Klipdrift Basic Training Camp Poem by Gert Strydom

The sun inspects
rows and rows of trees
and at night
the moon is at ease while every thing freezes

and when as a citizen you pass the gate
you become part of the machine
that hurries up and waits
and even if you have a brazen soul

some idiot with two chevrons
and crossed swords on his sleeve
makes you run to and fro
as if there is nowhere else to go

and you will not leave
this hell of a place
before he has made you run, leopard crawl
carry the pole and pee in the hole ten thousand times

and with the morning chill
a rascal with a red moustache
who drilled his son to death
and has nobody to bequeath

plays the leader of the parade
makes you stand for hours
on attention in the hot sun
while he waits for who knows what

before detonating in curses
while walking stick-straight
up and down
with a big ugly frown

and then bored to death
a fat giant appears
wearing two castles
and last night’s beer on his breath

and later from the rear
the brigadier general draws near
with gyppo guts, dysentery
and commands every new recruit

and sometimes even officers
in neatly pressed military suits
at times group together
like sheep in chilly weather

and later you get your new best friend
and carry it along, even to the loo
and sometimes to the shower
and into bed

and its name is rifle
and certainly not gun
since you came with one
from birth

and in this place as things go
this was just the fun and games
before they teach you what you need to know
and running with your mate in your arms,

running with poles with swinging truck tires,
crashing up and down through rubbish holes,
running with ammunition chests while under fire
and learning to shoot to kill and not to expire,

to throw hand grenades, launch mortar bombs
and rockets and sometimes to heal the men
is only the beginning
of what others call boot camp.

[Reference: Heartbreak camp by Roy Campbell.]