Friday, err. . . Farrell

I thought I’d provide a different flavor of poetry rather than the usual Kipling. It’s a poem written by SGM Alan F. Farrell, a 28 year veteran of the U.S. Army Special Forces, and currently a professor of French here at the beloved Institute. He served as a radio operator in Vietnam and most of his poetry is a reflection of that time spent in the jungle.

The Man Who Outlived His Lieutenant

Lieutenant and me used to have this, well… kinda argument
About what to do in an ambush
I’d already been in a couple, figure I’m a vet, an aguerri, a beenaround
Duck the fuck behint of a tree burn off a mag wait till they get tired
I got more ammo’n they do more time they know
If they mess with me too long I’ll call down the Johnson

That’s a combat man ‘ere talkin’, sir
Seen the bear an’ smelt ‘is fur
Shots in anger, C(ombat) I(nfantry) B(adge)
Get in a fight, jus’ do like me

Lieutenant he don’t see it thataway figures
Somebody fire you up only way to act is get on him
Assault through it on line break it up
Fire and maneuver like in the book
Discipline pree-vails on the field of battle troops get to
thinking all’s they gotta do is get shot at, they’re not soldiers any more… just targets

That’s a combat man ‘ere talkin’, sir
Seen the bear an’ smelt ‘is fur
Shots in anger, CIB
Get in a fight, jus’ do like me

I say bullshit do love my Lieutenant though bright and curious and tough
We all do drinks beer with us packs sandbags with us keeps T(actical) O(perations) C(enter) off our back
Wants to do Right and what’s more translates that Faith into Act
Cuts square corners like they taught him at V(iginia) M(ilitary) I(nstitute) not because
He has no imagination but because Honor is what keeps this butchery from
Being butchery but he can’t sell me Honor… not at the cost of my ass

That’s a combat man ‘ere talkin’, sir
Seen the bear an’ smelt ‘is fur
Shots in anger, CIB
Get in a fight, jus’ do like me

I say I doan wanna be butcher but most of all I doan wanna be the beef
Important to him to be neither but a soldier
Like his Old Man and his paratrooper at Normandy teddy bear Captain in the Ardennes
In the end though he pretty much listens to us pretty much
And don’t sell us for nothing and we talk and sweat in the sunwashed dust and shiver in mountain fastness
And soldier’s Honor rarely enough intrudes into the soiled business at hand

That’s a combat man ‘ere talkin’, sir
Seen the bear an’ smelt ‘is fur
Shots in anger, CIB
Get in a fight, jus’ do like me

We stumblefumblebumble together upthendown Lao mountains
Curse and laugh and Christ I laughed with him
Silly futile fatal ironies I’d never laugh at now preposterous paunchy greying Citizen
And we carrybury our dead a man here firefight there ones and twos
Yet at each loss he withdraws a little ages a little sages a little talks a little less about
Honor more about men hurtmen lostmen wastedmen thesemen ourmen more like me

That’s a combat man ‘ere talkin’, sir
Seen the bear an’ smelt ‘is fur
Shots in anger, CIB
Get in a fight, jus’ do like me

In the six kilometer square grid Lower Left No Bomb Hotel Nine
A bonetired sweatsoaked montagnard snatches a vine from across his face
Steps out onto a trail threading its way along this ridgeside just
As a bonetired sweatsoaked P(athet ) L(ao) ambles aimless home
Infinite moment of locking eyes fumbling fingers
Rounds crack shattering branches scattering leaves spattering dirt

That’s a combat man ‘ere talkin’, sir
Seen the bear an’ smelt ‘is fur
Shots in anger, CIB
Get in a fight, jus’ do like me

I duck the fuck down burn off a mag wait till they get tired
I got more ammo’n they do more time they know
If they mess with me too long I’ll call in the Johnson
I’m burrowed deep into the embrace of a fatroot tree
Shelter enough from fire’s reach rounds thwack the trunk spike the black soil
Shelter enough from Honor, too

That’s a combat man ‘ere talkin’, sir
Seen the bear an’ smelt ‘is fur
Shots in anger, CIB
Get in a fight, jus’ do like me

But the second I’ve taken to hide does not end
And somehow it seems that what threatens me comes from back there not up front
Sure enough out of the brush busts Lieutenant piece in one hand grenade in t’other
Bolts past me is that a look is that a look a look
Heads right into it Follow Me Aw Jeezus, sir, what’re you doin’
You’re gonna get

That’s a combat man ‘ere talkin’, sir
Seen the bear an’ smelt ‘is fur
Shots in anger, CIB
Get in a fight, jus’ do like me

Was just a smallish hole and we did what you do
Cleartheairway stopthebleeding sealthewound but before long
Those fingers go bluegrey then those lips bluegrey then cold
His hand actually goes cold in mine goes cold I cradle him bloodless me tearless
Gentlybutgently turns out Honor can’t keep
This butchery from being nothing but butchery I was right after all

That’s a combat man ‘ere talkin’, sir
Seen the bear an’ smelt ‘is fur
Shots in anger, CIB
Get in a fight, jus’ do like me

We wrap my Lieutenant in a ponchomyponcho I was right after all
Carry him on our backs won’t lug this man on no pole
Who died on his feet and face to the enemy I
Would have died in a huddle behind a tree face in the dirt
And now surely shall in soiled sheets old man who outlived his Lieutenant
But right after all

That’s a combat man ‘ere talkin’, sir
Seen the bear an’ smelt ‘is fur
Shots in anger, CIB
Get in a fight, jus’ do like me

Kipling Friday

I haven’t posted anything on here in a long while, so I will post what is easiest for me at the moment: another installment of Kipling Friday, or Friday Kipling; whichever you prefer.

Gunga Din

You may talk o’ gin and beer
When you’re quartered safe out ‘ere,
An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ‘im that’s got it.
Now in Injia’s sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin’ of ‘Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
He was “Din! Din! Din!
You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! Slippy hitherao!
Water, get it! Panee lao! [Bring water swiftly.]
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.”

The uniform ‘e wore
Was nothin’ much before,
An’ rather less than ‘arf o’ that be’ind,
For a piece o’ twisty rag
An’ a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment ‘e could find.
When the sweatin’ troop-train lay
In a sidin’ through the day,
Where the ‘eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,
We shouted “Harry By!” [Mr. Atkins's equivalent for "O brother."]
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped ‘im ’cause ‘e couldn’t serve us all.
It was “Din! Din! Din!
You ‘eathen, where the mischief ‘ave you been?
You put some juldee in it [Be quick.]
Or I’ll marrow you this minute [Hit you.]
If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!”

‘E would dot an’ carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An’ ‘e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin’ nut,
‘E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.
With ‘is mussick on ‘is back, [Water-skin.]
‘E would skip with our attack,
An’ watch us till the bugles made “Retire”,
An’ for all ‘is dirty ‘ide
‘E was white, clear white, inside
When ‘e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was “Din! Din! Din!”
With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could hear the front-ranks shout,
“Hi! ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din!”

I shan’t forgit the night
When I dropped be’ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should ‘a’ been.
I was chokin’ mad with thirst,
An’ the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.
‘E lifted up my ‘ead,
An’ he plugged me where I bled,
An’ ‘e guv me ‘arf-a-pint o’ water-green:
It was crawlin’ and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,
I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was “Din! Din! Din!
‘Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ‘is spleen;
‘E’s chawin’ up the ground,
An’ ‘e’s kickin’ all around:
For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!”

‘E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.
‘E put me safe inside,
An’ just before ‘e died,
“I ‘ope you liked your drink”, sez Gunga Din.
So I’ll meet ‘im later on
At the place where ‘e is gone –
Where it’s always double drill and no canteen.
‘E’ll be squattin’ on the coals
Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,
An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,
By the livin’ Gawd that made you,
You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

Making History

Yesterday, we saw the 44th peaceful regime change in our young nation’s history. While I did not vote for President Obama, it is high time that we check our politics at the door and try to fix the ills as a single nation instead of a plethora of divided factions. I wish him Godspeed as he begins his term in office.

Yesterday also marked another seminal event: the thirteenth appearance of the Virginia Military Institute Corps of Cadets in a presidential inaugural parade. It was a long, cold day, that totaled out to about 20 hours of traveling, security checks, waiting around for orders, forming up, waiting around, and actually marching in the parade. But all of the time was well spent for the five minutes that we passed in review for the President, and for the nation. It was truly an honor to be a part of history.

Rah Virginia Mil!

Ring Figure 2010

Receiving my ring.

21 November 2008 was the Class of 2010’s Ring Figure at the Virginia Military Institute. Ring Figure is one of the top four seminal events in a cadetship, along with Matriculation, Break Out, and Graduation. It is a weekend of celebration for the Class; time for bonding and sharing memories. It is a once in a lifetime event never to happen again. It is one of the few moments in a cadet’s life where they can say they were truly one hundred percent happy. Congratulations to the Class of 2010.

Rah Virginia Mil! Rah Rah Rah! Rah Rah VMI! 1-0, 1-0, 1-0!

My ring being placed on my finger.

The Brotherhood

My Ring

Cold Steel

Last night, the Class of 2010 of the Virginia Military Institute received their combat rings, marking the first of their inductions into the Brotherhood of the Ring. It was a night few will forget, as we all crowded ourselves into Cocke Hall for a combat dinner of sorts; all of us dressed in ACUs and our faces painted with eager anticipation of being able to wear our combat rings for the very first time.

After many speeches and a dinner that far surpassed anything I believed Aramark (our school’s catering/dining service) was capable of, we placed our rings on our hand and proceeded to usher in a new tradition at VMI. As we walked out of Cocke Hall, filled with fine food and joy, we were flanked on either side by an honor guard with rifles at present arms, and at the end of the walkway, right before the stairs, was a combat memorial with a helmet perched upon an inverted M14. As each one of us passed the memorial, we tapped our rings onto the dome of the helmet to honor those alumni who had gone before us and those who had payed the ultimate sacrifice in defense of all we believed in.

From there we sauntered up to the Parade Ground where we cried out our Old Yells: one for our Dykes’ Class, one for our Rats’ Class, and one for our own Class. To punctuate the end of each of our Old Yells, a 105mm Howitzer was fired off — one of the same Howitzers we drug up the hill on Break Out Day one cold Saturday in January of 2007. From there, we headed back into Barracks to revel in our most recent accomplishment.

Tonight, we receive our gold Rings. Rah Virginia Mil! Rah Rah Rah! — Rah Rah VMI 1-0 1-0 1-0!

Combat Memorial for Ring Figure 2010

My combat ring finally on my finger.

Friday Kipling

Today is the day of Ring Figure for the Class of 2010 at the Virginia Military Institute. In honor of that, here’s some Kipling.

A School Song

"Let us now praise famous men"--
     Men of little showing--
For their work continueth,
And their work continueth,
Broad and deep continues,
    Greater then their knowing!

Western wind and open surge
    Took us from our mothers--
Flung us on a naked shore
(Twelve bleak houses by the shore.
Seven summers by the shore! )
    'Mid two hundred brothers.

There we met with famous men
    Set in office o'er us;
And they beat on us with rods--
Faithfully with many rods--
Daily beat us on with rods,
     For the love they bore us!

Out of Egypt unto Troy--
    Over Himalaya--
Far and sure our bands have gone--
Hy-Brazil or Babylon,
Islands of the Southern Run,
   And Cities of Cathaia!

And we all praise famous men--
    Ancients of the College;
For they taught us common sense--
Tried to teach us common sense--
Truth and God's Own Common Sense,
    Which is more than knowledge!

Each degree of Latitude
    Strung about Creation
Seeth one or more of us
(Of one muster each of us),
Diligent in that he does,
    Keen in his vocation.

This we learned from famous men,
     Knowing not its uses,
When they showed, in daily work--
Man must finish off his work--
Right or wrong, his daily work--
    And without excuses.

Servant of the Staff and chain,
  Mine and fuse and grapnel--
Some, before the face of Kings,
Stand before the face of Kings;
Bearing gifts to divers Kings--
  Gifts of case and shrapnel.

This we learned from famous men
  Teaching in our borders,
Who declared it was best,
Safest,  easiest,  and best--
Expeditious, wise, and best--
  To obey your orders.

Some beneath the further stars
  Bear the greater burden:
Set to serve the lands they rule,
(Save he serve no man may rule ),
Serve and love the lands they rule;
  Seeking praise nor guerdon.

This we learned from famous men,
  Knowing not we learned it.
Only, as the years went by--
Lonely, as the years went by--
Far from help as years went by,
  Plainer we discerned it.

Wherefore praise we famous men
  From whose bays we borrow--
They that put aside To-day--
All the joys of their To-day--
And with toil of their To-day
  Bought for us To-morrow!

Bless and praise we famous men--
  Men of little showing--
For their work continueth,
And their work continueth,
Broad and deep continueth,

   Great beyond their knowing!

5 & A Wake Up

Life has a way of amazing me sometimes. I’ve been ridiculously busy the last two and a half months, what with school and color guard and martial arts club and Ring Figure and everything else that seems to creep into my schedule while I’m here at the Mother I. Even though I’m busy from the moment I wake until that sweet moment when I can lay down in my rack and catch a few hours of blissful slumber, I can’t complain. I’ve never had more fun in my life, and my hard work has been paying off — a 3.1 midterm GPA for example — and I’ve been enjoying myself immensely. And lest I forget, Ring Figure — the seminal event of Second Class Year — is in 5 five days and I have a beautiful and wonderful date. All in all, I have been doing well.

But a packed schedule has caused me to neglect this site, much to my own chagrin. I thoroughly enjoy writing, no matter how inane the posts tend to be. The problem is that when I reach the end of my day (in the wee small hours of the morning), I usually just want to sleep and am in no condition to write anything coherent, let alone worth reading. But Thanksgiving Furlough and Christmas Furlough are on the horizon, so those breaks will allow me time to write more often. . .hopefully.

The Class Side of the 2010 Ring

Kipling Friday

More Kipling to get your weekend started on the right foot. This week’s poem is entitled Danny Deever.

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’.

Kipling Friday

Since I haven’t done this in a while, I figured I’d put some more Friday Kipling up. This week’s poem is entitled Cruisers.

Cruisers

1899

As our mother the Frigate, bepainted and fine,
Made play for her bully the Ship of the Line;
So we, her bold daughters by iron and fire,
Accost and decoy to our masters’ desire.

Now, pray you, consider what toils we endure,
Night-walking wet sea-lanes, a guard and a lure;
Since half of our trade is that same pretty sort
As mettlesome wenches do practise in port.

For this is our office — to spy and make room,
As hiding yet guiding the foe to their doom;
Surrounding, confounding, we bait and betray
And tempt them to battle the seas’ width away.

The pot-bellied merchant foreboding no wrong
With headlight and sidelight he lieth along,
Till, lightless and lightfoot and lurking, leap we
To force him discover his business by sea.

And when we have wakened the lust of a foe,
To draw him by flight toward our bullies we go,
Till, ‘ware of strange smoke stealing nearer, he flies
Ere our bullies close in for to make him good prize.

So, when we have spied on the path of their host,
One flieth to carry that word to the coast;
And, lest by false doublings they turn and go free,
One lieth behind them to follow and see.

Anon we return, being gathered again,
Across the sad valleys all drabbled with rain –
Across the grey ridges all crisped and curled –
To join the long dance round the curve of the world.

The bitter salt spindrift, the sun-glare likewise,
The moon-track a-tremble, bewilders our eyes,
Where, linking and lifting, our sisters we hail
‘Twixt wrench of cross-surges or plunge of head-gale.

As maidens awaiting the bride to come forth
Make play with light jestings and wit of no worth,
So, widdershins circling the bride-bed of death,
Each fleereth her neighbour and signeth and saith: –

“What see ye? Their signals, or levin afar?
“What hear ye? God’s thunder, or guns of our war?
“What mark ye? Their smoke, or the cloud-rack outblown?
“What chase ye? Their lights, or the Daystar low down?”

So, times past all number deceived by false shows,
Deceiving we cumber the road of our foes,
For this is our virtue: to track and betray;
Preparing great battles a sea’s width away.

Now peace is at end and our peoples take heart,
For the laws are clean gone that restrained our art;
Up and down the near headlands and against the far wind
We are loosed (O be swift!) to the work of our kind!

62 & A Wake Up

Yesterday marked the end of the third week of my Second Class year at The Institute. I honestly can’t believe I’m already on year three and am getting my ring in only a few weeks. When I was in high school, this point seemed so far away, as if I’d never be in college; and now I’m looking at being on my own in the real world in a little over a year and a half. I simply don’t know where the time goes.

So far, I’ve been ridiculously busy, even more so than last year, yet I’ve still managed to find my way to my rack before 0100 most nights(knock on wood). I’m a Color Sergeant this year, which means I’m responsible for raising and lowering the flags in the mornings and evenings, respectively, as well as handling any posting of flags or color details that I am assigned. I am absolutely loving it so far. Academics have also ramped up along with my other responsibilities, and I’m finally getting deeper into Mechanical Engineering. I honestly can’t wait until I can start taking technical electives so I can specialize more in the thermodynamical side of the ME house, and focus less on structural mechanics; I’m looking forward to taking Aerodynamics and Propulsion Design

That about sums it up for now. I’m looking forward to the presidential election, as this will be the first one I will be able to vote in. This semester is really starting to shape up well, which is good.

SergeantRank

79 & A Wake Up

Today was ring try-on, and I got to see my ring for the very first time. It’s beautiful; 44 pennyweight of 14k gold awesomeness. Just thought I would share.

My Ring.

Kipling Friday

The Storm Cone
1932

This is the midnight-let no star
Delude us-dawn is very far.
This is the tempest long foretold-
Slow to make head but sure to hold

Stand by! The lull ‘twixt blast and blast
Signals the storm is near, not past;
And worse than present jeopardy
May our forlorn to-morrow be.

If we have cleared the expectant reef,
Let no man look for his relief.
Only the darkness hides the shape
Of further peril to escape.

It is decreed that we abide
The weight of gale against the tide
And those huge waves the outer main
Sends in to set us back again.

They fall and whelm. We strain to hear
The pulses of her labouring gear,
Till the deep throb beneath us proves,
After each shudder and check, she moves!

She moves, with all save purpose lost,
To make her offing from the coast;
But, till she fetches open sea,
Let no man deem that he is free!