By Tony Church (TeeCee)

The sighing surf on sand abounds, and seabirds call, the only sounds

At break of summers day, and yet, within the hour men will have met

Their destiny as war’s shrill chatter ends this tranquil scene. The clatter

Of machine guns spit their hate, as landing craft nose in to grate

Against the shingle to disgorge their human load who wait to charge

Into oncoming deathly hail, but never faltering, nerves taut, pale

Faced, leaping down into the cold wet breakers, seeking firm foothold.

Struggling forward, arms raised clear to gain refuge ahead, so near

And yet seeming so far away as spiteful guns traverse and spray

The killing ground that lies ahead, already littered with the dead

And dying who would never see this bitter, bloody victory.

Then faintly, through the deafening din, an alien sound is heard, the thin

Melodious wailing cry of highland pipes, though bullets fly

Around him, he is unscathed still. Thus starts the tale of Piper Bill.

Bill, who piped for Brigadier Lord Lovat, raised a special cheer

When, leaving on the previous day, took up his pipes, began to play

“Road to the Isles”, as, leaving Hamble river for this costly gamble,

Lifting spirits of the men, calling, cheered and cheered again,

Who as the Solent slipped away, all knew that on the following day

They’d face their own worst fears and doubts, prayed that when it came about

They would stand firm and conquer fear to face the perils that appeared.

And now, amid the smoke and roar of high explosives, Bill endures

The hail of death, which all around leaves him untouched, while yet the sound

Of “Highland Laddie” fills the air as fingers on the chanter dare

To still defy the lethal storm, this awesome hell in all its forms.

Yet death and wholesale demolition, backdrop to this exhibition

Of the art of Scottish piping, even with the bullets sniping,

Will not quiet this hardy Scot, surviving mortar shell and shot.

He marches at the waters edge, still playing, able yet to dredge

From deep within his mortal soul the courage to maintain and hold

Himself upright despite the urge to run for safety, then emerge

When all is still and quiet again, escape the trauma and the pain.

But Bill is made of sterner stuff, clutching his pipes he starts to puff

And fill the bag, then with a squeeze, his hands again with practised ease

Launch into yet another air, lifting spirits everywhere.

And so the legend now is born, as Bill continues to perform

Beyond this strip of golden sand known as Sword Beach, where many men

Have fallen, sacrificed their all in answering their country’s call,

But in this page of history this part of France will always be

Where Highland Bagpipes played their part with inspiration, and gave heart

To all who witnessed Bill that day, who, when he crossed that beach to play,

With all his great panache and poise, gave the Highland Pipes their voice.

The St Andrews Pipe Band

Oft in a chilly, winter night,
On a Monday, more often than not,
There gathers a strange collection of folk
At six-thirty p.m., on the dot.
They come to this place at leisurely pace
To practice and hone piping skills,
While others are coming to practice their drumming,
With triplets and rolls with stick drills.
You can soon hear the moans
Of the chanters and drones
And the rattle of drumsticks, quite loud,
But you won't hear no moans
From the neighbourhood phones,
Because, of this band, they're quite proud.

They have got a name and enjoy local fame
As St Andrews Pipe Band of Le Rice,
And though not regimental
- Their style is more gentle -
They've got fella's and girls,
( Which is nice! )
So give your support
To this band and exhort
Them to get all their talent unfurled,
And then sing their praises,
For they're going places,
Who knows? - For tomorrow - The World!

Tee Cee