The ghost of life: Trouble in the wind

A lot of people in the Anglophone world are all of a sudden so appreciative of health care workers—doctors, nurses, first responders; even janitors. They are literally tweeting and flapping their hands in appreciation.

I mean, they’re going outside at specific, SoMe-organized times and applauding for the UK’s National Health Service, and for NYC’s hospitals.

Well, that’s swell, but…no, no—it’s not. It totally burns my bacon.

Guys—if you really appreciated these people, you’d force your elected officials to adequately fund the NHS, hospitals, public health agencies, the WHO. You’d haul out pitchforks and talk about guillotines until the pols fucking did something. You’d fucking vote them out of office. Clapping is the cheapest possible way you can assuage your lame-ass conscience for letting your fellow humans bear this unbearable burden on your behalf.

And, BTW, you’d keep forcing those useless besuited scumbags or their replacements to fund these organizations even after this pandemic is over. QfuckingED. Jesus.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

But this clap-of-belated-support reminded me of Rudyard Kipling’s poem, “Tommy”. The old white-man’s-burden imperialist was talking about exactly this kind of self-serving appreciation, in this case of the ordinary British soldier.

Dunno exactly when the term Tommy Atkins became code for the enlisted guys (“other ranks”) in the army. In Nineteenth Century training manuals, “Thomas Atkins” was the designator for soldiers, so maybe that’s it. But at least in the two world wars of the last century, they were known as Tommies, the way US soldiers were doughboys (I don't even knnow) in the first war and GIs (for “government issue”) in the second.

At any rate, Kipling here clearly demonstrates the hate-love that the British public felt for the army that we’re seeing now: when there’s no perceived need for their services, get the hell out of here; when there is, as Kipling says, “trouble in the wind”, well—can’t applaud too much, can we?

Burns

My

Bacon

“Tommy”

I WENT into a public 'ouse to get a pint o'beer,

The publican 'e up an' sez, ``We serve no red-coats here.''

The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,

I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:

O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' ``Tommy, go away'';

But it's ``Thank you, Mister Atkins,'' when the band begins to play,

The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,

O it's ``Thank you, Mr. Atkins,'' when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,

They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;

They sent me to the gallery or round the music 'alls,

But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' ``Tommy, wait outside'';

But it's ``Special train for Atkins'' when the trooper's on the tide,

The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,

O it's ``Special train for Atkins'' when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep

Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;

An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit

Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.

Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' ``Tommy how's yer soul?''

But it's ``Thin red line of 'eroes'' when the drums begin to roll,

The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,

O it's ``Thin red line of 'eroes'' when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,

But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;

An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints:

Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;

While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an ``Tommy, fall be'ind,''

But it's ``Please to walk in front, sir,'' when there's trouble in the wind,

There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,

O it's ``Please to walk in front, sir,'' when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an'schools, an' fires an' all:

We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.

Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face

The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.

For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' ``Chuck him out, the brute!''

But it's ``Saviour of 'is country,'' when the guns begin to shoot;

Yes it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;

But Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool—you bet that Tommy sees!

Fund them, you soulless, self-serving bastards. Pay them salaries commensurate with their value. Kit them out with PPE. Provide the equipment they need. Fuck your applause—fork over the dosh.