By: Blonde One
I’ll start with an extract from a poem by Henry Reed. It’s a parody based on instructions given by an officer to his men about their weapons during World War 2.
Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But to-day,
Today we have naming of parts.
So, back to the blog … today we have naming of parts and kit! The Women in Adventure Expo that we Blondes have just been to confirmed that it’s not just us that name things, although one of the excellent speakers did go a step further than we usually do.
We have talked before about Blonde Two’s ‘Big Orange’ sleeping bag and I’m sure we’ve mentioned ‘The Palace’ (not Buckingham but a rather spacious 3 man tent).
The interesting Anna Blackman told us of her travels across Sweden and Norway with ‘Rucky’. She admitted that it wasn’t a very original name for her rucksack but she was clearly very fond of it.
The most unusual naming by far was (the Blonde) Anna McNuff and her ‘Sally the Saddle Sore’! Her stories from her South American cycle adventure had us crying with laughter and wincing in pain as she described her ailment!
“On a hillside, wet and far
Shivering in the cold
I walk with a bouncing spring on a string
And Esmerelda on my back.
Tucked between dyke and plantation
Sheltering in flimsy green cave
I crouch amongst Esme’s spilled innards
Warmed by a curl of fur.
Waking to swirling mist
Apart from biscuits and cheese
No food but the scrunch of pebbles,
Crisp in the bowl of the tarn,
And the curlews angrily wheel
As I heave Esmerelda again
And in tail-wagging harmony stride
Through the stew and the soup and the rain.
Southern Upland Way, 1989. I still have Esmerelda.
Brilliant!
The Naming of Parts is just one of the rituals that constitutes the over-arching ritual of becoming a military person. Despite the fact that the RAF eventually required me to repair airborne radio equipment I first had to show them that I could – in the face of a worldwide catastrophe – march off into a ground-based battle, discharge my Lee Enfield rifle (the weapon referred to in TNOP) at the enemy, bayonet a few of them, and then – without any visible signs of reluctance – lay down my life on behalf of my country.
Pretty grim, eh? However before this happened thousands of Army squaddies, much more intensively trained to kill and be killed, would have already decorated the battlefield as corpses. Calling on me, a Junior Technician Air Wireless Fitter, would have implied that civilisation as we knew it was close to collapse. Never mind I got a novel out of it.
Thus I was informed about the dangers of VD, advised that Christianity was the preferred form of moral protection, taught to march precisely over a parade ground that sloped alarmingly (since coal mines beneath it had caused subsidence) and punished if my brasswork didn’t sparkle. More to the point I learned to name the parts of a slightly more complicated weapon, the LMG (light machine gun), more colloquially known as the Bren Gun.
During which I took cognisance of the LMG’s smallest part and that knowledge is with me now, sixty-two years after the tutorial.
It is the barrel locking nut retaining plunger.
You could say I did my bit to protect your future right to wander over Dartmoor without loudspeakers blaring out Adolf’s TOTP bit at the Nuremberg Rallies. Do I see you touching your forelock?
Interesting to hear that Henry Read’s poem reflected reality for so many. I can hear the tedium in his voice (and yours) at the recall. You did indeed help to ensure I can wander over Dartmoor. Not only touching forelock, but a slight curtsey too!