Basic training out of the eyes of a trooper

Encamped upon a plain
raw recruits twelve companies strong
run up and down to every fence,
crawl through ash holes
with live bullets buzzing overhead
while instructors with continuous curses
and sarcasm drives them on.

National servicemen called up
like ants in a crowd
loose individuality,
become just numbers,
are barbered with hair cut
prisoner style and length
and dressed in brown overalls
and plastic green helmets.

The food is gut wrenching
and slops into everything else
on a silver tray
and gives everybody stomach flue.

Every platoon has a PTI-corporal
who lets you run,
fall and crawl
the whole day long
and laughs when you bleed.

At times people wonder
from under what rock,
or out of what hole
did that that bugger crawl?

Some inspections
in the middle of the night
leaves cupboards and beds
strewn upon the floor,
although every thing
is just right
and clean and sharp
with punisment following immediately.

It’s a hell of a thing
with buddy pt, running
with poles and truck tires
till one day,
that you are super fit
and laugh at the idiot
with the stripes.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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