Showing posts with label War. Show all posts
Showing posts with label War. Show all posts

Saturday, 5 December 2015

A Guide To Extending Foreign Policy

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Reflecting on parliament's decision to bomb IS assets in Syria I recalled several lectures I attended during my military training. These lectures contained a number of 'lessons learnt' (often the hard way) during past conflicts.

The complexity of the current situation is horrendous and resolution will require the full spectrum of political and diplomatic effort. That said I can't help thinking that our politicians should be required to attend the same lectures, particularly as they are the people who ultimately define what our armed forces are tasked to do.

My thoughts and prayers are with the men and women who protect our nation and of course the people of Syria and Iraq.

The following poem sums up some key lessons.

A Guide To Extending Foreign Policy

“War is the continuation of politics by other means.” - Clausewitz

There are times when action is needed
when you just can’t stand and observe
but if you plan to use Armed Forces
take note these lessons learnt;

Regime change is not your decision
no matter what you might feel.
You have to let the people decide
not grind it in with your heel.

Rich bullies are never respected,
their acts breed envy and hate.
Win the hearts and the minds of a people
and your efforts will carry more weight.

When fighting terrorists or rebels,
you have to comply with the law,
if you break it you may win a battle
but morally you'll lose the war.

Your allies’ views will be different
they may even get in your way.
Tread carefully when taking action
lest the cons do the pros outweigh.

Befriending your enemy’s enemy,
is rarely the best way to go.
If you can’t find an ally you trust
take care; you’re in the wrong show.

You can't hold ground from a plane,
with artillery it's just the same.
If you want to hold on to what's around
you’ll have to put boots on the ground.

If you’re in you must be; all in,
there is no other way,
the reward for a half assed effort
is to be bitten another day.

Yes - war is a messy business
in which everyone gets burnt.
So before you stick your oar in
take heed these lessons hard learnt.

John Carré Buchanan
03 December 2015

Sunday, 16 August 2015

Ruins In My Mind

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When I return to Guernsey my family moved into a house which, in the words of the estate agent, "had lots of potential". In order to realise this potential a number of walls had to be moved and knocked through.

One morning while taking down a wall a large amount of rubble and dust piled up in the hall. As the dust cleared I had a flashback which stirred up some unpleasant memories, thoughts I had long since locked away.

Every now and again, as I walk through the hall, the sights, sounds and smells of the original event, strangely combine with those of my house renovations in my mind. It was one of these flashbacks that inspired this poem.

Ruins In My Mind

Blood trickled through the dust on a lifeless hand
sticky crimson turned black
as it dried in the grey stone dust.
And there; a shock of hair,
matted, covered in blasted stone.
here in the rubble of the wall I'd taken down
here in the hall of my own home
memories of a past
I thought I'd forgotten.
Ghosts of horrors past,
resurrected to haunt me,
resurrected to taunt me,
in the ruins of my mind.

John Carré Buchanan
16 August 2015

Thursday, 11 December 2014

The Toy

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I wrote this poem for the next Guernsey Poet's open mic, the non compulsory theme being; 'Toys'.

It is a sad fact that children in countries that have bee affected by war fall victim to ordnance which litters the countryside. I have based this poem in a non-specific tropical country but munitions left over from both World Wars still litter the fields of Europe.

The Toy

Quick bare feet flick red dust from the path
It swirls briefly in the warm dry air
then settles amidst golden grass

The boys jump back and forth across a ditch
the game, follow the leader,
faster and faster across the scrubland.

Sharp eyes scan the leader's foot fall
the young mind adjusts each step
to ensure it's placed precisely on the trail.

A ray of light cast eight minutes ago
by a burning sun, millions of miles away, stops the game
as a glint catches sharp eyes.

Young hands grasp the unusual, shiny, object.
They rotate it, examine it, shake it
and admire smiling reflections in its silver skin.

The chase begins anew; the cylinder - a baton
passed from hand to hand in a relay
which takes the two home.

A voice calls, they race inside
the new 'toy' tossed to a corner
where it bounces and spins on the earthen floor

Later, in the gloom, of the sparsely furnished home
father steps on a strange metallic object
and a bead of sweat runs down his back.

John Carré Buchanan
08 December 2014

Wednesday, 1 October 2014

Infection - Jihad

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The news is dominated with the rise of IS in Iraq and Syria and to a lesser degree the spread of the deadly Ebola virus from West Africa to Texas. Whilst not related the two news items do bear a number of similarities, not least of which is a spectacular lack of action until things had got out of hand. This chain of thought led me to write the following poem;

Infection - Jihad

I creep, my insipid movement, invisible.
Who would notice me amidst the crowd?
Slowly, as I meet, I become; we,
and in turn; we become a force majeure,
invisible, but our strength grows.
Minute by minute, hour by hour,
the infection spreads
until the time is right.
Then we explode onto the scene,
overwhelm order and normality,
tear at the very fabric of the host
within which we, the disaffected,
hid, rubbed shoulders and spread.
Our aim; 'to dominate',
to destroy all that is not, us.

John Carré Buchanan
01 October 2014

Monday, 29 September 2014

The Breakfast News

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I was in the Gym this morning and the TV was playing the breakfast news. The all too familiar image of cross hairs hovering as a smart bomb destroyed a compound played out on the screen. This gruesome clip was accompanied by the anchor’s sombre but upbeat soundtrack.

Having witnessed the sort of damage the ordnance being used causes, I was suddenly aware of just how biased reporting can be. I don’t condone the actions of IS, they are horrendous and they need to be stopped, but I couldn’t help wondering why watching the deaths of numerous people could be considered reasonable breakfast fare whilst the death of one was not. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to see the images of hostages being murdered any more than I want to see exploding smart bombs but both pieces of film footage were designed for the same political / propaganda role and I personally don't want to see either.

This train of thought led to the following poem, which aims to remind the reader that all death caused by war is tragic, and should never be celebrated.

The Breakfast News

The unfortunate kneels in front of his assailant
dressed in orange.
Rhetoric flows as cameras turn
and then,
and then the world recoils in terror.
Images banned, taken down,
the action condemned.

Grainy crosshairs in black and white
float on our screens
hovering over a nondescript compound.
Suddenly the image flares
and fades back to a pall of smoke
clearing to reveal ruins and smoldering vehicles
overlaid by a gloating anchor's voice.

Injustice?
One solitary death, gruesome
condemned by those it aimed to terrorise
yet a compound, filled with mutilated corpses
and screams of the injured
sanitised by distance and a grainy shot,
is somehow seen as good.

John Carré Buchanan
29 September 2014

Saturday, 27 September 2014

Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It's Off To Work We Go.


There is a romantic image of troops setting off to war in which marching men pass through cheering crowds being bombarded with well-wishes and flowers.

In my experience departures on Ops were more likely to be a lonely, thought filled, walk in the middle of the night. If the Quartermaster had done his job correctly he would have indented for cold and wet weather to maximise the benefit!

The walk would be followed by brief periods of frenetic activity interspersed with a lot of hanging around, soldiers call this; 'Rush to Wait'.

Hi Ho, Hi Ho, It's Off To Work We Go.

He silences the alarm before she digs him in the ribs,
dresses swiftly in the dark and creeps downstairs
taking care to avoid the squeaky stair.
Quietly he steps into the cool nocturnal gloom.
His breath hangs on the chill night air.
With practiced ease he swings the Bergen to his back.
Turns a key in the lock and pauses,
eyes glued to the unlit glass
mind focused on the sleeping heads inside.
He turns, shrugs and fades into the shadows;
absorbed by the night.
All that betrays his presence
is the measured sound of boots upon the road.
Other humpbacked figures appear and disappear
fading in and out of light cones
cast by lamps which illuminate
coils of razor wire on the fence top
as it runs on in to the mist.
At the barrier he shows his ID and joins the throng.
Rush to wait......
Time ticks past, an hour in her arms;
lost.
He knows not when, or if,
he will hold her again.
Name called, he boards the bus,
fills from the back, sits, eyes closed,
sleep envelopes
a warrior off to war.

John Carré Buchanan
12 September 2014


If you click on the link below you can listen to me read this poem.



This poem is linked to Poets United.

Monday, 4 August 2014

Treaties (1914)

Image Source: Brooklyn Eagle in July 1914

Today marks 100 years since Great Britain declared war on Germany.

'The Great War', sparked by the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sophie, was perhaps the inevitable outcome of a series of alliances and treaties.

The war claimed approximately sixteen million lives, and a further twenty million were wounded. It also set in motion events that would change the social and political landscape of Great Britain for ever. Sadly despite being called 'the war to end all wars' human kind does not appear to have learned it's lessons.

Treaties (1914)

Princip fired twice
and the couple died.
Tempers flared,
war declared,
treaties, alliances kicked in,
allies fell in.
Men fell in,
to the mud,
the gore,
the war supposed to end all war.
At home;
women stepped up.
Land tilled,
bombs filled
and on the fronts
their loved ones - killed.
In a war supposed to end all war.

John Carré Buchanan
03 August 2014

Friday, 6 June 2014

D-Day ~ Ode to Heroes


Today marks the 70th anniversary of D-day (6th June 1944). The day on which Allied troops landed by air and sea as part of Operation NEPTUNE which was the landing phase of the broader invasion of Normandy known as Operation OVERLOARD.

Of the 160,000 troops who crossed the English Channel on D-Day, approximately 12,000 were reported as casualties with 4,400 confirmed dead.

Most of these men would baulk at being called heroes. In my opinion these men, who despite all odds delivered troops, took bridges and secured the drop-zones and beach-heads that day, are all heroes.

“At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
we will remember them.”

D-Day – Ode to Heroes

Doors opened
commands flew
helmets surged forward
and the view cleared.
Darkness rushed past
and then a blast of air
tumbling…
Tumbling…
Check canopy,
kick out twists,
steer away,
and the ground rushed up
thud, roll, release, RV,
then push forward.
Capture, destroy,
clear drop zones,
gliders disgorged
as the push continued.
Capture, destroy,
bridges over Douve, Caen, Orne, Dives,
the battery at Merville
as their comrades fell
they pushed forward.

The ramp lowered
commands flew
helmets surged forward
the view cleared
sand, water, wire, smoke, bodies
stretching….
Stretching….
Push forward
into chest deep, cold water.
So cold.
Heavy battle dress; sodden
dragged down
stumbled forward
friends all around
with grim faces
over the hornet buzz of bullets
the crump of artillery and bombs
came the skirl of bagpipes playing
whilst sand laden water leaped
and men fell, torn apart
screams rent the air
and still they drove forward
on UTAH, OMAHA, GOLD, JUNO, and SWORD
they pushed on,
as comrades fell
they overcame the urge to hide
and ran, staggered and crawled forward

When their countries called
they stepped up
they paid an unimaginable price.
Some pay it still.
These men, Heroes all.
We will remember them.

John Carré Buchanan
05 June 2014

Monday, 19 May 2014

The Twitcher

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For a short period of time in the early 90's I was a Primary Forward Air Controller (PFAC). This was an exciting and very challenging role which involved guiding fast jets on to their targets. Problem was; once an attack had taken place and the pilots had flown away the PFAC would still be on the ground within sight of the enemy and they would be looking for him.

For some reason this role sprung to mind when I was tasked with writing a poem themed 'birds' for this months Open Mic. The poem took 15 minutes to write, I hope you like it.

The Twitcher

The birds flew in just after dawn.
They skimmed the treetops,
left ripples on the surface of the lake.
The first, and last, their prey knew of them
was a mighty, stomach wrenching, roar
as they flashed past;
leaving dust and devastation in their wake.
Up on the hill top
he tucked the laser away,
confirmed the kill,
then crawled over the brow,
stood and broke into a tab*.
Job done,
bug out.

John Carré Buchanan
19 May 2014


* Tab; A term the Paras' use to describe a run carrying full kit. A bit like the Royal Marines' 'Yomp', but faster ;-)

If you click on the link below you can listen to me read this poem.

Sunday, 11 May 2014

The Broom Cupboard


When I joined the Army in the early 80's many of the directing staff (DS) at Depot Para were Falklands veterans. They had experienced war at it's most primal level and were determined to ensure that the soldiers they trained were, to use the Regiment's motto, 'ready for anything'. By coincidence the platoon was destined to return to the same battalion as the DS, which naturally drove them to push harder and ensure that their protégés did them justice.

In this incredibly hard environment there was a need for recruits to vent and the DS used an unconventional (and very unofficial) mechanism for allowing us to do so. As such the broom cupboard became a place where differences could be settled and respect could be earned away from prying eyes.

It was also a place where I learnt that friendships forged in fire last forever.

The Broom Cupboard

See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.
Behind the closed door
differences were settled.
The bully, strong, confident,
bought crashing to the floor
by his victim
and yet, no face was lost.

Amidst the brooms and polish
fists flew, differences were sorted;
the result stayed silent,
save for the unspoken respect
forged in the dim confines
of a place where rank
meant nothing.

John Carré Buchanan
10 May 2014

Thursday, 13 February 2014

Colours


I wrote this poem for the next Guernsey Poets Open Mic. It is on the subject of 'Colours'. I hope you like it.

Colours

Phosphorus flares illuminate
with eerie shimmering light
ethereal clouds that drift
like spectres on the wind.
Angry orange tracer
leaps skyward from the ground
a sudden flash of brilliant white
leaves eyes awash with stars.

Moonlit shadows flicker,
amongst the tussock grass.
Where a company on its belt buckles
slowly makes advance.
Then on his chest a poppy blooms
it's petals scarlet red.
By morn' it's dried to rusty brown
against his kaki vest.

Black ink on creamy parchment
convey the fateful news.
Rosy cheeks turned ashen grey,
Tears from green eyes flowed,
they rolled past her soft red lips,
to the turquoise blouse below
to form a stain, like drops of rain
above her heaving breast.

A life time later; upon her chest
a plain red poppy’s pinned
beside ranks of rainbow ribbons
on which his medals swing.
All around the white marble;
troops, dressed in gleaming best
rally on the colours - their colours
and remember comrades lost.

Yet beneath that clear azure sky
amidst all the pomp and ceremony
A single teardrop breaks free
from a bright green eye.
It slips gently past thin red lips
where a glint of sun its prism splits
into a whole spectrum of colour
which sparkles as his soul goes by.

John Carré Buchanan
13 February 2014

If you click on the link below you can listen to me read this poem.


Tuesday, 11 February 2014

Puška


I once stood in a market place surrounded by people, who had just fled a nearby village. They carried whatever they had been able to grab before they had been forced from burning homes, they were almost all women and children.

I was part of a small team and we were very much on our own. After a while things got quite unpleasant and we were forced to withdraw. The strange thing about that day is that the events which inspired the following poem where the most pleasant, yet harrowing, part of that day.

I hope you like the poem.

Puška*

They stand in front of me
wide hollow eyes search my soul.
Grubby faces, ragged clothes, empty eyes.
Itchy fingers point,
the word "puška" comes again.
In my hands it's a tool of the trade;
yet their young eyes have seen,
their young ears have heard
and their, so very young lives, have lost.
"Puška"
I reached into my pocket
pulled out marbles and squatted.
There in the dust we played.
That day I lost a few marbles,**
learned the word "puška"
and the hollow eyes still haunt me.

John Carré Buchanan
10 February 2014

* Puška - Rifle
** Lose your Marbles - Ideom, lose your mind,

Saturday, 9 November 2013

Remembrance

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Remembrance

Bugle sounds ‘Last Post’
A hushed nation remembers
Reveille, sleep on.

John Carré Buchanan
08 November 2013

Friday, 18 October 2013

Pulse Rates


Military lives are often summed up by two maxims; "Rush to wait" and "Months of boredom punctuated by a few minutes of intense activity."

This poem explores the juxtaposition between boredom and activity and the effect it has on the individual.

I hope you like it.

Pulse Rates

Crouched in the shade of a tree
pulse rate; fifty three.
I watch a goat herd amble by
as the sun climbs in the sky

Hid behind the tree
pulse rate; a hundred and sixty three.
Listen to rounds spin by
as the Taliban let fly.

Crawl away in the muck
pulse rate; who give a flying f*#@
Dust flies on the hillock nearby
as our gun team lay down heavy reply.

Lain on the bank of the Wadi
Pulse rate; a hundred and forty.
As we suppress; the left flank move
Terry Terrorist to remove.

Sat on a box back at base
Pulse rate; eighty eight.
We’ve been debriefed and had some scoff
Now it’s time to knock off.

Crashed out on a saggy camp cot
Pulse rate: quite a lot.
Thoughts keep flying through my head
Today, I was lucky, I’m not dead.

John Carré Buchanan
29 August 2011

Wednesday, 11 September 2013

When Will They Learn?

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I believe this poem to be self-explanatory. I would like to stress that I am not anti-American and I do not condone in any way the events of 9/11 or those alleged to have taken place in Syria, they were and still are abhorrent.

I do, however, believe that the West and in particular the United States have to recognise the fact that many of the nations around the world have histories and cultures many times older that their own. These cultures have different beliefs, values and ways of functioning. The fact that they are different does not necessarily make them wrong.

I hope you like the poem.

When Will They Learn?

Summer draws to a weary finish.
Throngs of tourists diminish.
The first leaves fall gently to the ground
as through the hubbub sirens sound.

A whisper, gentle on the breeze
flits around with the summer leaves.
It tumbles through the city scape
touching all, its voice takes shape.

Through the hubbub a lone bell tolls
As they name three thousand souls
whose tragic loss of life was written
by their own ignorant predisposition.

Yet as they mourn their tragic loss
Their nation’s ‘hawks’ wind up the Boss.
Again they want to interfere
by dropping bombs from the troposphere.

A sure fired way to make good friends -
of nations, their way of life offends.
Where different values are the norm
Just drop bombs – stir the swarm.

Then sit back and wonder why
So many people had to die.
They don’t seem to understand
it’s always better to shake a hand.

John Carré Buchanan
11 September 2013

Wednesday, 1 May 2013

A Tetractys On War


This morning I was introduced to the concept of the tetractys poem.

The tetractys was made famous by Pythagoras and has since become a modern poetry form. The form is based on the number ten which was thought to be a number of power. The name tetractys poetry derives from the fact that the syllable count of the first four lines equals ten.

A tetractys has in total, five lines, each having a syllables count of 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 10.

This format gives the poem a triangle shape. The format can be played with to produce "reversed tetractys" and "double tetractys". The following poem is a double tetractys, I hope you enjoy it.

A Tetractys On War

War,
soldiers
clear up failed
diplomacy.
Struggling to stay alive in muddy fields,
whilst politicians, back at home, squabble
like small children
about who
they should
blame.

John Carré Buchanan
01 May 2013

Friday, 17 August 2012

Harvest

Image Source

A friend of mine works for Handicap International; today he posted an article on Cluster Bombs which inspired me to pen the following poem.

As a veteran of a number of wars I have seen the effect of mines and other ordinance which litter the ground long after wars have been fought and ‘won’, (as if anyone can truly win a war).

I strongly believe that these weapons should be condemned by every nation on the planet and I would like to see the manufacture and use of such hideous weapons stopped permanently.

Unfortunately big money and a reluctance to enhance and enforce laws banning them means that their continued use, particularly in the fields of poorer nations, will lead to innocent people being maimed and killed.

Clearance of such ordinance often falls to self-help and / or charities such as Handicap International and the Mines Awareness Trust. I would encourage you to support these organisations.

Harvest

The grass grew tall this year.
Shadows flow like waves
across it’s golden heads,
as a warm breeze passes.

The hay crop’s lost this year.
Shadows cross his face,
across his sun tanned face.
As a deep frown passes

The war passed by this year.
Shadows flashed above,
the compound left in ruin
the field fallow evermore.

For the crop changed this year.
seed pods scattered wide,
hidden amidst the grass
hanging around to harvest.

The grass grew tall this year.
Shadows flow like waves
He’ll have to plant next year
as a warm breeze passes.

John Carré Buchanan
17 August 2012

Saturday, 10 September 2011

9/11


I walked out of a classroom where I had been studying database engineering, conscious that the background noise had changed. On entering the headquarters, I kept hearing words ‘America’ and ‘New York’. Back in the office silent faces were turned to the wall mounted TVs which screened a permanent live news feed. I turned to look at the screen just in time to see the second attack take place.

Within minutes everyone was busy implementing plans that had been outlined to cover such events. All over the country military and government establishments were being cloaked in a huge security blanket which within hours would cover the whole nation. All the while eyes kept flicking to the TV screens which continued to play pictures of the tragedy in New York.

As that day unfolded images were forever scored onto billions of people’s retinas, images that will live with generations of people around the world. The towers slipping into the dust cloud, people jumping, and the tear stained dust covered faces of men and women who were on the streets of New York that day.

The military and civil servants in our headquarters were hardened people, most of them had been involved in preparing, supporting and conducting a wide variety of military operations around the world but this was different. We had all seen the effects of war and terrorism on civilian populations and many of us had witnessed genocide, but attacks on this scale and of this nature were almost unthinkable and there was an air of shock and disbelief.

Whilst the concept behind the attack was not new, (Tom Clancy wrote two books in the mid 90’s in which a passenger aircraft was flown into Congress.) it cannot be denied that the attacks on 9/11 were masterful in their simplicity and almost flawless in their execution. As military personnel we knew that the people who had planned the attacks would be sitting somewhere watching events unfold with a real sense of satisfaction, perhaps even pride. I doubt that even they could have anticipated such a spectacular success. The attack was so monumental and so well publicised that mention the date; 9/11 anywhere in the world and people will instantly know to what you are referring.

Ten years have passed and America and its allies have been in a constant war against an enemy which lives in the shadows; rising occasionally to strike before falling back into the darkness. It is true that America has had its successes most recently with the summary execution of Osama Bin Laden but when all is said and done; two wars have been initiated, hundreds of thousands of people have been maimed or killed; at a cost that would bankrupt many small nations (some would argue it has helped bankrupt the USA). Yet despite this the average American could not put a pin on a map of the world to mark countries such as Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria and Iran.

What is perhaps more worrying is that after all this time most Americans would not even begin to understand why their country was attacked in the first place. You may ask; ‘why do I say this is worrying?’ Well, I believe that the Chinese General and strategist Sun Tzu sums it up about 2400 years ago when he wrote;

“If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.”

9/11

Though the smoke and dust are gone,
the souls of three thousand live on.
Two thousand parents taken away;
and three thousand children had to stay.
as four planes of terror crashed
the hopes of years to come were dashed.

Ten years on; a nation greaves
in city streets strewn with leaves.
In quiet suburbs beneath blue sky
people bow their heads and cry.
Images within their minds reside
of the day a nation’s innocence died.

A war on terror was declared
the people of world were scared.
Far off lands were torn to shreds
as troops dragged people from their beds.
Searching for the men who dared
attack a nation so unprepared.

Patriots of the United States
were unaware of all the hates.
They didn’t understand
why people in a far off land
could hate them for the way they act
with so very little tact.

Ten years have passed since the date
when terrorists expressed their hate.
America has waged a war
With dirty tactics we all abhor.
Torture and Extraordinary Rendition
are tools of hatred by tradition.

As they bow their heads and pray
for the souls lost on that fateful day,
may they see the reason it occurred
and realise spreading hatred is absurd.
They say; all men are created equal
Lord; please help them avoid a sequel.

John Carré Buchanan
09 September 2011