"With apologies to Kipling, Fallingbostel Oct 11/44."


If you could save your brew when all around you

Have finished theirs and borrowed more from you

If you can run a racket when they doubt you

But you can make allowance for their rackets too

If you can wait and not get tired of waiting

When someone makes a boob while on parade

Or standing in the cold in their pyjamas

While Hauptmann Mullers weekly search is made

If you can hide when duty stooge is on you

If you can wash your shirt say twice a year

If you can keep your mind on harmless pastimes

And not on dancing, women, wine and beer

If you can listen to another airman

Telling you his crown is on its way

And never breathe a word while he is moaning

While you have got at least three years back pay

If you can say "Wie Gehts" or else "Kartoffel"

Or ask a German if he has a light

Yours is the camp and all that's in it

Here's to your happy future clear and bright.



S.S. Kriegie



She's tremendous, she's gigantic, looking trim in every line

She's magnificent colossal, she's yours yet also mine

She's gloriously majestic most refreshing to the eye

She's exciting in her nearness, for we know she's standing by

There'll be several Red Cross nurse lining up beside the quay

With a choice of drinks to choose from, NAAFI beer or NAAFI tea

Its goodbye to Red Cross Parcels, no more vitiminised jam

No more Bully Beef or salmon, no more appetising spam

No more personals for listing cigarettes or censored mail

When the ship called S.S. Kriegie speeds along the homeward trail

No more Roll Calls, no more searches, no more posterns seeking brew

No more blowers outside billets, no more air raids all day through

No more belt-ups, no more 'arbeit' when your stomachs not so good

No more continental sauerkraut, no more scrounging bits of wood

No more visits down to sick bay, no more rackets, no more stew

No more reading propaganda like "The German point of view"

No more bedboards, no more combines, no more overcrowded space

No more cattle trucks to greet us as we move from place to place

No more barbed wire, no more searchlights, no more pine trees all around

No more compounds, no more circuits, when at last we're homeward bound.



The Saga of the Oldest Kriegie



Oh were you out in the grim north east

Way up on the Baltic shore

Where the winter nights are six months long

And the days are even more

Where the bitter blast, a snow toothed fiend

Howls down from the Russian steppes

Where socks get frozen to the feet

And the hands are covered in chappes

Where the great white silence covers all

And the only sound they say

Is the song of the Droski singing his love

In the mountains far away.


That's where the oldest Kriegie lives

A man both seer and hoary

Living on nutty and polar bear soup

The head of this story.


Twas many years ago

Way back in 1940

That the oldest Kriegie in his plane

Embarked upon a sortie.


Twas the sorta sortie a brave man shuns

And the coward runs away from

The kind our hero hoped to Christ

He'd live to draw his pay from.


In the bright moonlight of a summer night

Our hero crossed the sea

He bombed the target and turned for home

But was jumped by a lone M.E.


And then there came a wary time

A time most wondrous tiring

They took him to a Kriegie camp

All ringed about with wiring.


They counted oh they counted him

By day as well as night

Sideway diagonally backwards

But they couldn't get it right.


At last they hit upon a wheeze

That seemed both cute and neat

They fell the Kriegies in again

And counted all their feet.


And when the feet were counted

They divided them by two

But still the answer wasn't right

So they thought of something new.


They went and got excited

And shouted with much zest

But it didn't do them any good

For the Kriegie's weren't impressed.


Then they lined up all the Kriegie's

At a time when most folks sleep

And made them file between two posts

So the Kriegie's baaed like sheep.


And when the count was finished

And they added up the score

They found they'd far more Kriegie's

Than they'd ever had before.


For in a well run Kriegie camp

You may get lots of fun

But no fun quite as popular

As mucking up the Hun.






The prison camp so grim and bare

Within the hated wire

In barracks prisoners drawn and grey

Crouch huddled round the fire

What will the German verdict be?

What will their minds conspire?


Outside the rain in torrents fall

Heavens ripped open wide

Hell! The suspense is terrible

If only we could hide

At last, long blasts, the silence breaks

Thank God! Roll calls inside.