge the gun.

But Lucan redirected Nolan,
‘Speak to Cardigan,’ the man
Who, when told ‘attack the Russians,’
Said ‘Well, if you think I can.’

‘But which guns does my lord desire
We charge, what does the General say?’
And though he full knew where the guns were,
Nolan waved a different way.

‘There, my lord, there is your enemy.
There, my lord, the Russian gun.
There, my lord, do not you see?
It’s that way, lord, that fate must run.’

Well may you ask, why did he do it?
Was Nolan not an honourable man?
We will never know the reason.
Ponder that as best you can.

Meanwhile the men sit restless mounts
Which shuffle, snort, dressed by the right.
Tossing heads, their reins held loosely,
Each and all can sense the fight.

What Cardigan (called Lord Haw, Haw)
Thought at the time it’s hard to tell.
But someone heard him murmuring
‘This charge will finish Brudenell.’

Then he wheeled about on Ronald,
Drawing forth an untried blade.
He trotted out to centre front
Of those they called the Light Brigade.

By troop, by squadron, sabres drawn.
Hussar and Lancer, Light Dragoon,
Each regiment Royal duty sworn,
Each man to die and that but soon.

And on whose flanks, there lay high ground,
From watching Russian comes no sound.
While in the valley still and hot
Rings out the order, ‘Walk-march, trot – ‘
—————
‘Bugler, sound the advance’

And as we canter forth the guns begin
To range with ball this Light Brigade, for history shaped.
Poor Nolan lies with rictus grin,
The first one dead, the first life *****.

The thunderous noise, the gathering mist,
Hold in your horse, dress by the right,
Your sabre drill, your strength of wrist,
Will see you through the coming fight.

The bugler’s sounding gallop now.
Through dense, white smoke the canons roar.
Each rider urges on his horse,
Midst raging death demanding more.

The Thirteenth point, their sabres reach.
The Seventeenth, their levelled lances,
Close in you *******, fill that breech,
Adjust your dressing (sidelong glances).

And in the crashing, frenzied fight,
Milling shapes that cut and ******
And loom and rage and loudly cry in fright,
Swiping, slashing as they must.

But some are through.
As from the melee we can hear the shout,
(Mrs. Dubberly sips her tea; admires the view.)
**, Light Brigade, form threes about.

Whimper the wounded crouched in pain.
Screams the horse again, again.
These are the victims, these and the slain.
Pray let the memories all remain.

Lest we forget.

'Twas a bitter, November morning,
With wind, icy hale, and some snow.
And one's fingers too cold to do buttons up.
If you served at Carlisle, you would know.

And I was recruit in the Army,
We were formed up for morning parade.
I thought my World had gone barmy
As I listened to Sergeant’s tirade.

He was going on about rifles,
That working parts had to be clean.
So that we would **** all the enemy.
I thought he were just being mean.

But then he asked for my weapon.
Never call it a gun.
It is cardinal sin in the Army,
Even to say it in fun.

Now, I know I had started to clean it.
But pull-through had, sort of, got stuck.
When corporal had told me to get outside room
To pick up yesterday's muck.

Before breakfast our mornings were bedlam,
And I was always in trouble,
For corporal kept bellowing orders to room,
Wanting everything done at the double.

So, pull-through remained in my rifle.
'T’were there when we fell in for drill.
And when sergeant asked for to look at it
I suddenly felt terribly ill.

He took it and grasped it by muzzle and stock,
There was no need to pull back the slide,
For I had to leave all the working parts out
'Cos. there ‘weren't’ room with pull-through inside.

When sergeant saw this, he just looked at me.
Through me 't’were better it said.
Then suddenly: 'Cheshire', he screamed, 'Who gave me you?'
And: 'Why do I wish you were dead?'

There was nowt I could say back to sergeant,
Upset, as he was, standing there.
Useless explaining my pull-through,
And more than I ever would dare.

I knew it was going to happen.
There was nowt I could say in the snow.
For as sergeant gave back my rifle, he snarled
'To the guard room, double, now go.'

I was warned about joining Army,
I was told that it would not be fun,
But nobody told me the trouble I'd have
With that pull-through stuck in my gun.

For us to go out scrumping
As often as might be.
We would reconnoiter every day
To find an apple tree.

Whenever someone found one
Then all would try to see
How quickly could they climb up there
Into that apple tree.

Now, in my dotage, I believe
Our children should be free
To stretch their bodies and their minds,
To climb the apple tree.

Nigel was a Scotchman
Who wore the kilt an aw,
He stained it with some marmalade
And rubbed his sporran raw.

A habit from his army days
When dressed in jungle green.
And pretty girls were few and far
And Nigel far too mean

To spend his hard-earned pennies
On bowls of mutton stew,
So, he took to nightly rubbing
Of his sporran - wouldn’t you?

But we all love you, Nigel.
Aye, hail, and rain doth blaw,
You great Scotch *** in jam smeared kilt.
Ye Guffey **** an aw.

A man remembered, Peter Bunn.
In those days vigorous, full of fun.
While we ‘The Company’ gain in skill
(Training hard we learn to ****)
Peter treats sore feet and sprains,
As we do, so does he - he trains.

As Infantry we must be fit,
No reason to be wealthy.
And Peter’s role, that’s his remit,
Was thus to keep us healthy.
A simple task would you agree,
Corporal Medic - Infantry?

Excepting, we were sent to war.
To fight of course, and what is more
All that blood and all that pain,
All that stress and all that strain,
Collectively on eighty men.
We needed Peter - now and then.

But all I see when looking back
Is Peter kneeling on a track
Before a man (It’s what I saw.)
Who lies there bleeding (**** this War.).
Who shivered, trembled, then who died.
And that’s the time when Peter cried.

As a gathering of Infantry Veterans meet in the Australian capital to commemorate their Battalion’s participation in the Vietnam War the International War Crimes Court is considering its probe into the British Army for atrocities allegedly committed in Afghanistan and an American Seal has been publicly reviled for alleged atrocities.

The hunters, they are gathering in Canberra this year.
They’ll tell each other lots of lies
And steal each other’s beer.
But their stories aren’t for publishing
They’re not for you to hear.

For these, the men who went to war,
Lean, lithe and silent, ghostly then.
Now paunchy, pallid, blear of eye,
Their stories, told of service life
Might make you laugh, more likely cry.

Nowadays, with hindsight’s wisdom told, their tales
Are glossed, embellished thoughts on war,
Reflecting social aspects voiced by those
Who eagerly howl; declaring all and any conflict is a crime.
(Yet had they gone still would they so - do you suppose?)

But when the hunters gather
Then the truth, if ever such there is,
Is broached and P.C. takes a walk.
While drunken geriatrics laugh and roar and feebly thump the table.
I think Society should listen very carefully to their talk.

Part one
Caesar cries. An anguish riven home
By news that through the city has been spread
Of Varus and his legions who now lie dead
In far off Gaul. Those men they stare
With sightless eyes. Yearning souls bereft of home.
Poor, ****** souls; yet once the pride of Rome.

How, might you ask, those eagles lost and on that mound
In sacrifice laid out before the sacred Oak?
There, where Wotan took the spear and spoke
Foretelling and demanding ****** slaughter.
Who was it listened, then with cruel, deliberate treachery found
‘Midst Teutorburg, that frenzied, ****** killing ground?

Where Ash and Oak, where Beech and Thorn
Loom from the mist which lingers there.
Where shadowed places, dark and cold
Hide sphagnum bog; the wolf, the bear
Which pad and snuffle through the threatening gloom.
Fool Varus listening to advice
Gave up his men for sacrifice.

Arminius, the Roman name they gave him.
Taken hostage when a child.
Taught Roman ways, imbued the culture.
Disciplined life, not growing wild,
Why though was it no one saw
His worship still of Wotan, Lord of Frenzy, and of War.

This the man who Varus sponsored,
This the man, his friend, his guide.
He knew the tribesmen, spoke their language,
Cherusci by birth, by pride.
Arminius, whom the Romans fostered.
Arminius, he was why they died.

—————

Teutorburger Wald
(Part Two)

Now that Oak, that shattered Oak;
Lightning struck, it ancient stands
With branches blood stained, ground now littered;
Iron rusted that once glittered,
Lethal weapons cast aside,
And bones, bleached bones, of those who died.

From Vetera, march away,
Not thinking of their fate that day.
Proud columns, eagles high, they leave;
(Unseen the loom the Parcae weave.)
The Seventeenth, Eighteenth, Nineteenth, all
Destined by spear and axe to fall.

They march ‘neath Ash and ‘neath the Oak,
‘Neath Beech, through tangled Thorn.
And splash a muddied, puddled trail,
A trail that’s not been worn.
By chanted cadence they keep step
These men all Roman sworn.

For Varus has received the news
Of tribal rebels to his North.
Arminius, questioned for his views,
Suggests a detour, then to sally forth.
And so, with Cherusci their guide
The legions march. Not knowing that their friend has lied.

—————

Teutorburger Wald
(Part Three)

Nighttime now doth through darkening woodland creep.
The bear and wolf unsheathe sharp claw.
While those in ambush take their turn to sleep
And from cruel sky the unrelenting rain doth pour.
The Romans, unaware, in camp they curse and try
To keep their slingshots and their bowstrings dry.

This while Varus tosses, uneasy in the night,
Kept awake by screaming echoes from his past?
Does Arminius going missing mean there’s going to be a fight?
And will the coming morning be his last?
Who knows the fate of man, or men.
Have omina been ignored? If so why, and when.

And now ‘tween wood and bog marsh, over heathland
March those legions, eagles high;
Cadence calling, stumbling, splashing,
Rain, it pours from lowering sky.
Heavens rumble, lightning flickers.
Spears are launched, and thus men die.

Closely formed, penned in tight,
No room to ******, no room to fight.
The writhing wounded, *****, blood;
Trampled entrails and the mud.
Thor’s rumbling thunder, drenching rain;
Lightning flashing then the pain.

Beneath locked shields they curse, the dying;
Contorted, Romans, screaming, crying.
Hurtling spears, the butcher’s list
Writ large in terror, Wotan’s fist.
And Mjolnir, loved, caressed by Thor,
Beloved of Aesir, God of War.

Deprived of bow, the use of sling;
Constrained twixt hillside and a marshy bog;
Unfocused and unable thus to bring
To bear their usual clarity of pressure, it’s just fog - a fog
Of mindless terror; which is why they scream.
And for Arminius this, a culmination of his dream.

And so in frenzied lust it ends, the killing;
Vengeful hatred why they fought.
The tribes involved - Arminius willing -,
Cherusci, Chatti, Marsi, they all sought
From ambush and by spear and axe
To end the hated Roman’s rule, the hated Roman’s tax.

—————
Teutorburger Wald
(Part four) German vengeance

And thus in Wotan’s sacred grove
In wicker baskets freshly wove,
Sullen, proud but anguished men
Are jeered at, taunted, howled at, then
Disbelieving of the savage ire
Die shrieking, screaming, in the fire.

This while warriors roar their boast;
To Odin, Frey and Njord make toast;
And those surrendered by their chiefs:
Now naked, Kneeling, dull of eye;
Rank on rank, axes swinging;
Rank on rank the legions die.

Then, Varus has been found, the cry.
His severed head, it’s held up high.
The tribesmen gloat, they gather round
The spot where Varus, dead, was found.
The body though, to rot  it’s kicked aside,
Deceived, defeated, fated thus his suicide?

—————

Now green grasses grow there where the slain
Once, muddied, bloodied, lay forlorn.
Whispers soft the gentle rain
On Ash, on Beech on Oak on Thorn.
Three legions once stood side by side,
This tranquil glade was where they died.

Part one
Long ago in Macedon
Beneath the burning Sun
While busy bees played midst the Thyme
And butterflies made flutter,
When savage Ares thought to stir
And sleepy gods to mutter.

Philip brought his bride back home
To Sun scorched Pella, full of grace.
Alexander then, the son she bore,
Strong in body, fair of face.
God loved; his mother - and Zeus, she swore,
Had made her son destined for war.

Beyond all that expressed and those
Symbolic sacraments whose right
Olympias endorsed and with her child
Against the king made with to fight:
The savage dancing and the wine;
Dionysus her Mystery, and the snake divine.

But, to baulk her Gods the King stood fast;
The boy his lessons made to do:
Stern duties, Leonidas taught;
Culture, from Euripides.
Logic, reasoning, Aristotle;
Riding, hunting, fighting too;

As well he took Eurydice,
Of Macedonia, nobly born.
The niece of one called Attalus,
A General - now to Philip sworn.
But of children would he dare?
Was Alexander not the rightful heir.

He, known to all, a son of Zeus;
(as indeed Dionysus;)
Thus which Oracle would say
That his was not the rightful way?
The furies tore their hair, they said
His mother - she would see them dead.

First a girl child then a son.
That questioned Alexander’s right.
Its threatening presence, that’s the one
Olympias swore she’d go to fight.
She, with Megaera, Tisiphone, Alecto; those
Jealous, angry, vengeful, daughters of the night.

Intentions though can wait for years,
And so Olympias, exiled, bode her time.
While Philip with his oldest son
Defeated  Athens, Thebes, the Sacred Band.
And thus with Nike, hand in hand
Unaware of plot, of Delos, do they stand

Now with the might of all things Greek,
Of Persian conquests set to seek.
Who knows what Philip might have been
Did not his Moirai intervene
When Pausanias with frenzied, savage, vicious knife
Cut down the King to end his life.

Treachery, ******; why do they shriek
And spit their venom to depose.
What moves the fates do you suppose?
Poor Pella - standing now so cold, so bleak.
Olympias - of her twas said,
Enough, she cried, I want him dead.

Thus Alexander born of love because of hate,
While dying Philip trembled, shivering in the dust,
He, who history would remember as the Great
Assumed his place because of fate - and not because of lust;
Whereas Olympias, mother, regicide, Clotho’s *****,
Ensured because of murderous fright,
Despised she’d be for ever more.

——————

Part two:

And Power it cloaks the young man’s shoulders,
He who sits now on the throne.
The hills resound, fierce acclamations,
(Beaten shields and upraised spears.)
From the lowland raucous cheers;
And thus the Phalanx starts its slow march.
While on Pella, Kratos leers.

For despite the cloying, nursery care,
His father rarely being there,
He’d sacked a city, then elsewhere
(Harsh matters in the harshest school)
The boy had ‘gainst the Maedi, proved the rule.
So, when his generals came they saw
A man, the fighter fit for war.

And at the meeting, his first greeting
Of the generals as their king:
Eumenes, Leonnatus, Demaratus bold;
Erigyius, Hephaestion, all friends, and friends of old;
He takes each hand, gives each the stare
Then puts it bluntly will they dare
With Macedonian might - to Persia would they go and fight?

Bucephalus, in his stable, snorts then lifts his head.
Flames flare, fierce burns the fire, but now the bull is dead.
Killed as sacred hymns are sung and ancient prayers said.

———————-

Part three:

And on the plain drawn up in ranks,
Do Alexander’s men give thanks.
Shield locked with shield, dressed by the right,
Thirty thousand men to fight.
The black Dooms gather, grim-eyed, glare
Towards the east, at Darius where
With Memnon - he of Rhodes who seeks to meet
With Nike’s favour, but with Macedon incurs defeat.

And those, all those, who roar that day
Seek for glory, fight for pay;
Well trained; well drilled; but no one saw
Such bold adventure, ****** war.
Just feed us; pay us; give us arms
They cry, and then we’ll fight - as Philip taught;
For, Alexander, at this point of time
Still in your father’s image are you wrought.

And though the phalanx, Philip’s joy,
And Alexander had its value, as a boy
He’d sought for ways to better it and - of course
He did that by the use of horse - and lance.
Thus those who called him merely Philip’s son
Were wrong. For Granicus proved him to be one
Of those that through their own estate
Are by history called the Great.

So - the Granicus river, fast and wide but never deep;
It’s muddy banks in places sloped and steep;
Preventing Phalanx and the use of spear;
But Alexander, his General’s words chose not to hear,
In fierce and ****** fighting proved Parmenion wrong,
That Alexander’s Tyche, his Macedonia, was too strong.
With Rhoesaces and bold Spithridates dead
The Persians turned and from the battle fled.

But Memnon’s Greeks,
They who’d hefted shield and sword,
And stood their ground - in seeking quarter they
were slaughtered almost to a man.
Survivors, they were sent to Greece, enslaved.
When questioned why,
Alexander said - because I can.

Last night I spoke with Caesar's ghost.
We'd quaffed a glass or two of wine.
But then the ******* made a boast,
How his blokes would be beating mine.

Now, a General I have never been.
I'm saying that reluctantly,
I could not argue what he'd seen.
Thus had to think most carefully.
 
Therefore I spoke of contact drills,
Of duty weeks and other thrills.
And of the things that I have seen
Tales of what I once had been.
 
But carefully, not beating breast,
For after all He was the best.
Recounting only what I saw,
Not saying much about my war.
 
But why not talk of where I've been?
Am I ashamed of what I've seen?
Or, I'm asking, is it wrong
To beat one's chest, to sing one's song?
 
That man of Caesar's who jumped ship
With Eagle held in calloused grip.
Inspiring witnesses to roar,
Then wade with him to Britain's shore.
 
Is he so different? Or, might I say
To Caesar, oiy come have a look
At all these men so brave today.
Would you have put them in your book?
 
No, really what I'd meant to say
To Caesar was, that on that day
He'd launched his men through thick and thin
Because he meant those men to win.
 
Whereas in our bold day and age
No matter who might shout and rage
We don't do that any more.
We'll fight, but not to win the war.
 
Which is why I left the swine,
Came back to Earth, peered at my wine.
He knew, thus his boasting leers.
I knew he knew, thus my shame and these my tears.

Yesterday, I laid a solemn wreath in Regimental Square.
Then, when standing up, and in that moment’s quiet pause;
With hand on heart, with eyes downcast,
I could not but think that you weren’t there,
That brave, bold memory from my past.

Where are you now? I thought. Where might you be?
While standing there and quite alone.
I’d never been with you like this, you see,
Laying wreaths and standing still.
We almost always used to be
Returning fire and lying prone.

But now, in retrospect and after thought,
Here, while drawing back the curtains to my past.
I realise you’ve been here, always at my side;
And of my memories you will always be my first, my last;
Laughing, scorning those with whom we fought
With such exuberance, and with such an awful pride.