PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

We were living in the now empty houses on the outskirts of Stanley next to the racecourse. Actually, we had just moved in it was still the 14th of June. We had halted here after being stopped from entering the town itself. We had drifted off in our groups and been housed as per battalion order of march. I was located with Coy HQ. We were in a fairly nice house that had the customary AGAR cooker and fire in the kitchen they all appeared to be in the one colour scheme. White with a black top, they must have been sold on the lines a bit like the model “T” ford I supposed.

  

We were just sorting out pit spaces and stags for the radios when there was a cry of “stand to”.

“Aircraft warning red”.



With mumbling madness and shouts of “I knew we couldn’t trust the bastards”, we spilled from the houses. Out onto the racecourse we craned our necks skywards. Where black specs filled the sky. The steady thump of helicopter rotor blades could be heard, drowning out voices and filling the air with just sheer noise. And it was getting louder, by the second. We looked off towards the direction of Stanley and the airport beyond the ridge.

  

Every type of helicopter you could imagine had filled the skies. Heading our way no less. Dinger, Willie and I were in a group that had been apparently singled out by a Bell Augusta attack helicopter. It flew steadily towards us. We could see the pilots clearly through the windshield. Bright blue cravat’s similar to the ones the battery had worn during the 1970’s adorned the pilot and co-pilots necks. Their helmets had the anti glare visor in the down position and between that and the cravat were the gauchoe moustaches that the Argentinean airforce just loved to grow. Below that, the pearly teeth just were starting the hint of a grin.

  

We were ordered not to open fire. Bell-Augusta, that was what was coming down just in front of us, machine guns, rocket pods the full fucking Monty. Technically in the act of capturing it, was three blokes armed with SMG’s. It landed and the pilots switched off. We stood slightly embarrassed as we waited for them to get out of the chopper. Dinger got fed up and went forward yanking the door open; ”Get Out” was the cry.  And they did, the pilots stood to one side guarded by me as Dinger and Steve Willie dived inside the chopper.

  

I hadn’t seen anyone so clean for weeks. I could even smell their after-shave. It was in stark contrast to the soldiers on the ground that we had been fighting with. They had all smelt of shit. Both sheep shit and the human kind. It just went to show the different standards afforded to the various arms of the Argy army and airforce. I suppose this lot would expect to be treated differently because they hadn’t been shooting at us. My thoughts were rudely interrupted as on of the Argy’s lurched forward.

“My jacket”, he said.

  

I looked at his pristine American style green bomber jacket with the standard orange lining (standard on the piss dress for the lads when we were back in Aldershot). Then I looked down to my shredded windproof smock, with its countless stains, rips and tears. And wondered. He repeated “My Jacket”, and then reached forward and tugged mine. Fucking hell I thought. The stupid bastard wants to swap clothes with me.

  

So I asked him “You want to swap?” A total look of repugnance crossed his face and a voice full of indignation growled “No, it’s your friend he steals my jacket!” Looking across I could see Dinger scurrying off with an armful of clothes, Steve Willie had a pair of Boots, and me? I had 2 fucking prisoners.  Digging him in the ribs with my SMG I told the pilot to back off and shut the fuck up.

  

Later when they had collected all the prisoner’s and we got back to the house. Steve Willie gave me the boots .It turned out they were a size 10 and he took a size 8. Happy days. I never really had any problems with my feet, (my British army issue boots were fuckin crap and my feet had been wet since we landed. But my feet it would seem had adapted).

  

Now they were dry, warm and happy. Trouble now was that I dared not take the fucking things off.

  

In case some other bastard stole them, while I slept

  



MAY 82

  

IT RAINED,

AND I HEARD IT FALL.

MAYBE NOT EVERY DROP,

BUT ALMOST ALL

  

WE CUT THE TURF.

AND STACKED IT HIGH.

TWO FOOT THICK

AND JUST AS WIDE.

  

RAIN RAN DOWN MY FACE

WHILE IT FILLED THE HOLE.

SOAKED MY CLOTHES.

WASHED MY SOUL.

  

NO GENTLE PITTER-PATTER THIS,

IT CRASHED.

THE WIND HOWLED, AND BLEW.

BAYONETS SLASHED.

  

AND ALL THE WHILE,

EIGHT THOUSAND MILES AWAY,

YOU CHEERED, GOT DRUNK, AND SLEPT,  

IN A COSY WARM BED



  

Jim Love



Author's Comments on "MAY 82"  People watched from the comfort of their living rooms. Unless you were actually there, or actually experienced war. You'll never really know.