An attempt to write a poem in the style of Rudyard Kipling. Nothing too serious, but I’m sure that any ex-soldiers will recognise the imagery. Written a couple of years ago round about November time when the British start to think about those that died or were wounded serving their country. Sometimes we forget the people that didn’t die and were not wounded physically but were, nevertheless, marked by the experience.
New Recruits
They rise at six and stand like sticks
Outside the hut in the compound
In their new army suits and shiny boots
They march around the parade ground
The corporals shout as they turn about
On the way to break their fast
The other troops and men in groups
Laugh on as the rookies march past
They follow in file but have no style
Not all will stay the course
Some keep the pace while others race
A farcical fighting force
As they reach the place where they must face
The old hands that queue to be served
Apprehension is felt below leather belt
Even the strongest become unnerved
As if being new was disrespectful to
Soldiers who’ve passed out before
And unskilled at drill means mentally ill
Or idle to the core
On the way back, by the well-worn track
They take the longest way round
“No time for rest, just do your best”
The sergeant’s orders sound
For some the gain doesn’t merit the pain
The weeks prove too short or long
They’ll neither make the grade nor the grand parade
To the army they’ll never belong
They’ll leave the ranks, never sit in tanks
Never shake as the enemy shoots
They’ll find their place in a real rat race
And forget they were new recruits
But those who remain will play the game
They’ll pretend to be courageous
They’ll learn a trade, think they’re well paid
And put up with all that’s outrageous
And then, for some, the time will come
When, as sergeants, they will shout
But they’ll feel some pride deep down inside
As they remember their own passing out