10/20/2008

Kipling y Echevarría: oficios de armas, también en Afganistán


Bajo la impresion del ataque repelido ayer, miren la foto: un soldado neozelandés escolta a una capitán estadounidense y a un asesor civil, éste también "kiwi", esperando a que les abran la puerta de una casa.

Van a conversar, por cuenta del NZ Provincial Reconstruction Team (NZPRT) que Nueva Zelanda mantiene en la provincia de Bamyan. Es foto de ISAF del pasado mes de septiembre...

A la vista de ello, me reafirmo en que Kipling sigue siendo una lectura básica, a la que los españoles solemos acercarnos tarde y mal. No voy a citar ejemplos...

Hay un viejo poema de Kipling que expresa como ningún otro las expectativas vitales de un soldado en combate muy lejos de su casa. Algo que sabe muy bien Antulio Echevarría, que ha escrito un excelente editorial para el SSI-USAWC sobre las elecciones en los EE.UU. y las guerras en curso: Dueling Natures.

El poema se basó en lo aprendido por muchos en las montañas, valles y planicies de Afganistán. Años después de publicado, Kipling conocería el dolor de saber que, impulsado por él al servicio pese a una ceguera parcial, su hijo había muerto en combate enrolado en la Royal Navy.

Inserto entero el dicho poema, traduciendo después los últimos versos y recordando, de paso, alguna de las buenas prácticas COIN / Estabilización y Reconstrucción.

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,
A' 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!

Cuando quedes herido y abandonado en los llanos de Afganistán
Y las mujeres corran para despojar tus restos
Envuélvete con tu fusil y vuélate los sesos
Y ve hacia tu Dios como un soldado.


No hay comentarios: