Cheshire on Parade - two

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

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

But then he asked for my weapon,
Never call it a gun.
It's a 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.
'Twere there when we fell in for drill.
And when sergeant asked for to look at it
I suddenly felt very ill.

He took it and grasped it by muzzle and stock,
There were no need to pull back the slide,
For I'd 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 'twere 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 wouldn't be fun
But nobody told me the trouble I'd have
With that pull-through stuck in my gun.

Geopolitics.

Stepping through the rockery but going round and round
We'll know our way both there and back if told to hold this ground.
For we are on reconnaissance doing what we do,
And once we've reconnoitered here we'll push right through.

Push on through the rockery, treading vital ground.
Ripping out the undergrowth where and when it's found.
Thus any friends that we might have, no matter where or who,
Will understand our willingness to push right through.

And any garden overgrown, encroaching on our border,
With its weeds combined to infiltrate then threaten civil order,
Means friends of ours will cross the sea, yes, to me and you,
To help us **** our rockery so that we might push right through.

Thus our propagated, chosen growth,
By nurtured treaty and by oath,
Will grow to spread, o'erwhelm anew,
Enabling us to push right through.

But looking at the rockery, before they'd send us walking,
Would enable, one would like to think, all the Gardeners talking
About those plants they like to plant, their propagation too.
Nice if, once decided, we'd no need to push on through.

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 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 hours and 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?

Regimental Square, Sydney
ANZAC Day, 2017

I thought "I'll march this Anzac Day,"
To Sydney thus I'll make my way.
But then, to set my medals straight,
I pause a moment at my gate
To ponder 'neath the starry sky
On where I'm going to and why.

To there, the Square on George Street.
The place where all we blokes do meet.
To greet once more to have a say,
Gathered there on Anzac Day,
To think for moments in that Square
About the men no longer there.

No longer there but always there
These ghostly memories on the Square.
Their presence felt as we give thanks,
Shuffling, murmuring in their ranks,
And as the bugle calls last post
We proudly stiffen with that host.

Standing tall with all those men
Who link our presence now with then;
Their bayonets, bullets, marching feet
Providing terms on which we meet:
Our bridge, our nexus, common ground
For sharing with them that sweet sound

Which gently fades away.

In the gloom of each day when it's dying
Standing to is the normal routine.
A time which I use for reflecting
On what we have done or we've seen.

It's the time, when my view blends with darkness;
And as daytime gives way to the night,
I review the way that we're working.
Are we doing this wrong or right?

Did Jim keep his distance from Stan at the creek?
Why Rod was stung by those bees.
And Frank, who found that crossing point
Despite its concealment by trees.

And the cache that we found on the high ground.
The call of a barking deer.
Searching that corpse before burying.
And asking why am I here?

Note:
Private Jim Kelly, national serviceman;
Private Eddy Stankowski, national serviceman;
Private Rod Menhennet, national serviceman;
Lance corporal Frank Chambers, national serviceman; and
Me.

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;
And 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 His was the best.
Recounting only what I saw,
Not saying much about my war.

But why not tell 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.

It's the wooden cutter, MolyTrim.  Her tiller's 'gainst my thigh.
There's a beam reach on the starboard tack,
And cirrus in the the sky.
And we've six knots made with just the Main
And white caps beckon us to sea.
Oh, how I'm pleased to sail again
My little boat,  
                just she and me.