The patrol was long, the night was cold,
The stories never fully told.
Belfast’s streets of brick and stone,
South Armagh where we’d roam alone.

Boots were wet, our shoulders sore,
Another shift, another tour.
Eyes were tired, hands numb with rain,
Yet home was just a mess hall flame.

No fanfare marked our weary tread,
Just thoughts of sleep and waiting bed.
But first, a face we’d come to know—
The Army Chef, still on the go.

No matter if the hour was two,
Or dawn broke grey with morning dew,
He’d stand there grinning, apron white,
As if he’d never left that night.

“Egg or bacon? Sausage too?”
He’d fire the question straight at you.
His wit was sharp, his sarcasm free,
A language shared by you and me.

A banjo thick in buttered bread,
Enough to raise the weary dead.
A mug of tea so dark and strong,
Your spoon stood up the whole day long.

No medals pinned upon his chest,
No headlines called him one of the best.
Yet every lad who served would say,
He earned our gratitude each day.

For while we walked the roads outside,
He served with quiet, steadfast pride.
His battlefield was stove and pan,
Still every inch a soldier’s man.

We ate, we laughed, we eased the strain,
Forgot, awhile, the fear and rain.
Then four short hours beneath a sheet,
Before returning to our beat.

And when the next patrol came through,
He’d do exactly what he’d do.
Still smiling through another dawn,
While countless weary nights rolled on.

The Army marches on its feet,
But spirits rise with something to eat.
So here’s to every Corps chef’s care,
Who proved, through every hardship there,

That service isn’t always shown
By those who stand with rifle alone.
Sometimes the greatest comfort came
From someone who still knew your name.

A banjo warm. A mug of tea.
A moment’s peace before the fray.
Of all my memories from those years…
The Chef was always there.

By Paul Baldry

During my tours of Northern Ireland in the 1970s and 80s, patrols through Belfast and South Armagh often ended with one simple comfort—the Army Catering Corps chef. No matter the hour, he was there with a smile, a sharp sense of humour, a hot egg, bacon or sausage banjo, and tea so strong your spoon could stand upright. This poem is a tribute to those unsung chefs whose dedication lifted spirits and reminded weary soldiers that someone was always waiting for them.