THE RADIO TELEGRAPHIST

 

     It doesn’t come easy,

Being a Radio Telegraphist –

For the MOD,

And when you’re done,

When you have finally

Had it all drummed in,

     Your ears are opened

In ways a civilian just

Wouldn’t understand,

 

     You’re sat there

In the back of a soft-top

Or a four three two

Or you’re out on patrol,

But you’re listening,

Listening through the

Ionosphere –

And all manner of noises

Breaks in,

     From the chatter and garble

Of radio speak,

The codes – the pulse

Amplitude modulated signals,

And even,

Even through space.

 

     The Morse drives your hand

Till you resemble

A channel - automatic writing,

And you’re biting

Your tongue for fear of

COMSEC or Compromise,

And you’re whispering a contact

Via the throat mic around

Your neck yet,

     It is you that is compromised

For the rest of your life.

 

     Back home,

Back home after years

Of Satellites

And breathing in space,

You’re expected to conform

To the Civs way of being,

     But your ears remain open

Till caustic the sounds

Of suburbia break a man down,

You’re still listening

For your ears have been

Blasted by both gunshot

 And Radio Freq noise,

     And they leave you to rot,

Conduct like experiment how

Much you can take,

And the far away noise

Of motorways and dogs barking

And the muffle of jealousy

As thugs ride on by,

Tortures the Telegraphist

Trained hard for his job,

Be you Spec-op,

Ewop,

Systems and RTG,

The MOD don’t give a fuck

Once you’ve left,

 

     And you’re sat disabled

With fuck all to do,

But the pension they give

Dictates no space of your own,

     And if you’ve been to The Gulf,

You’ll have no place as a home,

For you can’t get insurance

To bed your weary head down,

 

     Many, fall fowl of the law,

But it’s no wonder when the towns

And the cities torture

 The Signalmans mind,

Each terse word uttered out

In the streets,

     Becomes amplified

In magnitude and meaning

And the Civs think it’s funny

After watching the films

Based on PTSD,

And once they get word

The Signalman will die

A tormented life,

His years of longevity taken

By countless stress upon stress,

 

     THE MOD DON’T GIVE A FUCK,

And yet even the VA are aware of this too,

But they keep records secret

Of how the suffering continues,

And research remain silent

Behind cryptograph doors,

 

     We served our country

Alongside The Engineers and

The Guards,

Many became special

For the need they did have,

A few went on working

For the glory of bold MI6,

But the ones they discard

Suffer in silence

Suffer in silence

The imprisonment of

Cheaply built houses

In cities and towns,

Where the Civs play games

On how to wind

Them all up,

You don’t give a fuck MOD,

You would section each one

For the malady they have,

Those years of service meaning

Nothing at all,

    

     Then you’ll recruit

The fresh faces of

The under achievers

For the next bout of

Experimentation,

And laugh when they

Become the next casualties

Of war!

 

Michael J Waite 21^st June 2013.