Death of an Airman
‘Abis, Ackerman, Benson and Blunt,
Stand to attention and look to the front,
Chiswell and Barnett
Who told you to fall out,
You’d think this was bush week
Or a Boy Scout Camp call-out;
Get back into line or I might have you all out
Tonight…
Did you hear what I said to you, Argent? ’
‘But there’s a man dying on the tarmac, Sergeant! ’
‘I never liked Wednesdays, ’ declaimed Sergeant Black,
‘Too soon to go forward, too late to go back!
Dexter and Dooley
I’ll have your attention,
I’m not calling names
For an honourable mention,
I’ll charge the whole bunch for a spark of presumption
Tomorrow…
I’ll tell you once more, Mister Argent…’
‘But there’s a man, dying on the tarmac, Sergeant! ’
‘Haven’t you seen a man faint before?
Harris and Jenkins
Block up that four!
Fill up the gap that your mate has relinquished
We’ll count him as present, but almost extinguished, ’
The Sergeant guffawed, in attempts to distinguish
Himself…
Now what in creation d’ya want with me, Argent? ’
‘A man has just died on the tarmac, Sergeant! ’
24 October 1972
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Beatles Medley
Were sergeant peppers lonely hearts club band
Were sorry but its time to go
Sergeant peppers one and only lonely hearts club band
We hope you did enjoy the show
Sergeant peppers lonely, sergeant peppers lonely
Sergeant peppers lonely hearts club band...
Sergeant peppers one and only lonely hearts club band!
Sergeant peppers one and only lonely hearts club band!
Sergeant peppers one and only lonely hearts club band!
Sergeant peppers one and only lonely hearts club band!
We were talking about the space between our song!
Aint nothing you can do that cant be done!
Its been a hard days night, I should be sleeping like a log!
Help! I need somebody!
Help!
Shes a big teaser!
She took me half the way there!
Lady madonna, baby at your breast!
Get back, get back
Get back to where you once belonged!
Get back, get back
Get back to where you once belonged!
She loves you yeah yeah yeah!
She loves you yeah yeah yeah!
She loves you yeah yeah yeah!
She loves you yeah!
Sergeant peppers one and only lonely hearts club band!
Nah nah nah nah nah nah!
Nah nah nah!
Hey jude!
Nah nah nah nah nah nah!
Nah nah nah!
Hey jude!
Nah nah nah nah nah nah!
Nah nah nah!
Hey jude!
Dah dah dah dah dah dah!
Dah dah dah!
Hey jude!
Dah dah dah dah dah dah!
Dah dah dah!
Hey jude!
Dah dah dah dah dah dah!
Dah dah dah!
Hey jude!
Hey jude!
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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38th Parallel
Once I lived in a village not far
from the thirty-eighth parallel
near Kaesong, in fact
The snow that February fell for days
blowing horizontally to the ground
hills and paddy fields filling with drifts
We lived, ten of us, in a hut
that smelled of kimchee and garlic
we huddled together on the warm floor
The sergeant in charge was from Chicago
a big-mouthed Irish guy from the South Side
he talked constantly about his gang back home
The North Koreans who ran the prison camp
grew to dislike the sergeant and our guys
we ate less and worked harder than the others
One night we talked it over with the sergeant
we told him that he had to compromise
and go along with our captors - or else
No doubt we angered him because
he got his Irish up and began striking out
an Italian guy from Hoboken put a shiv in him
We buried him next morning behind the messhall
the Korean in charge was pleased as punch
we ate better and worked a normal day
Today I often think of that hotheaded sergeant
who died in a foreign land because we were scared
and thought more of our own survival
poem by Michael Pruchnicki
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This Is The Army Mister Jones
sheet music version:]
A bunch of frightened rookies were list'ning filled with awe
They listened while a sergeant was laying down the law
They stood there at attention, their faces turning red
The sergeant looked them over and this is what he said
This is the Army, Mister Jones!
No private rooms or telephones
You had your breakfast in bed before
But you won't have it there any more
This is the Army, Mister Green!
We like the barracks nice and clean
You had a housemaid to clean your floor
But she won't help you out any more
Do what the buglers command
They're in the Army and not in a band
This is the Army, Mister Brown!
You and your baby went to town
She had you worried but this is war
And she won't worry you anymore
song performed by by Irving Berlin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Back to the Army Again
I'm 'ere in a ticky ulster an' a broken billycock 'at,
A-layin' on the sergeant I don't know a gun from a bat;
My shirt's doin' duty for jacket, my sock's stickin' out o' my boots,
An' I'm learnin' the damned old goose-step along o' the new recruits!
Back to Army again, sergeant,
Back to the Army again.
Don't look so 'ard, for I 'aven't no card,
I'm back to the Army again!
I done my six years' service. 'Er Majesty sez: "Good day --
You'll please to come when you're rung for, an' 'ere's your 'ole back-pay:
An' fourpence a day for baccy -- an' bloomin' gen'rous, too;
An' now you can make your fortune -- the same as your orf'cers do."
Back to the Army again, sergeant,
Back to the Army again.
'Ow did I learn to do right-about-turn?
I'm back to the Army again!
A man o' four-an'-twenty that 'asn't learned of a trade --
Beside "Reserve" agin' him -- 'e'd better be never made.
I tried my luck for a quarter, an' that was enough for me,
An' I thought of 'Er Majesty's barricks, an' I thought I'd go an' see.
Back to the Army again, sergeant,
Back to the Army again.
'Tisn't my fault if I dress when I 'alt --
I'm back to the Army again!
The sergeant arst no questions, but 'e winked the other eye,
'E sez to me, " 'Shun!" an' I shunted, the same as in days gone by;
For 'e saw the set o' my shoulders, an' I couldn't 'elp 'oldin' straight
When me an' the other rookies come under the barrik-gate.
Back to the Army again, sergeant,
Back to the Army again.
'Oo would ha' thought I could carry an' port?
I'm back to the Army again!
I took my bath, an' I wallered -- for, Gawd, I needed it so!
I smelt the smell o' the barricks, I 'eard the bugles go.
I 'eard the feet on the gravel -- the feet o' the men what drill --
An' I sez to my flutterin' 'eart-strings, I sez to 'em, "Peace, be still!"
Back to the Army again, sergeant,
Back to the Army again.
'Oo said I knew when the troopship was due?
I'm back to the Army again!
I carried my slops to the tailor; I sez to 'im, "None o' your lip!
You tight 'em over the shoulders, an' loose 'em over the 'ip,
For the set o' the tunic's 'orrid." An' 'e sez to me, "Strike me dead,
But I thought you was used to the business!" an' so 'e done what I said.
Back to the Army again, sergeant,
Back to the Army again.
Rather too free with my fancies? Wot -- me?
I'm back to the Army again!
Next week I'll 'ave 'em fitted; I'll buy me a swagger-cane;
They'll let me free o' the barricks to walk on the Hoe again,
In the name o' William Parsons, that used to be Edward Clay,
An' -- any pore beggar that wants it can draw my fourpence a day!
Back to the Army again, sergeant,
Back to the Army again.
Out o' the cold an' the rain, sergeant,
Out o' the cold an' the rain.
'Oo's there?
A man that's too good to be lost you,
A man that is 'andled an' made --
A man that will pay what 'e cost you
In learnin' the others their trade -- parade!
You're droppin' the pick o' the Army
Because you don't 'elp 'em remain,
But drives 'em to cheat to get out o' the street
An' back to the Army again!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
We're sergeant pepper's lonely hearts club band
We hope you have enjoyed the show
Sergeant pepper's lonely hearts club band
We're sorry but it's time to go.
Sergeant pepper's lonely.
Sergeant pepper's lonely.
Sergeant pepper's lonely.
Sergeant pepper's lonely.
Sergeant pepper's lonely hearts club band
We'd like to thank you once again
Sergeant pepper's one and only lonely hearts club band
It's getting very near the end
Sergeant pepper's lonely
Sergeant pepper's lonely
Sergeant pepper's lonely hearts club band.
song performed by by Beatles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My mother was a Northern woman, daughter of Hon. John Sergeant, a distinguished lawyer, and for many years representative in Congress from Philadelphia.
quote by John Sergeant Wise
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Danny Deever
"What are the bugles blowin' for?" said Files-on-Parade.
"To turn you out, to turn you out", the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What makes you look so white, so white?" said Files-on-Parade.
"I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch", the Colour-Sergeant said.
For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play,
The regiment's in 'ollow square -- they're hangin' him to-day;
They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away,
An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.
"What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard?" said Files-on-Parade.
"It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold", the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What makes that front-rank man fall down?" said Files-on-Parade.
"A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun", the Colour-Sergeant said.
They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of 'im round,
They 'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground;
An' 'e'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound --
O they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'!
"'Is cot was right-'and cot to mine", said Files-on-Parade.
"'E's sleepin' out an' far to-night", the Colour-Sergeant said.
"I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times", said Files-on-Parade.
"'E's drinkin' bitter beer alone", the Colour-Sergeant said.
They are hangin' Danny Deever, you must mark 'im to 'is place,
For 'e shot a comrade sleepin' -- you must look 'im in the face;
Nine 'undred of 'is county an' the regiment's disgrace,
While they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.
"What's that so black agin' the sun?" said Files-on-Parade.
"It's Danny fightin' 'ard for life", the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What's that that whimpers over'ead?" said Files-on-Parade.
"It's Danny's soul that's passin' now", the Colour-Sergeant said.
For they're done with Danny Deever, you can 'ear the quickstep play,
The regiment's in column, an' they're marchin' us away;
Ho! the young recruits are shakin', an' they'll want their beer to-day,
After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Enigma
The Sergeant of a Highland Reg-
-Iment was drilling of his men;
With temper notably on edge
He blest them every now and then.
A sweet old lady standing by,
Was looking on with fascination,
And then she dared this question shy,
That pertubates the Celtic nation.
"Oh gentle Sergeant do not scold;
Please tell me, though your tone so curt is:
These bare-legged boys look sadly cold -
Do they wear wool beneath their skirties?
The Sergeant's face grew lobster red,
As one who sends a bloke to blazes . . .
Then: "round about turn, squad," he said;
"Now blast you! bend and pick up daises."
poem by Robert William Service
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Pharaoh and the Sergeant
". . . Consider that the meritorious services of the Sergeant Instructors attached to the Egyptian Army haue been inadequately acknowledged. . . . To the excellence of their work is mainly due the great improvement that has taken place in the soldiers of H.H. the Khedive." -- Extract from Letter, 1897
Said England unto Pharaoh, "I must make a man of you,
That will stand upon his feet and play the game;
That will Maxim his oppressor as a Christian ought to do,"
And she sent old Pharaoh Sergeant Whatisname.
It was not a Duke nor Earl, nor yet a Viscount --
It was not a big brass General that came;
But a man in khaki kit who could handle men a bit,
With his bedding labelled Sergeant Whatisname.
Said England unto Pharaoh, "Though at present singing small,
You shall hum a proper tune before it ends,"
And she introduced old Pharaoh to the Sergeant once for all,
And left 'em in the desert making friends.
It was not a Crystal Palace nor Cathedral;
It was not a public-house of common fame;
But a piece of red-hot sand, with a palm on either hand,
And a little hut for Sergeant Whatisname.
Said England unto Pharaoh, "You 've had miracles before,
When Aaron struck your rivers into blood;
But if you watch the Sergeant he can show vou something more. '
He's a charm for making riflemen from mud."
It was neither Hindustani, French, nor Coptics;
It was odds and ends and leavings of the same,
Translated by a stick (which is really half the trick),
And Pharaoh harked to Sergeant Whatisname.
(There were y ears that no one talked of; there were times of horrid doubt --
There was faith and hope and whacking and despair --
While the Sergeant gave the Cautions and he combed old Pharaoh out,
And England didn't seem to know nor care.
That is England's awful way o' doing business --
She would serve her God (or Gordon) just the same --
For she thinks her Empire still is the Strand and Hol born Hill,
And she didn't think of Sergeant Whatisname.)
Said England to the Sergeant, "You can let my people go!"
(England used 'em cheap and nasty from the start),
And they entered 'em in battle on a most astonished foe --
But the Sergeant he had hardened Pharaoh's heart
Which was broke, along of all the plagues of Egypt,
Three thousand years before the Sergeant came
And he mended it again in a little more than ten,
Till Pharaoh fought like Sergeant Whatisname.
It was wicked bad campaigning (cheap and nasty from the first),
There was heat and dust and coolie-work and sun,
There were vipers; flies, and sandstorms, there was cholera and thirst,
But Pharaoh done the best he ever done.
Down the desert, down the railway, down the river,
Like Israelites From bondage so he came,
'Tween the clouds o' dust and fire to the land of his desire,
And his Moses, it was Sergeant Whatisname!
We are eating dirt in handfuls for to save our daily bread,
Which we have to buy from those that hate us most,
And we must not raise the money where the Sergeant raised the dead,
And it's wrong and bad and dangerous to boast.
But he did it on the cheap and on the quiet,
And he's not allowed to forward any claim --
Though he drilled a black man white, though he made a mummy fight,
He will still continue Sergeant Whatisname --
Private, Corporal, Colour-Sergeant, and Instructor --
But the everlasting miracle's the same!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Orange peel
THE COLONEL stopped, and glared around,
Then, pointing sternly to the ground,
‘What does this mean?’ demanded he,
‘A piece of orange peel I see!’
The Major called the Captain then,
And said, ‘By Gad! Your fault again!
Now what the blazes do you mean
By letting all this filth be seen?’
The Captain sniffed, but took the snub,
Then, calling to the junior Sub.,
Observed, ‘Look here, what’s all this mess?
It’s fit for pigs, sir, nothing less!’
The junior Sub. blushed crimson red,
Then, to the Sergeant-major, said,
‘I’m quite fed up, and all that rot!
I mean to say a pigsty! What?’
The Sergeant-major, filled with rage,
Attacked the Sergeant at this stage,
‘You careless swab! jump to it smart.
Oh strewth! You break my blinkin ’eart!’
The Sergeant, starting in to
Apostrophized the Corporal, thus,
‘You lazy, lumberin’, boss-eyed lout!
Who chucked this crimson fruit about?’
The Corporal frowned, and turned his eye
On Private Atkins passing by;
‘Hi! you! Come ’ere, you slobberin’ sweep,
Just shift this festerin’ rubbish ’eap!’
And Private Atkins, filled with gloom,
Applied himself with spade and broom:
‘They talk a ruddy lot,’ Quothe he,
‘But ’oo does all the work? Why me’
------------------------- ------------------------------------------------- ------
poem by John Milton Hayes
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Marksman Sam
When Sam Small joined the regiment,
'E were no' but a raw recruit,
And they marched 'im away one wint'ry day,
'Is musket course to shoot.
They woke 'im up at the crack o' dawn,
Wi' many a nudge and shake,
'E were dreaming that t' Sergeant 'ad broke 'is neck,
And 'e didn't want to wake.
Lieutenant Bird came on parade,
And chided the lads for mooning,
'E talked in a voice like a pound o' plums,
'Is tonsils needed pruning.
"Move to the right by fours," he said,
Crisp like but most severe,
But Sam didn't know 'is right from 'is left,
So pretended 'e didn't 'ear.
Said Lieutenant, "Sergeant, take this man's name."
The Sergeant took out 'is pencil,
'E were getting ashamed o' taking Sam's name,
And were thinking o' cutting a stencil.
Sam carried a musket, a knapsack and coat,
Spare boots that 'e'd managed to wangle,
A 'atchet, a spade... in fact, as Sam said,
'E'd got everything bar t'kitchen mangle.
"March easy men," Lieutenant cried,
As the musket range grew near,
"March easy me blushing Aunt Fanny," said Sam,
"What a chance with all this 'ere."
When they told 'im to fire at five 'undred yards,
Sam nearly 'ad a fit,
For a six foot wall, or the Albert 'All,
Were all 'e were likely to 'it.
'E'd fitted a cork in 'is musket end,
To keep 'is powder dry,
And 'e didn't remember to take it out,
The first time 'e let fly.
'Is gun went off with a kind o' pop,
Where 'is bullet went no-one knew,
But next day they spoke of a tinker's moke,
Being killed by a cork... in Crewe.
At three 'undred yards, Sam shut 'is eyes,
And took a careful aim,
'E failed to score but the marker swore,
And walked away quite lame.
At two 'undred yards, Sam fired so wild,
That the Sergeant feared for 'is skin,
And the lads all cleared int' t' neighbouring field,
And started to dig 'emselves in.
"Ooh, Sergeant! I hear a scraping noise,"
Said Sam, "What can it be?"
The noise that 'e 'eard were lieutenant Bird,
'Oo were climbing the nearest tree.
"Ooh, Sergeant!" said Sam, "I've 'it the bull!
What price my shooting now?"
Said the Sergeant, "A bull? Yer gormless fool,
Yon isn't a bull... it's a cow!"
At fifty yards 'is musket kicked,
And went off with a noise like a blizzard,
And down came a crow looking fair surprised,
With a ram-rod through 'is gizzard.
As 'e loaded 'is musket to fire agen,
Said the Sergeant, "Don't waste shot!
Yer'd best fix bayonets and charge, my lad,
It's the only chance yer've got.
Sam kept loading 'is gun while the Sergeant spoke,
Till the bullets peeped out of the muzzle,
When all of a sudden it went off bang!
What made it go were a puzzle.
The bullets flew out in a kind of a spray,
And everything round got peppered,
When they counted 'is score... 'e'd got eight bulls eyes,
Four magpies, two lambs and a shepherd.
And the Sergeant for this got a D.C.M.
And the Colonel an O.B.E.
Lieutenant Bird got the D.S.O.
And Sam got... five days C.B.
poem by Marriott Edgar
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Geronimos Cadillac
Put geronimo in jail down south
Where he couldnt look
A gift horse in the mouth
Took old geronimo by storm
Ripped off the feathers from his uniform
Chorus:
Oh boys, take me back
I wanna ride in geronimos cadillac
Oh boys, take me back
I wanna ride in geronimos cadillac
Sergeant, sergeant, oh dont you feel
Theres something wrong with your automobile
Warden, warden, oh listen to me
Be brave and set geronimo free
Governor, governor, oh isnt it strange
You never seen a car on the indian range
(chorus)
People, people, oh dont you know
The indians got no place to go
Jesus told me, and I believe its true
The red mans in the sunset too
Took our land, now they wont give it back
They sent geronimo a cadillac
(chorus)
song performed by by Cher
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gillespie.
Riding at dawn, riding alone,
Gillespie left the town behind;
Before he turned by the Westward road
A horseman crossed him, staggering blind.
'The Devil's abroad in false Vellore,
The Devil that stabs by night,' he said,
'Women and children, rank and file,
Dying and dead, dying and dead.'
Without a word, without a groan,
Sudden and swift Gillespie turned,
The blood roared in his ears like fire,
Like fire the road beneath him burned.
He thundered back to Arcot gate,
He thundered up through Arcot town,
Before he thought a second thought
In the barrack yard he lighted down.
'Trumpeter, sound for the Light Dragoons,
Sound to saddle and spur,' he said;
'He that is ready may ride with me,
And he that can may ride ahead.'
Fierce and fain, fierce and fain,
Behind him went the troopers grim,
They rode as ride the Light Dragoons
But never a man could ride with him.
Their rowels ripped their horses' sides,
Their hearts were red with a deeper goad,
But ever alone before them all
Gillespie rode, Gillespie rode.
Alone he came to false Vellore,
The walls were lined, the gates were barred;
Alone he walked where the bullets bit,
And called above to the Sergeant's Guard.
'Sergeant, Sergeant, over the gate,
Where are your officers all?' he said;
Heavily came the Sergeant's voice,
'There are two living and forty dead.'
'A rope, a rope,' Gillespie cried :
They bound their belts to serve his need.
There was not a rebel behind the wall
But laid his barrel and drew his bead.
There was not a rebel among them all
But pulled his trigger and cursed his aim,
For lightly swung and rightly swung
Over the gate Gillespie came.
He dressed the line, he led the charge,
They swept the wall like a stream in spate,
And roaring over the roar they heard
The galloper guns that burst the gate.
Fierce and fain, fierce and fain,
The troopers rode the reeking flight:
The very stones remember still
The end of them that stab by night.
They've kept the tale a hundred years,
They'll keep the tale a hundred more:
Riding at dawn, riding alone,
Gillespie came to false Vellore.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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Sam's Racehorse
When Sam Small retired from the Army
He'd a pension of ninepence a day,
And seven pounds fourteen and twopence
He'd saved from his rations and pay.
He knew this 'ere wasn't a fortune,
But reckoned with prudence and care
He'd find some investment to save him
From hard work and things like that there.
He thought he'd invest in a race orse,
As apart from excitement and fun
He'd be able to sit down in comfort
And live on the money he won.
He knew buying 'orses was tricky,
But that didn't daunt him at all;
He said "They must rise early 't mornin
As wants to play tricks on Sam Small!"
When he called on the local 'Orse-dealer
Surprise rooted him to the spot,
For he found 'twere his old Comp'ny Sergeant,
Whose kindness he'd never forgot.
'Twere a happy reunion on both sides,
Their pleasure at meeting was great,
For each hoped to diddle the other
And wipe a few grudges off slate.
The Sergeant brought out his race 'orses,
For which he asked various sums;
They hadn't a tooth left between them,
But Sam knew their age by their gums.
Sam studied their lines and deportment
As Sergeant were trotting them round,
And told him he reckoned their value
Were fourpence, per race 'orse, per pound.
Now the Sarg. had a filly called Buster
As he hadn't said nothing about,
But when Sam turned his nose up at t'others
He thought as he'd best trot her out.
Sam were struck with her youthful appearance,
Though there wasn't much light in the place,
For her teeth were all pearly and even
And there wasn't a line on her face.
The Sergeant asked Sam twenty guineas,
But Sam, who were up to his tricks,
Pretended he thought he'd said shillings
And offered him eighteen and six.
In the end he paid eight guineas for her,
And when he'd got home with the goods
He reckoned he'd not done so badly,
For three of the guineas was duds.
But later, when he thought it over,
A doubt through his mind seemed to creep,
If Buster were all she were painted,
Why the Sergeant had sold her so cheap.
He very soon found out the answer
When he looked at her close in her stall,
She'd the marks where her face had been lifted
And a mouth full of false teeth an' all.
The little walk home had fatigued her
And the cold air had started her cough;
Sam reckoned he'd best see the Sergeant
And tell him the bargain was off.
The place were locked up when he got there,
And he realized Sergeant had bunked,
So back he went home in a dudgeon
And found Buster lying-defunct.
Sam knew if he wanted to sell her
He mustn't let on she were dead,
So he raffled her down at the Darts Club-
Forty members at five bob a head.
The raffle were highly successful,
They all came in every man jack
And so's winner'd have no cause to grumble
Sam gave him his five shillings back.
poem by Marriott Edgar
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Old Town Types No27 - Sergeant Mat McGillicuddy
King of all the old town, gaoler, censor, too,
Bane of heavy sinners doing things they shouldn't do,
Terror of the cattle-duffers in the northern scrubs,
Keeping watch on criminals, cautioning the pubs
On those brief hours, in old days, when laws forbade their beer,
Looming forth on court-days, a Nemesis severe
Of a martinet and master in the art of keeping peace
Was Matthew Mark McGillicuddy, Sergeant of Police.
How the gleaming metal jingled, how the polished leather shone
When Sergeant Mat. McGillicuddy put his war-paint on:
Skin-tight corded riding breeches, spur and soldier-strap,
Cartridge case, revolver, and a smart, peaked cap,
A black 'imperial' that wagged beneath his stiff moustache
Authority personified - he cut a heavy dash
With his boots and buttons shining and his coat without a crease
Matthew Mark McGillicuddy, Sergeant of Police.
On race-days and show-days, when strangers sought the town,
The Sergeant was a stern man, and terrible his frown.
But he had scant use on off-days for his little goal of tin,
Save when, to keep the town's repute, he ran some roysterer in;
To come the 'morning after' with a foaming pot of beer:
''Tis agin the regulations; but I want no corpses here.
You perishing with heat an' thirst to but a spot of grease.
An' me firewood there needs splittin',' said the Sergeant of Police.
Then they made him an inspector in the city one sad day;
But he had a glorious 'send off' before he went away
One night of wild carousal that gave scandal for a week,
But the man sent to replace him was a truckler and a sneak,
A plague to petty sinners, a peeping Tom in pubs;
But a jest among the cattle-duffers in the northern scrubs.
So we missed the human touch that lurked beneath the bluster
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Cold Night
It is cold. The white moon
is up among her scattered stars--
like the bare thighs of
the Police Sergeant's wife--among
her five children . . .
No answer. Pale shadows lie upon
the frosted grass. One answer:
It is midnight, it is still
and it is cold . . . !
White thights of the sky! a
new answer out of the depths of
my male belly: In April . . .
In April I shall see again--In April!
the round and perfects thighs
of the Police Sergeant's wife
perfect still after many babies.
Oya!
poem by William Carlos Williams
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The Dancer of Melody Palace
How is your beer?
Good. Bavaria brews the best beers in the world.
That is true. So what did you do in the war?
I was in the Russian front, wounded three times. How about you?
I was an SS guard in Auschwitz and Birkenau.
Was not that boring?
It was routine work. But unusual things had happened.
Don’t tell me that you ran out of Cyclon B for the gas chambers.
No. But on October 23,1943, we had some trouble
with a transport of 1,700 Jews who arrived from Bergen Belsen.
What sort of trouble?
Well, as usual, before gassing them we told them to undress.
In this group was a young and beautiful dancer, Franceska Mann.
She worked at the famous Melody Palace nightclub in Warsaw.
This sounds to me more like a musical than real trouble.
Just wait. Ogling Franceska, Sergeant-Major Schillinger
ordered her to undress completely. Yet she stood there hesitating.
Since others were slow as well we began to deliver blows
to the women to speed up the process. Then suddenly this Jewess,
the dancer, threw her shoe or something into Schillinger’s face.
What? Are you serious?
Yes, I am.
And he did not shoot her on spot?
Well, the sergeant-major tried. Astonished and furious
he opened his gun holster but Franceska was faster. She seized
his pistol and shot him twice in the stomach, wounding him mortally.
It is hard to believe this.
Yes, indeed. And she also managed to fire a third shot
injuring SS Sergeant Emmerich. In the ensuing commotion
the desperate women attacked the guards,
severing the nose of an SS soldier and scalping another.
How could you let this happen?
We were taken by complete surprise. This thing never happened before.
I am embarrassed to tell you this but we fled from these women.
So what is the end of the story?
We returned of course soon with machine guns and grenades,
led by camp commandant Rudolf Hoess.
We took the women outside and shot them one by one.
This ended the revolt of the Jewish women in Birkenau.
What about Schillinger? Did he survive?
No. he died of his wounds. Some say he was groaning
and asking God why he has to suffer like this.
poem by Paul Hartal
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Swinging the Lead
Said the soldier to the Surgeon, "I've got noises in me head
And a kind o' filled up feeling after every time I'm fed;
I can sleep all night on picket, but I can't sleep in my bed".
And the Surgeon said,
"That's Lead!"
Said the soldier to the Surgeon, "Do you think they'll send me back?
For I really ain't adapted to be carrying a pack
Though I've humped a case of whisky half a mile upon my back".
And the Surgeon said,
"That's Lead!"
"And my legs have swelled up cruel, I can hardly walk at all,
Bur when the Taubes come over you should see me start to crawl;
When we're sprinting for the dugout, I can easy beat 'em all".
And the Surgeon said,
"That's Lead!"
So they sent him to the trenches where he landed safe and sound,
And he drew his ammunition, just about two fifty round:
"Oh Sergeant, what's this heavy stuff I've got to hump around?"
And the Sergeant said,
"That's Lead!"
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Battalion-Relief
‘FALL in! Now get a move on.’ (Curse the rain.)
We splash away along the straggling village,
Out to the flat rich country, green with June…
And sunset flares across wet crops and tillage,
Blazing with splendour-patches. (Harvest soon,
Up in the Line.) ‘Perhaps the War’ll be done
‘By Christmas-Day. Keep smiling then, old son.’
Here’s the Canal: it’s dusk; we cross the bridge.
‘Lead on there, by platoons.’ (The Line’s a-glare
With shell-fire through the poplars; distant rattle
Of rifles and machine-guns.) ‘Fritz is there!
‘Christ, ain’t it lively, Sergeant? Is’t a battle?’
More rain: the lightning blinks, and thunder rumbles.
‘There’s over-head artillery!’ some chap grumbles.
What’s all this mob at the cross-roads? Where are the guides?…
‘Lead on with number One.’ And off they go.
‘Three minute intervals.’ (Poor blundering files,
Sweating and blindly burdened; who’s to know
If death will catch them in those two dark miles?)
More rain. ‘Lead on, Head-quarters.’ (That’s the lot.)
‘Who’s that?… Oh, Sergeant-Major, don’t get shot!
‘And tell me, have we won this war or not?’
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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Battalion-Relief
‘FALL in! Now get a move on.’ (Curse the rain.)
We splash away along the straggling village,
Out to the flat rich country, green with June...
And sunset flares across wet crops and tillage,
Blazing with splendour-patches. (Harvest soon,
Up in the Line.) ‘Perhaps the War’ll be done
‘By Christmas-Day. Keep smiling then, old son.’
Here’s the Canal: it’s dusk; we cross the bridge.
‘Lead on there, by platoons.’ (The Line’s a-glare
With shell-fire through the poplars; distant rattle
Of rifles and machine-guns.) ‘Fritz is there!
‘Christ, ain’t it lively, Sergeant? Is’t a battle?’
More rain: the lightning blinks, and thunder rumbles.
‘There’s over-head artillery!’ some chap grumbles.
What’s all this mob at the cross-roads? Where are the guides?...
‘Lead on with number One.’ And off they go.
‘Three minute intervals.’ (Poor blundering files,
Sweating and blindly burdened; who’s to know
If death will catch them in those two dark miles?)
More rain. ‘Lead on, Head-quarters.’ (That’s the lot.)
‘Who’s that?... Oh, Sergeant-Major, don’t get shot!
‘And tell me, have we won this war or not?’
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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