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Who remembers early days, when you started on the way,
To become a Paratrooper, and wear that Red Beret,
Ready for the challenge, no problem, you were young,
But did you really have a clue, you’d need a different tongue.
Recycling is a modern theme, the Greens thought up,- maybe,
But nothing went to waste back then, it just became buckshee,
Breakfast, lunch and dinner, the civilian person’s fare,
Quickly turned to scran and scoff, no matter when or where.
Pots and pans were dixies, we scrubbed them ‘til they shone,
We ate our scoff with diggers, any time from dusk to dawn,
Lose a sock it’s diffy, wash the rest with dhobi dust,
You soon became bi lingual, to get by, it was a must.
The foremen they were full screws, they had no Christian name,
And for young men brave enough to join, life would never be the same,
Everything was numbered, that included me and you,
With pain you learned, to get things wrong, you faced a two, five, two.
That sock you lost was costly, you did not get no more,
‘Til you went to the clothing store, and signed a P one nine, five four,
Left turn, right turn, advance retire, EYEII’s right, and shun,
Up and down that square you went, it wasn’t that much fun.
But as the weeks, and months passed by, it all fell into place,
And numbers waned, as jackmen went, not all would end the race,
Those left would look in envy, at men with wings upon their sleeve,
The road was hard, ahead of them, to win they must believe.
The week of reckoning arrived, painted numbers on your kit,
You faced the staff of P Company, they were scary, they were fit,
Selection was their only aim, they were looking for the best,
And you hoped, and prayed, and wondered, were you ready for the test.
Stretchers, logs and bergens, humped on tank tracks, trail and hill,
Psyched up, and aggressive, the bell rings, you start to mill,
Steeple chase, assault course, with clinging mud up to your knees,
Confidence gets tested, on bars and nets high in the trees.
Your numbers called you stand up, erect, with frightened stare,
Pass rings out, from the Major, from behind a steely glare,
You’re one of them, well just not yet, Brecon’s your next stop,
You hone your skills, as a fighting man, so you always come out top.
Five long months have come and gone, you’re a different man today,
Now in the hands of the RAF, those blue wings not far away,
Stand up, hook up, check your kit, and your mates ahead,
Red on, green on, out through the door, you’re there, you’ve made the grade.
And now we’re old and looking back, would we do it all again,l
To wear that Red Beret with pride, was it really worth the pain,
Well my friend, I do believe, I speak for one and all,
That despite the years behind us, you bet, we’d all stand tall.
JR
Who remembers early days, when you started on the way,
To become a Paratrooper, and wear that Red Beret,
Ready for the challenge, no problem, you were young,
But did you really have a clue, you’d need a different tongue.
Recycling is a modern theme, the Greens thought up,- maybe,
But nothing went to waste back then, it just became buckshee,
Breakfast, lunch and dinner, the civilian person’s fare,
Quickly turned to scran and scoff, no matter when or where.
Pots and pans were dixies, we scrubbed them ‘til they shone,
We ate our scoff with diggers, any time from dusk to dawn,
Lose a sock it’s diffy, wash the rest with dhobi dust,
You soon became bi lingual, to get by, it was a must.
The foremen they were full screws, they had no Christian name,
And for young men brave enough to join, life would never be the same,
Everything was numbered, that included me and you,
With pain you learned, to get things wrong, you faced a two, five, two.
That sock you lost was costly, you did not get no more,
‘Til you went to the clothing store, and signed a P one nine, five four,
Left turn, right turn, advance retire, EYEII’s right, and shun,
Up and down that square you went, it wasn’t that much fun.
But as the weeks, and months passed by, it all fell into place,
And numbers waned, as jackmen went, not all would end the race,
Those left would look in envy, at men with wings upon their sleeve,
The road was hard, ahead of them, to win they must believe.
The week of reckoning arrived, painted numbers on your kit,
You faced the staff of P Company, they were scary, they were fit,
Selection was their only aim, they were looking for the best,
And you hoped, and prayed, and wondered, were you ready for the test.
Stretchers, logs and bergens, humped on tank tracks, trail and hill,
Psyched up, and aggressive, the bell rings, you start to mill,
Steeple chase, assault course, with clinging mud up to your knees,
Confidence gets tested, on bars and nets high in the trees.
Your numbers called you stand up, erect, with frightened stare,
Pass rings out, from the Major, from behind a steely glare,
You’re one of them, well just not yet, Brecon’s your next stop,
You hone your skills, as a fighting man, so you always come out top.
Five long months have come and gone, you’re a different man today,
Now in the hands of the RAF, those blue wings not far away,
Stand up, hook up, check your kit, and your mates ahead,
Red on, green on, out through the door, you’re there, you’ve made the grade.
And now we’re old and looking back, would we do it all again,l
To wear that Red Beret with pride, was it really worth the pain,
Well my friend, I do believe, I speak for one and all,
That despite the years behind us, you bet, we’d all stand tall.
JR
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