Batchelor Party

I think I'm beginning to understand — if not quite condone — our friend John Derbyshire's rage and pride over what has become of a once mighty martial class in England. At bottom, Arthur Batchelor, the youngest Royal Navy sailor captured last month by Iran, yuking it up at a night club in Plymouth. He's the blindfolded yob in the second picture.

It's always been a shade easier to be both antiwar and anti-soldier in Old Blighty than it has been here. Typically, the English are pro-war and anti-solider at the same time, which is why Kipling remains the gold standard anatomist of this vicious double standard:

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; An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please; But Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool – you bet that Tommy sees!

Though by "goin' large a bit," the Bard of Empire hardly had this buffoonery in mind. He'd have loathed Batchelor's lack of seriousness about the extreme peril in which his comrades still find themselves overseas, as he most certainly would the fact that Batchelor and Faye Turney have sold their hostage stories for 5-figures each. There's another Kipling stave that would make short work of that act of prostitution:

Far-called, our navies melt away; On dune and headland sinks the fire: Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget – lest we forget!