Poems about the Army Apprentices School, Harrogate
(Attributed to Terry Corbett, intake 54B, with some subsequent editing)

Company Lines

There’s a ‘bolshy’, lanky lance-jack known as ‘Where’s yer chit’,
And Sergeant-Major Hazelton - (Old Hairy), super fit,
‘Harry Boy’ (B Company), smart and stout, says ‘pucking’,
A mug of cold tea on his desk – remove it, you’ll get a rucking.

‘TARA’ Stan, a Coldstream Guard, runs the bloody place,
With Battalion on parade he spots an A/T’s lazy pace,
From a hundred yards away he screams, “In close arrest!”,
A/T’s feet don’t touch the ground, he’s in the cells at best.

A crooked cap-badge, fingerprint upon your web belt brass,
You lose your name, you’re in the book, inspection you’ve not passed,
You’re ‘pegged’ next day, march in march out, the first time you’re on ‘Jankers’,
Seven days of punishment, with all the other crankies.

It’s phase two now, we only hear of piquets, guards and stags,
Open, close arrest and ‘Jankers’. We’ve got to get our jabs.
Getting ‘gypped’ in the cookhouse queue and in the NAAFI too,
We’re bottom of the pecking order, just moved up from HQ.

You’re sent off to the cookhouse now, off to ‘Dixieland’,
Great, you think, you like to hear a good old trad jazz band.
But ‘Dixieland’ means dixie pans, great big greasy trays,
Piles of them reach to the sky, cold fat congealed for days.

Luke-warm water, grease and ‘Vim’ build up a slimy glaze,
From web-belt down to gaiters, you’re water-proofed for days,
Denim trousers, shirt-sleeve order, scrubbing-brush and ‘Vim’,
Your mates recoil in horror, shouting “Here comes stinky Jim”.

Jankers, open/close arrest, guard, fire piquet, drill,
Some A/Ts were unlucky and never had the thrill
Of ‘jankers’, doubling round the square, helmet on your head,
Every hour must change your kit, then lights out, collapse in bed.

We spent the weekend with a toothbrush sweeping ‘TARA’s’ square,
We swept the grit on Saturday into tiny heaps elsewhere,
On Sunday swept it back again and spread the little piles,
While two RPs watched over us with their moronic smiles.

One Sunday morn my mate and I were cutting ‘cross the square,
When Stan’s voice screamed “There’s only two allowed to walk on there!
Me and the good Lord Jesus Christ, and He’s not here today,
So get here at the double, lads!” – another debt to pay.

We painted kerbstones red and white outside the Guardroom block,
And whitewashed piles of grey-black coke in a compound under lock,
‘Squeegeed’ greasy cookhouse floors and painted green the grass,
‘Bulled up’ ablutions, basins, bogs, to fool inspecting ‘BRASS’.

With thanks to  Trevor "Bill" Powell for this contribution.