11th Hour Of The 11th Day Of The 11th Month

For The Fallen

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,

England mourns for her dead across the sea.

Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of spirit,

Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal

Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.

There is music in the midst of desolation

And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,

Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.

They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,

They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

They mingle not with laughing comrades again;

They sit no more at familiar tables of home;

They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;

They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,

Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,

To the innermost heart of their own land they are known

As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,

Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,

As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,

To the end, to the end, they remain.

(Laurence Robert Binyon, 1869-1943)

Remember The Heroes

A Story: Poppies And Day of Remembrance

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Many years ago a friend of mine served in the Second Gulf War. He was a gunner in a tank in the Iraqi desert.  He told me this story and said that he will have nightmares about it as long as he lives.

A smoke-screen had been laid and he and his colleagues were ordered to advance to a point of contact.


They did so, but before contact with the enemy was made, they were halted and told to hold their position.


All tanks bar one stopped.


The tank that didn't stop realised their mistake and reversed in order to take up position with the other vehicles.


One of the other tanks glimpsed the approaching tank through the smoke and, anticipating an enemy assault, fired an AT (anti tank) round, hitting and disabling the target.


Men were killed but all of the crews were jubilant as they thought they had made their first 'kill' of the war.


When the smoke lifted they were shocked and stunned to see one of their own Challenger tanks, a smoking wreck, before them.

That kind of incident is known very inappropriately as 'friendly fire'.

I was reminded of the above story as today, as many of you will know, is Remembrance Sunday¹ and, as an ex-soldier, I have had friends and colleagues that did not return from service in N.I. and the Falklands  so I have been wearing my poppy with pride in memory of them and others that gave their lives in conflicts around the world.

I didn't mean to bore anyone but today, as far as I am concerned, is a very important day.










¹  is held on the second Sunday in November, the Sunday nearest to 11 November (Armistice Day), which is the anniversary of the end of the hostilities of the First World War at 11 a.m. in 1918, to commemorate the contribution of British and Commonwealth military and civilian servicemen and women in the two World Wars and later conflicts   

Those Who Fell (A Re-post)

Someone mentioned this poem a little while ago and to be honest, I'd forgotten I'd written it.  I re-read it and decided that it deserves a second airing. 

Those Who Fell

I often stop and wonder why,

and ask 'What it's all about?'

I find myself looking into the sky,

and hear myself scream and shout.

I wake from my sleep,

with my heart beating fast.

And tears I weep,

as I long for safer days past.

More sand and dust,

another day of hell.

Doing what I must,

remembering those who fell.

Winning hearts and winning minds,

trying every day.

Doing this job takes all kinds,

but I wish it would just go away.

I dread each day when we go out to seek,

the enemy with his gun.

But all I have left is one long week,

then my time here will be done.

I hope I can hold my head up high,

and say 'I did my job well'.

And I, with a sigh,

will remember those who fell.

When The Jock Hits The Shi@

Lemme take you back again to the Crusader '80.

The Americans had just days before kicked our butts after landing (from the skies) in force and it was only a matter of one or two days before we exploded dead rats over them to extract our revenge.

Things had quietened down somewhat and the largest manoeuvre in the history of NATO was, for want of a better description, was becoming very, very boring.  The immanent arrival of the 51st Highlanders (TA) to act as our 'defence' company did little to raise our spirits.

On the day (it was a Friday, I believe) they arrived, we were all looking forward to a few days respite from sitting in those fox-holes or lying in shell-scrapes. We were all pretty much pi@@ed-off when they turned up, dumped their gear and legged it to the local pub ... a place we were banned from for the duration of the 'war'.

One of our most severely 'wounded' souls, Cpl 'Yorkie' Pountain, came up with a plan to get revenge on at least one of the 51st's finest.

Now, you must understand that sanitation on a military exercise is not of paramount importance.  Toilets tend to be holes in the ground with a tea-chest (with a hole on top, referred to as 'Thunder boxes') placed over it and a hessian screen around it.  Luxury is when there is a proper toilet seat affixed to the box and when there was still some bog paper left.

On this particular exercise, we had been in the 'field' for over two weeks and, due to one cock-up or another,   we had lost or left our tea-chests in another location.  So we dug our 'toilet' holes and put planks of wood across them; it was a case of  left foot on one plank, right foot on the other, squat and do the 'business' between the two.

We had two or three of these holes around our farm location.  One had been dug especially for our Scottish cousins ... but due to the fact that they had been allowed to go to the pub and we weren't, both of their planks , thanks to 'Yorkie', had been sawn halfway through.

It was just a case of waiting for them to come back from the pub.

We (those of us not on guard or working) congregated on the grassy bank that lead to the pig sty's and waited.

The exact time at which our poor, injured spirits were raised from the dead eludes me, but it was getting late.

To fully enjoy the experience, 'Yorkie' had rigged lighting over and around the 'toilet' and as we watched, partly hidden by bushes,  the first 'jock' decided he needed to dump.

He entered the 'toilet' and after several seconds we heard the first grunt as a bowel movement was encouraged.

Before a second grunt could be issued, there was a cracking sound followed by "What the f.......", SPLATT, "Ye Sassenach* bassa's!  Ah'll kill ye's aal!"

We legged it, pissing ourselves with laughter.

The next morning, the OC (Major McCormack) called us out on parade.

It was explained to us that something 'disconcerting' had occurred the previous evening and that he expected there to be no repetitions of the incident, or any other tricks, played on the 51st for the duration of the exercise.  He was smiling all the time, so I think he thought it a jolly good wheeze!

He also explained that Captain McKenzie (Mc- something, anyway) was not at all a happy chappie, as it was he who had fallen foul of the sawn through planks!  

Not only did we get even with the jocks's, but we got a Rodney to boot!

We had to wait another week before we could get a pint though.


Afterthought:

I have dug and used so many of those holes and in a few thousand years time, someone is going to dig up one of those 'ancient' toilets and sift through it to try and find out what we used to eat. The thought of someone analysing my fossilised poo is unnerving.  


* Sassenach = Gaelic, meaning Saxon.  Scottish term for the English

The Day The American War of Independence REALLY Ended!

Everyone knows that the American War of Independence, if not directly started by a minor disagreement concerning tea, certainly was partly fuelled by it.


On December 16, 1773 Bostonians got uppity, threw their dollies out of their pushchairs, and disrupted someone's tea party.  Scones were thrown too, so I've been told. 


Anyway, this amongst other minor things led to the War of Independence, in which Britain finished in a very creditable second place .... or so the history books would have us believe.  The war actually ended on the 4th July 1981 on an American base situated close to the town of Butzbach, Germany .... it took 20 baseballs to win it!

I  was young and very naive and when my Sergeant Major said that I had been 'volunteered' to attend, and assist with, and American-German Independence Day Fete, I jumped at the chance.  

He told me to dress in uniform and look smart because I would be representing the British Army in all her glory.

I had creases in my trousers and shirt that could have cut down trees, my boot were gleaming and had mirror-polished toecaps that could have looked up any woman's skirt and my side-cap was brushed and cap badge buffed to a shine.

I was picked up at 10am by a scrawny looking colonial private in a huge truck that had seen better days and was in desperate need of some valeting.

Once in camp, I was introduced to a Captain Hamilton (the bast%@d) who would show me exactly what was expected of me. I was keen and eager to please and said I would undertake anything to help.  

If I had known what he intended, I would have told him to get stuffed.

But it was too late.  He introduced me to my task by showing me a huge water tank, above which a banner had been stretched with the words "Sink the Brit!" written in large red letters.

There was a seat above the water in the tank and above it, a round red, white and blue target disc.

In case you haven't already guessed it ... it was a dunking stool, and I was the idiot that had to sit on it.

At that moment I re-declared war on the colonial scum and on my Sergeant Major, who I'd declared an honorary 'yank' for day.

The Fete was opened and the dunking stool became a very popular attraction; American's and Germans getting their own back on the dastardly British Empire.

I was seething!  I wanted to kill!  I wanted to slap the living daylight out of EVERY American brat that chose to hit ME rather than the damned target!  

Three hours I sat there ... being brave and gathering bruises (bloody baseballs hurt!) ... until pity was taken on me by a lady who turned out to be the wife of the base commander!  She determined that I'd had enough and ordered (She did! She really did!  She scared me!) that I should be given some nice dry clothes and fed.

That was when I capitulated and the war came to an end for the second time. 

I was given a brand new American uniform and boots for my troubles and was given spare ribs and chicken for lunch.  I was also treated by the local medic for a cut above the eye from one of those bloody baseballs!

Although I was battered and bruised, I did have a good day and that nice (scary) lady saw to it that I didn't have to pay for anything for the whole day.

All's well that end's well.

But if that lady hadn't been there, America would have belonged to us again.