For those Kiwis, Aussies and Canucks serving in the ‘stan. From a previous generation.

When first under fire an’ you’re wishful to duck,

Don’t look nor take ‘eed at the man that is struck,

Be thankful you’re livin’, and trust to your luck

And march to your front like a soldier.

Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

When ‘arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,

Don’t call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;

She’s human as you are — you treat her as sich,

An’ she’ll fight for the young British soldier.

Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

When shakin’ their bustles like ladies so fine,

The guns o’ the enemy wheel into line,

Shoot low at the limbers an’ don’t mind the shine,

For noise never startles the soldier.

Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

If your officer’s dead and the sergeants look white,

Remember it’s ruin to run from a fight:

So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,

And wait for supports like a soldier.

Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains,

And the women come out to cut up what remains,

Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains

An’ go to your Gawd like a soldier.

Go, go, go like a soldier,

via Rudyard Kipling’s poem: The Young British Soldier.

The only thing that has changed is the rifle issue. Steyrs for the ANZACs… M16s for those poor begotton Septics.