War Poetry

[foldingwings]

Here follows a poignant, accurate and very well written update of a First World War classic.

My apologies if it has already been submitted

A Modern Tommy Atkins (after Rudyard Kipling)

Written by Patrick Campbell
They flew me 'ome from Baghdad with a bullet in me chest.
'Cos they've closed the army 'ospitals, I'm in the NHS.
The nurse, she ain't no Britisher an' so she ain't impressed.
It's like I'm some street corner thug who's come off second best.

Yes, it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "You're not welcome 'ere".
But when Saddam was collar'd, they was quick enough to cheer.
They're proud when Tommy Atkins 'olds the thin red line out there,
But now he's wounded back at 'ome, he has to wait for care.

Some stranger in the next bed sez, "Don't you feel no shame?
You kill my Muslim brothers!" So it's me, not 'im, to blame!
An' then the cleaner ups an' sez "Who are you fightin' for?
It ain't for Queen and country, it's America's bloody war!"

It's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, what's that smell?"
But it's "God go with you, Tommy," when they fly us out to 'ell.
O then we're just like 'eroes from the army's glorious past.
Yes, it's "God go with you, Tommy," when the trip might be your last.

They pays us skivvy wages, never mind we're sitting ducks,
When clerks what's pushing pens at 'ome don't know their flippin' luck.
"Ah, yes" sez they "but think of all the travel to be 'ad."
Pull the other one. Does Cooks do 'olidays in Baghdad?

It's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, know your place,"
But it's "Tommy, take the front seat," when there's terrorists to chase.
An' the town is full of maniacs who'd like you dead toot sweet.
Yes, it's "Thank you, Mr Atkins," when they find you in the street.

There's s'pposed to be a covynant to treat us fair an' square
But I 'ad to buy me army boots, an' me combats is threadbare.
An' 'alf the bloody 'elicopters can't get into the air,
An' me rifle jammed when snipers fired. That's why I'm laid up 'ere.

Yes, it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, "We 'ave to watch the pence";
Bold as brass the P.M. sez, "We spare them no expense."
But I'll tell you when they do us proud an' pull out all the stops,
It's when Tommy lands at Lyneham in a bloomin' wooden box!

[Tankertrashnav]

Absolutely excellent.

The tide of public opinion is turning though, not just at WB, so what needs to be done is to convert the change in public opinion into something more practical - ie a significant increase in funding for operations.

[PPRuNe Pop]

Really, really superb. :ok:

[Molemot]

Very moving and apposite stuff.


An excerpt from another of Kipling's poems...

"When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains
And the women come out to cut up what remains;
Roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
And go to your God like a soldier!"

There might not be enough of them, but the helicopter has changed that.

Kipling knew about loss, too; his son perished in WW1.

[foldingwings]

Kipling knew about loss, too; his son perished in WW1

Kipling's son failed the Army medical and would not have been selected nor seen service in the trenches had his father not pulled some strings with his political and military friends. So, like many a son, he was pushed forward for service because of the glory and honour that it would bring to the family!

Little did the men of that age realise just what 'glory and honour' awaited them in Flanders Fields!

May they all now Rest in Peace

Foldie

[Top Bunk Tester]

It must be catching.....from todays Current Bun

When you're lying alone in your Aghan bivvy,
And your life it depends on some MoD civvie
When the body armour's shared (one set between three),
And the firefight's not like it is on TV,
Then you'll look to your oppo, your gun and your God,
As you follow the path all Tommies have trod.

When the Gimpy has jammed and you're down to one round,
Andt the faith that you'd lost is suddenly found.
When the Taliban horde is close up to the fort,
And you pray that the Arty don't drop a round short,
Stick to your Sergeant like a good squaddie should,
And fight them like Satan or one of his brood.

Your pay won't cover your needs or your wants,
So stand there and take all the Taliban taunts
Nor Generals nor civvies can do aught to amend it,
Except make sure you're kept in a place you can't spend it.
Three fifty and hour in your Afghan cage,
Not nearly as much as the minimum wage.

Your missus at home in a foul married quarter
With damp on the walls and a roof leaking water
Your kids miss their mate, their hero, their Dad;
The're missing the childhood that they should have had
One day it will be different, one day by and by,
As you stand there and watch, to see the pigs fly.

Just like your forebears in mud, dust and ditch
You'll march and you'll fight, and you'll drink and you'll bitch
Wether Froggy or Zulu, or Jerry or Boer
The Brits will fight on 'til the battle is over.
You may treat him like dirt, but nowt will unnerve him
But I wonder, sometimes, if the country deserves him.