Under the Georgian pines,
Outside a Georgian fort,
We throw our bayonets to make them stick,
Like the Downy Woodpecker on her course,
We also bayonet our feet,
And slice off blistered skin,
We hear the Tufted Titmouse peep,
Whenever we begin,
A Pewee grabs a fly,
Where those apical trunks column above,
As we stand in the chowline,
And pick the ticks off the men in front,
We can no longer smell,
Thank God,
And blend in with the clay,
If a scented woman came by,
We would worship her like the Yellow Warbler,
In this shadow glade,
Oh how we long for something sweet,
Taunted by the liquorice of Nuthatch and Chickadee,
For all our ****** meals are doused,
With the ****** juice of beats,
Now all night under the pines,
I know the Saw-Whet does not screech,
It sounds like an alarm,
Beckoning the Georgian heat,
And from on high those eyes,
Laughing at the night vision we have made,
As we stumble into our latrine,
That we didn't cover with the *****,
Oh how we miss some music,
As we endlessly gather,
We swoon all day from heatstroke,
And our gloomy cadence is mimicked by the Thrasher,
Under the Georgian yellow pines,
In the setting reddish glow,
From the color of her blue sky,
And the clay around her blue throat,
Walks a fellow Bluebird,
In official infantry color we now know.

I missed a spot shaving,
So I had to shave my head,
Blake failed the tape again,
A diet of insults everywhere he went,
Shelley didnt shine his boots,
Off to the mud was led,
Byron was late,
So they gave him a fifty pound concrete  watch instead.
First squad in the front,
Is always squared away,
In front of them is the platoon leader ,
who talks of " his sacred duty,"
All the frigging day,
I'm in third squad, with weapons squad to my rear,
They always smell of minty tobacco,
With a hint of beer,
They always win worst uniform,
And Today it's Poe who wears the badge,
1st squad threw his cap in the dumpster,
And he's swimming in the trash.

Now they have changed the regs,
But only if your dog tags say,
If you like turbins or small hats,
Instead of black berets,
" later suckah" says my squad member Frost,
Before he boards his plane,
They all take religious leave on Maui,
Where they drink and smoke all day,
Now we have girls in our formation,
Previously we had none,
Now Tennyson in 2nd can go goth with eyeliner,
And Keats can grow his hair in a viking bun,
The P.L keeps talking of his sacred duty,
As weapons squad vomits up the chow hall lunch.
Then one day we have a new PL
She only calls us numbers,
And rotates us like a clock,
All family and  religious leave,
She dutifully put a stop,
Said no one can marry,
And for the greater good we are a part,
She had the apes in first squad,
Inspect our barracks room,
And took down all illicit art,
In it's place she put up posters,
Of the President, or Chief of Staff?
But when she took the *****,
Poe took that very hard,
So he shot the posters through,
With his bar room darts,
She found Keat's ***** pump,
In the ceiling tiles with ***** tapes,
We were starting not to fear the muscle,
Of her 1st squad recon apes,
Then spoke Byron,
Still dragging his heavy block,
"My team- mates, we must fight,
Or they will never stop,
They are making me write an essay,
On the Farah Fawcett poster I bought."
So we started to act,
Like a shining brand new clock,
But assembled on a Saturday night,
by a drunken ******, at the navy docks,
When they said turn left,
We turned right,
Sing this, we sang that,
We whispered as the bishop,
And weapons squad farted as the rook,
We harranged first squad,
For all our property they took,
And they did smoke us,
Like fat and skinny fish,
Push ups and low crawls,
But our formation was tight knit,
Then, it was them, who caved,
religious and family leave was saved,
And much to their dismay,
We drank and smoked for the lesser part of the day.

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.

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.

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.

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!’

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 (bullying) 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 many 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?