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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 theyā€™ve 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 ā€œtroopsā€ 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.

ā€œItā€™s not on, you chaps, to be so awfully rude, Stop making this noiseā€ 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 ā€œrnickā€
It was real wild old dogs that were howling themselves sick.

So if youā€™re in the desert where wild dogs abound
Donā€™t 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 sheā€™s 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
Iā€™ll not forget her name
And though I was a young lad then
In my mind sheā€™s just the same,

The shoulder tabs upon her dress
White-faced with grey and red
Was simply QAIMNS
Thatā€™s 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 didnā€™t 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
Hereā€™s 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 heā€™d gorge.

The Blacksmithsā€™ workshop was a tent
Known as an EPIP*
There once about a job I went
I thought old George looked gripy.
The Blacksmith said ā€œHeā€™s hot I thinkā€
And filled an old tin hat
With water-issued just to drink -
And said to George ā€œDrink that.ā€
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 ā€œDonā€™t drink that,
You must be bloody daft.ā€

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
Donā€™t drink quench water, stick.to beer,
Despite bad head next morning.

MOONLIGHT RIDE

When the desert moon shone clear and bright
ā€˜Twas 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 weā€™d drunk enough.

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

ā€˜Mid 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
Heā€™d have us hunted down and seized
If our names heā€™d 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 didnā€™t 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.

Theyā€™d 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 thereā€™d be no coming back.
So off we moved one happy morn,
No roads there in that day,
We followed tracks across the ā€˜blueā€™
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 airmensā€™ shout
Was like a Zulu charge.
They said that turkeyā€™d ā€˜volunteeredā€™
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 oā€™er 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,
ā€œYou bounders should be shot,
That turkey had been meant to be
In our Christmas pot.ā€

Iā€™m glad I didnā€™t pinch that bird
Or this I could not tell,
But it shows you mustnā€™t say a word
Though you know a man quite well,
Heā€™d served in Armoured Cars and thatā€™s
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 aircraftā€™s hit
As the smoke and burning gasses stream behind,
And one doesnā€™t see the bullets which those nasty cannons spit
When they fly out of the sun which makes one blind.

Itā€™s the splatter of the bullets on the ground that one hears first
For a moment one just canā€™t 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 oneā€™s alright
Though ones tikker sounds as if itā€™s going to bust,
Then ones sense of preservation starts to overcome ones fright
So one looks for better cover - if one must.

Itā€™s not wise to change ones refuge or to start to run about
For another one will come out of the sun -
That his second dickyā€™s seen one thereā€™s no shadow of a doubt
And for sure heā€™ll turn and make another run.

Though theyā€™ve come to wreck the airfield and stores and aeroplanes
Itā€™s too bad if oneā€™s in the bloody way,
So itā€™s best to mock the possum for the time that terror reigns
Then thereā€™s every chance one sees another day.

When after what seems hours - though itā€™s 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 thereā€™s never two the same.

But one will never quite forget the time one first tastes fear
Itā€™s a memory that ever will remain
And thereā€™s none whoā€™s been where strafings done whoā€™ll ever want to hear
That nasty, spiteful, crackling noise again.

THE WANDERING WIMPY

The ā€œWellingtonā€ was a ā€œbomber of cloth,ā€*
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
Wasnā€™t dry or firm enough
Theyā€™d 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
Heā€™d taxi forth a yard or two
But it wouldnā€™t move - the bitch.

Then he clamped the throttle friction pad,
As the brakes went off they hissed,
He was either ā€œthickā€ or bloody mad
ā€˜Cause 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~ ā€œThe Cloth Bomberā€ 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
ā€œCor, Jesus Christā€ he said.

The CTO used language choice
But this time was not heard,
In actual fact, heā€™d lost his voice
And couldnā€™t say a word.

The fitter bloke got on his knees
And offered up a prayer
ā€œGo the the airfield centre please,
The ground is soft out there.ā€

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 -
ā€œIf youā€™re in the cockpit out of the rain
For Godā€™s sake donā€™t get out!ā€

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 mankindā€™s 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 youā€™ve 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
ā€˜Cause 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 Iā€™d 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 ā€œCor
My gore that well might have been.ā€

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