RAT HEATER... (My poem about the Royal Warwickshire Regiment in Northern Ireland, World War II...)

 Rat Heater…

The army chef greeted a passing Sergeant,

His baton tight under his arm,

As the cook stirred porridge with a wooden spoon,

Surely no reason for alarm…

Chef checked the consistency of the stodgy mass

And cast an eye to the urn,

Steaming briskly on that icy morning,

Though the Sergeant’s expression seemed stern.

The army Sergeant barely waved back, 

Baton ready and poised to strike

The metal frames at the feet of men’s beds,

Privates and Corporals alike.

The Sergeant spotted a window ajar,

At the rear of the kitchen, a store;

He marched across to close it tight

When movement inside dropped his jaw.

Brown rats played and teemed on the oats,

Which the men were expected to swallow,

Urine and droppings defiled the cereal

And the Sergeant’s response was hollow. 

The three-striped Sergeant slammed the window closed

And marched straight back to the cook,

“Have you seen what the rats have done on the oats?

Get in there and have a good look…”

Rats scurried away as the pair entered the room

The Sergeant’s face reddened and recoiled

But the cook said the men would never find out,

Nobody noticed when the oats had been boiled…

The Sergeant, incredulous, reported the cook

To officers of higher rank  

But nothing was done about the rats on the oats

And the Sergeant had no-one to thank.

The cook escaped punishment, the rats ate the oats,

Urinated, dropped faeces, ran amok;

The Sergeant kept quiet, never ate porridge again

But the detestation of vermin stuck…

A week or so later, the Sergeant entered the barracks

To awaken the men with his stick

But as he prepared to strike the first soldier’s bed,

He froze at the scene, feeling sick…

The soldier slept with blanket to chin,

His head warm beneath woollen fatigue-hat;

But across his mouth, the Sergeant was horrified to see

Was a large, sleeping brown rat.

The baton swooped down on the bed’s metal frame,

The rat scurried away through a door;

It had found warm air expiring from the soldier’s mouth

And had spread itself over his jaw.

The Sergeant, disgusted, explained to the soldier

Who wiped his hand across both mouth and brow,

Yet all the chap said in response to the news was:

“It had to keep warm somehow…”

After the war had long been over,

The pair met in civilian hats 

And when asked by the officer what job he was now doing,

The Private replied, “I catch rats…”

Pete Ray...

This actually happened. 

My father was the Sergeant. 

It took place at Ballykinlar Camp, Northern Ireland.

MY FATHER, SEATED, FAR LEFT...

THE ATTESTATION PAPERS...

MARRIED IN UNIFORM, 1943, WARD END, BIRMINGHAM...