大象传媒

This poem was submitted by a volunteer on behalf of Ron Stevens, who understands the site rules and regulations.

Ron explained that this poem was written by one of the staff now sadly passed away. The poem was entered in The Royal Army Service Corps Journal in 1941, of which I had the original copy surviving and now is kept in the Jersey Archives in St Helier, along with the write up of my time I spent training in Jersey. Photocopies of the poem went to all the surviving lads on our first reunion and the people of St Peter's In Jersey, who were interested in their history, which they were grateful for.

The majority of the 250 boys who started theri training in Jersey have since passed on due to World War Two and the subsequent years. The poem was in appreciation of what was achieved in the war time conditions at the time.

On a little green island set out in the sea,
In the days when the world was at peace,
Was a fine Army School for the training of boys
So the ranks of the "Corps" could increase.

When the war bugle sounded, they still carried on,
With their workshops, their drilling and games.
But it soon was apparent they'd have to pack up,
When the Boche set half Europe in flames

The island was threatened, all hands to the wheel,
All the valuable stores we must save;
Dismantle machinery, load all on to boats,
Was the order the Commandant gave.

Now Shorty got going, he fell in the boys, tn a crisis their value he knew.
When the boat left for England, her decks nigh awash, They'd loaded the lot, every screw.

A month or two later, no longer a school,
Their chests puffed with pleasure and joys,
They arrived at Headquarters, all polished and bright,
Known as "Thirteen Battalion, the Boys."

New workshops were fitted and class-rooms galore,
With a cinema second to none.
In a comfortable building the Sergeants once used,
They could play when their day's work was done.

They were here for a year, then the order came through,
They must go, the Battalion would cease.
But we all hope the School will get going again,
For the sake of the Corps when there's peace.

Their final parade was a sight for the gods;
As like ram-rods they stood on parade.
They formed hollow square, then the Brigadier spoke,
Their last day in his training brigade.

The day of departure broke sunny and bright.
They were happy but yet they were sad.
A cheer rent the air as they stood in their traln,
Charlie Russell's arrived, were they glad?

It was "Here, Mr. Russell, I must shake your hand,"
He had known them for many a year,
He had drilled them and cursed them when they had been bad,
When he left they shed many a tear.

The Brigadier came, to bid them farewell,
Major Lewis and all the Staff too.
The Band played "The Wagon" the Guard waved his flag,
And the train glided into the blue.

We've lost you for now, but we'll get you again,
When we've finished this treacherous war.
We'll start you again on that island of peace,
You're the backbone of our famous Corps.

G.H.B.

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