大象传媒

DOGS CONCERT

In Palestine during the World War Two
There were times when the troops had sweet nothing to do
For even in War there is some time for leisure
So Concerts were given to give the blokes pleasure.

To this end a party called ENSA was raised
(And they鈥檝e seen to it since that their efforts were praised)
Once they came to a place that was known as Akir
So the unit all went for a change from the beer.

(Now it must be explained that in that desert land
There were dogs known as Pyhards that ran wild in the sand
And they mooched round the tents for something to eat -
The odd bit of bread, or in high hopes, some meat).

Now at these rare concert parties in the cool evening air, The Sirs sat in front and the CO got a chair
And the rest sat in rows on forms like a plank, With the 鈥渢roops鈥� at the back according to rank.

After singers and jokers a Horn blower came
With long copper post horn or it looked just the same
He blew a few notes quite clearly and loud
Then a blood curdling howl seemed to come from the crowd.

You may know that dogs howl when music is played
But the horn blower thought that the troops the noise made,
He banged down his horn and started to walk
And the CO got up and made very stem talk.

鈥淚t鈥檚 not on, you chaps, to be so awfully rude, Stop making this noise鈥� but then somebody booed Then the horn blower started again with his trill And once more came the howl that made the blood chill.

Every wild dog in Palestine howled in pain
At the sound of the horn when it sounded again
And the horn blower angrily staniped off the stage
With this blood curdling howl - the cause of his rage.

Well, the concert was stopped and we all went away
The brave concert party could no longer play
But it was not the troops that were taking the 鈥渞nick鈥�
It was real wild old dogs that were howling themselves sick.

So if you鈥檙e in the desert where wild dogs abound
Don鈥檛 blow on a horn with a loud piercing sound
If you do every canine from there to the coast
Will raise up his head and howl like a ghost.

SISTER ANDERSON

I suppose she鈥檚 getting on in years
She was not a young girl then
But as my fading memory clears
She pleased the eyes of men.

She was known as Sister Anderson
I鈥檒l not forget her name
And though I was a young lad then
In my mind she鈥檚 just the same,

The shoulder tabs upon her dress
White-faced with grey and red
Was simply QAIMNS
That鈥檚 all that need be said.

Though to her only I refer
For she was one alone
So many others just like her
Have stories of their own.

The time was after Alamein*
A ward was just a tent
From desert by hospital train
The wounded men were sent.

Mid wounded men - all stretcher born
In dim and shielded light
One to another she was torn
Throughout that dreadful night.

It didn鈥檛 end when came the day
To her no clocks applied
Wounds must be dressed in expert way
And none must be denied.

Most injuries were maggot filled
And broken bones caused pain
And frightened soldiers must be stilled
But no man called in vain.

One walking case with injury slight
Was proud to help his best
And kept short watch at dead of night
Whilst she went off to rest.

The days and nights were all the same
The number is not known
Which made indelible the name
Of that nurse who worked alone.

Though she herself would ask no praise
Like others of that corps
To QAIMNS of those war time days
Here鈥檚 praise for evermore.

GEORGE THE RAM

Whilst in that Western Desert place
At a spot called Fuka Main,
Some of the wandering Bedouin race
Passed by time and again.
One Arab gave one of our chaps
A pretty little lamb,
But later - just as well perhaps -
It turned out an ugly ram.

He took it back into his tent
As gentle as a nurse
Then out to find it food he went -
Some problems have been worse.
But rear it, yes, he did indeed,
It gave him pleasure too,
When he owns a little lamb in need,
What can a fellow do?

The Western Desert, barren place,
Not good for little sheep,
And lambhood with the human race
Made him strange habits keep.
He grew up something like a hound,
For fit-bits he would bleep,
From tent to tent it trotted round
And ate from the rubbish heap.

The airmen found its taste for fags
He ate them by the heap,
Odd socks or cabbage, oily rags,
And he liked rides in the jeep.
His owner - Blacksmith - he by trade
Quite fondly called him George,
In the Mess Tent much good fun was made
As crusts of bread he鈥檇 gorge.

The Blacksmiths鈥� workshop was a tent
Known as an EPIP*
There once about a job I went
I thought old George looked gripy.
The Blacksmith said 鈥淗e鈥檚 hot I think鈥�
And filled an old tin hat
With water-issued just to drink -
And said to George 鈥淒rink that.鈥�
Now Blacksmiths quench their red hot steel
With water in a trough,
For George this stuff had more appeal -
To smell it made one cough.
More kick than water from a hat,
He drank a good long draught -
The Blacksmith shouted 鈥淒on鈥檛 drink that,
You must be bloody daft.鈥�

It was too late - George had imbibed
The poisonous liquid sweet,
He belched and went all glassy eyed
Could not stay on his feet.
Poor George turned over on his back
His legs up in the air,
He died so quick, alas alack
It happened then and there.

Old Blacky - he was quite upset
And so were all the blokes,
That ram had been a Squadron pet,
Even if he did pinch smokes.
Ah well, poor George no longer here,
Gave us a fmal warning
Don鈥檛 drink quench water, stick.to beer,
Despite bad head next morning.

MOONLIGHT RIDE

When the desert moon shone clear and bright
鈥楾was just as light as day
And often we would go by night
To our friends a mile away.

No signposts showed the proper track
The terrain was quite rough
But we could find our own way back
By the time we鈥檇 drunk enough.

On one such night our hosts* declared
They鈥檇 take us back by truck
Such kindness could not be compared
Indeed we had great luck.

鈥楳id jollyment and raucous talk
A lorry was procured
A third class ride beats first class walk
So into, the night we roared.

Rough desert rocks shook up the truck
From nose to open stern
But blessed with boozers usual luck
Nobody showed concern.

It tangled with the coiled barbed wire
And pulled tent guy ropes loose
With thunderous bang it burst a tyre
Because of such bad use.

Next day the Adj. was most displeased
And his rage was clearly shown
He鈥檇 have us hunted down and seized
If our names he鈥檇 only known.

Our friends were told the tale next day
Of how their act so kind
Had caused our Adj. rude things to say
But they didn鈥檛 seem to mind.

They told us then about the wheel
The front one on the right
To move it fitters used all zeal
And had stopped work for the night.

They鈥檇 left the truck stood on the jack
No nuts secured the wheel
And we had ridden desert track
But narry a twinge did feel.

Now after our moonlight ride
The wheel was not so tight
And came off easy when they tried
Without the use of might.

So if your motor wheel is jammed
Seized up or rusted dry
Drive over desert rock and sand -
It might be worth a try.

TALKING TURKEY

Our Unit - Western Desert bound,
Was warned to leave Iraq,
To go in convoy safe and sound
And there鈥檇 be no coming back.
So off we moved one happy morn,
No roads there in that day,
We followed tracks across the 鈥榖lue鈥�
In the Desert Air Force way.

All through the day on trucks we sat
And reached H5 at night,
Nearby there is adry salt flat -
In sunshine blinding white,
But this was night - sun setting red,
We prepared to have a sleep
On groundsheet or a makeshift bed,
Whilst picquets watch did keep.

But pandemonium broke out,
A turkey was at large,
The gobbling noise and airmens鈥� shout
Was like a Zulu charge.
They said that turkey鈥檇 鈥榲olunteered鈥�
To come with us away,
And if he had behaved that bird
Would have lived another day.

They killed and roasted him that night
And ate him up half raw,
I envied not that bird his plight
And took no part at all.
Next day we set off once again
No turkey came today,
We travelled o鈥檈r Transjordan Plain
It did seem a long way.

Now after many years had passed,
To a Sergeant friend of mine,
I told this turkey tale at last
He listened all the time.
Then with a smile he said to me,
鈥淵ou bounders should be shot,
That turkey had been meant to be
In our Christmas pot.鈥�

I鈥檓 glad I didn鈥檛 pinch that bird
Or this I could not tell,
But it shows you mustn鈥檛 say a word
Though you know a man quite well,
He鈥檇 served in Armoured Cars and that鈥檚
Why he chuckled when he heard
That a thieving shower of Desert Rats
Had pinched their Christmas bird.

WHEN STRAFERS STRAFE (From aircraft, that is)
When the pilot opens fire one might think the aircraft鈥檚 hit
As the smoke and burning gasses stream behind,
And one doesn鈥檛 see the bullets which those nasty cannons spit
When they fly out of the sun which makes one blind.

It鈥檚 the splatter of the bullets on the ground that one hears first
For a moment one just can鈥檛 believe ones eyes,
Then a good few seconds later one will hear the cannon burst
Then the engines roar as overhead he flies.

But if one hears the engine thats the proof that one鈥檚 alright
Though ones tikker sounds as if it鈥檚 going to bust,
Then ones sense of preservation starts to overcome ones fright
So one looks for better cover - if one must.

It鈥檚 not wise to change ones refuge or to start to run about
For another one will come out of the sun -
That his second dicky鈥檚 seen one there鈥檚 no shadow of a doubt
And for sure he鈥檒l turn and make another run.

Though they鈥檝e come to wreck the airfield and stores and aeroplanes
It鈥檚 too bad if one鈥檚 in the bloody way,
So it鈥檚 best to mock the possum for the time that terror reigns
Then there鈥檚 every chance one sees another day.

When after what seems hours - though it鈥檚 minutes by the clock,
Things go quiet and they clear off as they came,
Then one joins in all the chatter that goes on whilst taking stock
And of all accounts there鈥檚 never two the same.

But one will never quite forget the time one first tastes fear
It鈥檚 a memory that ever will remain
And there鈥檚 none who鈥檚 been where strafings done who鈥檒l ever want to hear
That nasty, spiteful, crackling noise again.

THE WANDERING WIMPY

The 鈥淲ellington鈥� was a 鈥渂omber of cloth,鈥�*
Or so it once got aptly named
It was used much in peace also in war time wrath
And in many strange roles was much famed.

At an airfield from whence these aeroplanes flew
One day in the wind and the rain
A ground test was done by a couple of ground crew -
Then it had to be done once again.

The ground on which the aircraft was stood
Wasn鈥檛 dry or firm enough
They鈥檇 have pushed the Wimpy if they could
But they were just two and the wind was so rough.

With engines running the fitter knew
Both props set in fme pitch
He鈥檇 taxi forth a yard or two
But it wouldn鈥檛 move - the bitch.

Then he clamped the throttle friction pad,
As the brakes went off they hissed,
He was either 鈥渢hick鈥� or bloody mad
鈥楥ause he got down to assist.

With empty cockpit - throttles set,
They heaved - that valiant two -
And those who watched will not forget
The sight that did ensue.

The Wimpy lurched and rolled a bit,
The rudder loosely swung,
The fitters fell down in the grit
And expected to be hung.

Then like a pig that sprouted wings
It rolled across the field,
Changed course and did unusual things,
Like a drunken duck it reeled.

Two WAAFs raised up their skirts and ran
And Chiefly hid his face
As the aircraft passed a dispersal pan**
At a really cracking pace.
* Referred to a~ 鈥淭he Cloth Bomber鈥� because it was fabric
(Irish Linen) over a geodetic airframe
** Hardstanding for dispersed aircraft

The Flight Commander then appeared
His face went white then red,
As the Wimpy cavorted and careered
鈥淐or, Jesus Christ鈥� he said.

The CTO used language choice
But this time was not heard,
In actual fact, he鈥檇 lost his voice
And couldn鈥檛 say a word.

The fitter bloke got on his knees
And offered up a prayer
鈥淕o the the airfield centre please,
The ground is soft out there.鈥�

No other aircraft got a scratch
Though many stood around,
The runaway found the soft patch
And to a halt it ground.
Then charges had to be preferred
And the undercart inspected,
The CO cooled off when he heard
No damage was detected.

No names, no pack drill once again
And the moral is - no doubt -
鈥淚f you鈥檙e in the cockpit out of the rain
For God鈥檚 sake don鈥檛 get out!鈥�

THE AIRMEN OF THE FLIGHTS
Old Timers who wore Air Force blue,
Aircraftsmen of the Flights.
What of those times you worked right through
Those long and weary nights?

Did you not feel the weary ache
Of sinews sapped of strength
And weariness that toil can make
Through nights of endless length?

On airfields in your native land
And clearings in the desert,
Technicians fought with skill of hand,
Such was your humble effort.

There was no time for writing verse
To the dawn in wartime days,
When work of war was mankind鈥檚 curse,
Fruits of his foolish ways.

These days you do not see the morn
Out in the open spaces,
Or hear the curlews call forlorn,
Or feel rain on your faces.

The aeroplanes you worked upon
Are now museum pieces,
So too, the places they flew from
Have all expired their leases.
And you鈥檝e been paid off nowadays,
You sleep in bed these nights,
God speed you all upon your ways
You Airmen of the Flights.

MY LUCKY TOE
I wanted to be a Royal Marine
And wear a white topee
Like they did on the posters I had seen
It sort of appealed to me.

But when I went to join the corp
The medical was most defined
For me and somewhat thirty more
With the same idea in mind.

By the end of the day there was only me
Then I was sent away
鈥楥ause my little toe was bent you see -
I could come back another day.

So I went to join the Royal Air Force
My toe they would accept
One had to be literate and fit of course
But I鈥檇 be paid and clothed and well kept.

Well time passed on and there came w~
And many things happened to me
My travels took me to many a shore
And many things did I see.

Once visiting one of His Majesty s ships
Which was named the Penelope
With the truth of my luck I once came to grips
When a bomb damaged turret I did see.

The white painted walls were all spattered with gore
That came from a Royal Marine
I thought of my bent little toe and thought 鈥淐or
My gore that well might have been.鈥�

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