This poem was salvaged from a scrap piece of lined A4 paper handwritten half in pen and then finished in pencil – I can’t recall but my biro must have run out.
I do remember writing this rather crude piece in 1990 on a rain-soaked day in the Shoalwater Bay Military Training Area near Rockhampton in Queensland Australia. The Exercise had been practically brought to a standstill due to the relentless rain so with nothing to do for hours on end I wrote…
I expect most military personnel could relate to partaking in a “bush bog” because there are times when it just isn’t practical to exercise with real toilets nearby or cart them into a remote training area.
Even for the modern-day military with all the environmental rules and regulations imposed on them, there are times when a calling of nature will not wait for a shiny seat and porcelain bowl.
That’s when the ever-useful entrenching tool (ET) in one hand, a roll of toilet paper in the other and a purposeful stride to a secluded spot (preferably several hundred metres away from camp) comes in handy.
The following poem tells the typical story of a soldier doing just that – taking a bush bog.
Bush Bog
I’ve just sat back
And with a grin
A burden that lingered
Has gone from within.
Lest you guess it was easy
No problem, all couth
Although best left unsaid
I should outline the truth.
The track I trekked
And hills I hiked
To find a tree
And place I liked.
My shovel in hand
Rifle in other
I headed for scrub
To give me some cover.
With shovel underfoot
And buttocks held tight
I dug into rock
with all my might.
The earth was hard
Impatient I became
The deeper I dug
The harder the pain.
Hole now finished
But work not done
I dropped my tweeds
And bared my bum.
Teeth strongly viced
Relief came fast
“You beauty” I said
Job’s done at last.
My right hand free
And left as support
I reached…
But where has it gone?
I thought…
Then down the hill
I began to peer
Only to confirm
My gravest fear.
The roll had rolled
Oh, I was livid!
If this was a lesson
It has been delivered.
Now, I know you think
That I was beat
With no dunny paper
And a turd at my feet.
But I’m telling this story
Let me make it quite clear
When the bush is my element
I’m as swift as a deer.
So I checked my surroundings
Like a good soldier’s taught
To improvise when it’s needed
And to action without thought.
Then bang! It hit me
Like a 240 volt spark
The tree that was near me
By crikey it had bark!
Yes the texture was rough
Though gingerly I wiped
It still took more skin
Then I expected or liked.
When I was finished
Tender and raw
Is the best description
Of the parts that were sore.
Still, relief was there
And without a doubt
If I was forced to choose
I’d prefer it was out.
If you think I want pity
For a bog near a tree
I want you to know
Don’t feel sorry for me.
Because I do not ponder
What I did decide
To earn the misfortune
Of a burning backside.
But I do kind of wonder
Even if you couldn’t care
Why they just don’t make
Toilet rolls that are square?
By Mark Valencia – 1990
