Brits in Afghanistan
 

This may interest some, its about the British Army in Afghanistan and contains some good contact footage. The guy in the blue helmet is a TV presenter.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OyUiO...eature=related

Re: Brits in Afghanistan
 

i have a "special friend" in afghanistan she's a scottish lass thats as mean as they come. (normal attitude from what i gather :D) but she emails me regularly and keeps me up to date. enjoyed the video clip but it made me miss her :( and worry for her well being

Re: Brits in Afghanistan
 

When I saw the title, I thought of Rudyard Kipling

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.

Re: Brits in Afghanistan
 

I never had much time for Ross Kemp, until he made these documentaries.

I like it when he says "I will need more Persil, when I get home"...for our American pals, that's a clothes cleaner.......great for removing S*it stains :).

Re: Brits in Afghanistan
 

Three more British soldiers have be killed in Afghanistan since my last post.
My prayers are with their families.

Re: Brits in Afghanistan
 

Sorry mate, four yesterday. :(

Re: Brits in Afghanistan
 

Prayers sent for them and their families. :(


Art

Re: Brits in Afghanistan
 

Reminds me of what my Cav drill sergeant buddies used sing...many variations but this is the gist. The ending sounds similar.

Fiddler's Green (Cavalry)

Halfway down the trail to hell
In a shady meadow green,
Are the souls of all dead troopers camped
Near a good old-time canteen
And this eternal resting place
Is known as Fiddler's Green.

Marching past, straight through to hell,
The infantry are seen, '
Accompanied by the Engineers,
Artillery and Marine,
For none but the shades of Cavalrymen
Dismount at Flddlers' Green.

Though some go curving down the trail
To seek a warmer scene,
No trooper ever gets to Hell
Ere he's emptied his canteen,
And so rides back to drink agaln
With friends at Fiddlers' Green.

And so when man and horse go down
Beneath a saber keen,
Or in a roaring charge or fierce melee
You stop a bullet clean,
And the hostiles come to get your scalp,
Just empty your canteen,
And put your pistol to your head
And go to Fiddlers' Green.

Re: Brits in Afghanistan
 

The Americans (god bless them) are new to Afghanistan. The British soldiers have been dying there, on and off for a hundred and fifty years.

Our Polititians are lacking in their historical education, for no nation has ever beaten the Afghans on their own ground, ever.

Harry

Re: Brits in Afghanistan
 

Re: Brits in Afghanistan
 

Here's some good coalition pics.:D

Re: Brits in Afghanistan
 

Reminds me of one of Kipling's poems, Delta:


The Young British Soldier

When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier OF the Queen!

Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old --
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

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,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!

--Rudyard Kipling