A BRUMMIE IN WORLD WAR 2: MY DAD, WHO WOULD HAVE BEEN 99 TODAY...

Ratface… (A World War Two Poem…)

MY DAD IS 4TH FROM LEFT, BACK ROW...

Generally he would walk past the kitchen

En route to the billets to wake up the men,

Clutching a baton, three Sergeant’s stripes rippling,

Earned for his book-keeping skills with a pen.

His habit was to burst through the doors of each hut,

Slapping down baton upon the beds’ metal frames;

He was a stickler for remembering his men’s army numbers

But was maybe not quite so good with their names.

One freezing morning, the process took an unprecedented turn,

The Sergeant, nicknamed ‘Tiger’, entered one particular room,

Raised his baton, was about to strike

But then froze at what he saw through the gloom.

A soldier, still snorting, asleep on his back,

Woolly hat pulled down to his eyes;

Blanket tugged tightly beneath his chin,

A smoker’s wheeze forcing ribcage to rise.

Yet across his mouth, also deep in repose,

Lay a rat, clinging on for dear life in the cold;

Benefiting from the Private’s warm, exhaled breaths, 

This was vermin ingenuity, fascinatingly bold.

‘Tiger’, disgusted, slapped down his baton

Onto the frame at the foot of the bed;

The rat scurried, hurried then escaped via the door:

The soldier yawned, wiped his mouth, turned his head.

The Brummie Sergeant exclaimed: “You had a rat on your mouth..!”

The soldier moved the wool hat from his brow 

And replied with a wry, quite genuine smile:

“Suppose it just had to keep warm somehow...”

‘Tiger’ met that same soldier, some years after the war

And reminded the chap about the invasive rat;

The chap laughed and said that he was now a council rat-catcher…

Does it really get much better than that?

PETE RAY

This actually happened at Ballykinlar in Northern Ireland. 

The Sergeant, ‘Tiger’, was my dad. 

He hated rats before that incident. 

He loathed them afterwards.

THERE WERE SEVERAL PROS IN DAD'S ARMY TEAM.
HE IS FAR LEFT, FRONT ROW...

Ratmeal… (A World War Two Poem…)

He huddled past the kitchen on a bitterly cold day,

Acknowledging the cook with a wave and a smile;

But then noticed a storeroom window, slightly ajar

And approached it with a Sergeant’s inquisitive guile.

Hearing some scratching and scampering noises from inside,
He hefted the window open wider to see;

In the morning’s pale light, he saw rats defecating 

On the oat stores, soon morning porridge to be...

Anger boiled, the Sergeant growled, disgruntled,

Slammed the offending window shut tight,

Stormed back to the cookhouse like in a crazy cartoon,

Grabbed the terrified cook and spoiled for a fight.

“How DARE you use those oats for me and my men...”

He roared into the chef’s face, who was suitably shocked,

Who meekly replied: “No-one notices when the porridge is cooked...”

And the stunned Sergeant assumed he was being mocked. 

He reported the incident to a superior officer

 But was told to forget what he’d seen;

Then he was advised to carry on waking his men

And forget where the foraging rats had been…

Crestfallen, downcast, the wronged Sergeant

Slunk away, frustrated at this strife;

But the incident resulted in an aversion to porridge,

Lasting the remainder of his civilian life...

PETE RAY

My father was the Royal Warwickshire Regimental Sergeant featured in this poem.  

He hated rats. 

He loathed them. 

Porridge too, after this incident…

(Ballykinlar, Northern Ireland.)

MY DAD IN AROUND 1921-22...

1927 WITH SISTERS SHEILA & CONNIE...

THERE HE IS, FAR RIGHT, MIDDLE ROW (LEIGH ROAD CRICKET TEAM, 1934)...

1960, NEARMOOR ROAD, SHARD END...

HAD BEEN ASKED TO POSE FOR THIS...

ME WITH DAD, EARLY 1970s...

I TRIED TO SMILE...

MY DAD WOULD HAVE BEEN 99 TODAY...