Soldiers risk it all for something priceless...a life less ordinary

I bought a poppy and thought of my Dad, someone I always miss at this time of year.

He wasn’t killed in action, but he served in the Second World War – he was a captain in a tank regiment – and lost many friends.

The Army made him brave, and that bravery stood him in good stead when it came to facing loss, illness, mediocrity...

His memories, good and bad, kept him alive, alert, proud. He knew he had really lived, seen the world and made a difference.

I feel for those who have lost loved ones in Iraq and Afghanistan. I feel for Christina Schmid, the widow of Staff Sergeant Olaf Schmid – a bomb disposal expert killed in Afghanistan while trying to defuse his 65th roadside bomb just days before he was due home on leave.

Of course, every death in combat is a tragedy, but the level of hand-wringing by the Press and politicians belittles these incredible men and women.

Soldiers are not politicians, they do not choose where they are sent, they do not question their orders. They knew the risks when they signed up. They are heroes, without question, but they died doing a job they loved.

They did not buy into the culture that means most of us feel the need to be protected at all times, and when anything bad befalls us we immediately look for someone to blame.

I hope and guess these men and women joined the Armed Forces not just to police the world, but for the glamour, too – for a life less ordinary.

I went into a public-’ouse to get a pint o’beer,
The publican ‘e up an’ sez, “We serve no red-coats here.”
The girls be’ind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an’ to myself sez I:

O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, go away”;
But it’s ``Thank you, Mister Atkins,’’ when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it’s ``Thank you, Mr. Atkins,’’ when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but ‘adn’t none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-’alls,
But when it comes to fightin’, Lord! they’ll shove me in the stalls!

For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, wait outside”;
But it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide,
The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the troopship’s on the tide,
O it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide.

Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap;
An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.

Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy how’s yer soul?”
But it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll.

We aren’t no thin red ‘eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An’ if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints:
Why, single men in barricks don’t grow into plaster saints;

While it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, fall be’ind,”
But it’s “Please to walk in front, sir,” when there’s trouble in the wind,
There’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s trouble in the wind,
O it’s “Please to walk in front, sir,” when there’s trouble in the wind.

You talk o’ better food for us, an’ schools, an’ fires an’ all:
We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don’t mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace.

For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck him out, the brute!”
But it’s “Saviour of ‘is country,” when the guns begin to shoot;
An’ it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please;
But Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool - you bet that Tommy sees!

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