#barracks
Go sit outside
in the sun,
Auntie said,
don't be stuck inside
on a day like this.
So I went outside
and sat
on the black
iron steps
leading down
the stairs
from the balcony.
Dancer Auntie's dog
sat beside me
his chin
on my shoulder
wetting my shirt.
The parade grounds
were on my right,
sergeants
were barking orders
to soldiers marching below.
I stared at them:
heads turned,
arms straight as irons.
Then Elsie,
Auntie's friend's daughter,
came up the stairs,
one foot at a time,
her small hand
gripping the black
iron rail coming up.
I watched her
stepping towards me,
her head downwards.
Dancer growled;
hush,
I said,
raising a finger.
He groaned,
watching as the girl paused.
She looked at me:
why is he here?
She said,
pointing at the dog.
He's protecting me,
I said.
From me?
She said.
Guess so,
I said.
Send him away,
she said.
Dancer groaned;
go lie down Dancer,
I said.
He got up
and walked along
the black iron balcony,
and sat
by the back door.
Elsie eyed me,
then walked up
the remaining steps:
Mum said
I had come
play with you,
Elsie said,
looking down at me
as I sat.
Do you want to?
I said.
If I have to,
she said,
sitting down
beside me
on the step.
If I don't
I'll get a slap,
she added,
looking at me.
What you want
to play?
I asked.
She looked out
at the soldiers
marching below:
what is there
to play?
Have you dolls?
No no dolls,
I replied,
we can ball
if you like.
She pulled
a face:
boring ball games,
she said.
I can get one
of my toy guns
and we can play
cowboys and cowgirls,
I said.
Boring boys' game,
she replied.
What do you
want to play?
I asked.
We could play
hide and seek,
she said,
you hide
and I won't seek you.
I looked at her
5 year old face
with my 4 year old eyes.
Let's ask Auntie
for some milk
and biscuit,
I said,
and listen to the radio.
She nodded
her head
and we got up
and she said:
let's go.
Sep 20, 2016
Sep 20, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
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?
Aug 6, 2025
Aug 6, 2025 at 5:28 PM UTC