Early Memories - USA I Renewable Energy

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During the mid-80’s I served in the Parachute Regiment. I was lucky enough to spend a period on exercise in Fort Lewis, Washington State working with the US Rangers. The Rangers are one of the USA’s elite units and as such were considered to be almost as good as the Paras.

The US troops were extremely well equipped, but they tended to be body builders rather than athletes, a little gung ho and being totally unaware of things that were not American, a little naive. This coupled with their propensity to shout ‘hoorah’ at every opportunity meant that on the whole the visiting Brits saw them as slow, loud and a bit dim.

Differences in procedures made things even more interesting. The Rangers were bussed back to camp at night whilst their trenches were prepared by engineers using backhoes; the Paras, on the other hand, spent the night digging in.

The scene was set for some great wind ups and pretty spectacular banter.

One evening on a company scale exercise in which we had to attack a platoon size defensive position my Corporal whispered “Fix Bayonets” in a rather loud stage whisper just before our assault went in. There was a flurry of activity and the words “these f….g Brits are crazy’ were clearly heard drifting on the cool night air; by the time we arrived on the position there was no one there.

The exercise was hard work and rewarding. Both units benefited from the experience. My lasting memory was born out of a practical joke I played on one PFC which really took off; the following poem explains all;

Early Memories – USA I - Renewable Energy

It was morning in the forest
And the troops were dug in well
British and American
the aim to help us gel.

There’d been a lot of banter
In the preceding weeks
As we’d competed and compared
our differing techniques.

I reached in to my Bergan
and removed an electric razor,
I was ready for some fun
I’d thought up a real teaser.

I stabbed my bayonet into a tree
to make a small incision,
then slipped a lead into the hole
and started my ablution.

The Ranger who shared our scrape
could not conceal his glee
as I shaved my face with a razor
plugged into a tree.

He asked me to show him
this great ‘British’ invention;
and he begged to swap near all he had
for it was beyond his comprehension.

It quick became a standing joke
As we plugged things into trees
and not one of us would trade one
..... or tell of batteries.

John Carré Buchanan
23 April 2012

The Oak Tree

During recent weeks I have read a number of blogs which tackle the subject of bullying, most recently one by on Sammie's blog Sammie Writes . This has inspired me to post a poem I wrote a while back on the same subject.

My view is that bullying, whether emotional or physical, personal or national, should always be condemned.

The Oak Tree

I lay awake and waited,
I knew that they would come,
I lay awake and waited.

They came at me,
Like an Oak I stood,
They came at me.

Their torrents raged,
With stick and boot,
Their torrents raged.

I took their beatings silently,
They could not make me cry,
I took their beatings silently.

I dared not cry,
I knew that’s what they wanted,
I did not cry.

It weren’t much fun,
For me – or them,
It weren’t much fun.

They moved right on,
Coz it weren’t much fun,
They moved right on.

Years later on I met their type,
On battlefield with gun,
Years later on I met their type.

This time I stood before the young,
My body as a shield,
This time I stood before the young,

And it weren’t much fun.

John Carré Buchanan
14th June 2010

Bananas

This morning I was having my breakfast and chatting about the state of the Middle East with my daughter, as I talked I realised that the whole state of affairs is absolutely bananas. With this in mind I thought I would share a poem I wrote a few weeks ago which is about that fruit.

Bananas

Mile on mile of broad leaved plants
adorned with plastic bags,
grown by corporations
and cut by men in rags.

The fruit is called “banana”
and each one looks the same
they cut them when un-ripened
which is a crying shame.

They’re shipped worldwide in coolers
And stacked in airtight stores
They’re ripened using ethylene
which also kills off spores.

The inner flesh of creamy white
is in yellow skin encased.
It’s firm, but slightly mushy
with a most distinctive taste.

Commercial bananas are engineered
biologically they’re the same
designed to have a shelf life
but the taste is rather lame.

The crop’s parthenocarpic*,
As such it can’t evolve
A pathogen could wipe it out
A problem hard to solve

But bananas grown in the wild
Are a very different thing
they’re constantly evolving
and variety’s built in.

There are little ones and big ones,
many coloured; not just yellow
Cooking ones called Plantains
and sweet ones; oh so mellow.

The banana is a staple food
For many populations
And served up cooked or eaten raw
It’s a mighty fine creation.

John Carré Buchanan
16 July 2011

* In botany and horticulture, parthenocarpy (virgin fruit) is the natural or artificially induced production of fruit without fertilization of ovules. The fruit is therefore seedless. If it affects every flower, then the plant can no longer sexually reproduce but might be able to propagate by vegetative means.

Torn Trees

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I found this image on the internet a few months ago and it inspired me to write this poem;

Torn Trees

The silence - is deafening.
No birdsong,
no fish jumping,
not even a chirping cricket.

The ‘Great One’ stands defeated
It’s magnificent head severed
in a blinding flash
as Zeus vented his rage.

A few trees remain,
buttressed against the onslaught,
they stand tall,
discussing terms with the clouds.

Stunted stumps of others
cut down in their prime
Jut from the surface
as if hewn by a mighty scythe.

A long breath is drawn.
Water flows across the battlefield
Gently clearing away
evidence of the fray.

Reflections lie motionless
too exhausted to shimmer
on the still water’s surface.
Waiting for a different light.

John Carré Buchanan
20 May 2011

The Bastard Tree

Our local poetry group, 'Guernsey Poets', has an open mic evening once a month. This evening's event was themed 'Trees'. Initially I thought about writing a poem on the beauty of trees or the horrific impact of deforestation or even the importance of trees as the lungs of the Earth but as I was putting pen to paper a vivid memory of a particular tree came to mind.

As a young Captain I was lucky enough to serve in Belize (Central America). I spent some time working in the Jungle near the Guatemalan border. It was here that I first met a tree, known colloquially as the Bastard Tree. The following poem explains all;

The Bastard Tree

‘The path knows to avoid me
It skirts my trunk as if to flee.
Its muddy course bending round
my fallen leaves upon the ground.

The steep slopes I enjoy the most
as better vistas they do boast.
It’s here I get a chance to play
a little game upon my prey.

My trunks a mass of needled spikes
A bit like ancient soldiers pikes.
I’ll catch anyone who deigns to touch
and they won’t like it very much.

Here he comes; his feet are slipping
my unseen roots prepare to trip him.
He reaches out to stop the fall
And that is when I hear him call.’

‘BASTARD TREE.’
‘Yep that’s me….’

John Carré Buchanan
18 May 2011