The Happy Warrior (13 page)

Resound to the battle's affray;

The earth splits asunder, and echoes like thunder

Roll onward and echo away.

Far into the night continues the fight,

And the noise of the struggle is heard,

Where silence was breathless and stillness once deathless

Excepting the call of the bird.

After ages, at last, the battle is past,

The noise and the action no more,

The trees maimed and broken, a grim tragic token

Of the terrible havoc of war.

A soft quietness steals and the moonlight reveals

The result of this death-dealing game;

The sky rains its dew, as if all nature too

Were weeping with pity and shame.

An unseen hand has sketched on the sand

A pattern just out of reach,

Of many a wave that flows o'er a grave

On the Sanananda Beach.

Pte C. R. Shaw

Q126475

(AWM PR 87/062)

The Ringers from the North

They have finished with the riding, down the lonely cattle trails,

They are through with swapping stories, watching riders from the rails,

And the moleskins and the leggings that are sweaty, old and torn

Are discarded for the glory of a Khaki Uniform.

They won't be drafting bullocks for many days to come

And the noise of rushing cattle will yield to roaring guns,

And those nights spent by the campfire in the stock camps near the yard

Will just be pleasant memories to a ringer doing guard.

They are using, now, a field gun where they once just used the reins,

And they're marching and they're drilling getting cusses for their pains,

But they know the job's worth doing, as they know a good man's worth,

They are number one good fellows are the ringers from the north.

And when they're cold and hungry, sitting shivering like lost souls

There will come some fragrant memories of grilling rib-bones on the coals

With a damper in the ashes and a quart pot full of tea

And the black boys hobbling horses singing native songs of glee.

And when the war is over and the bugle calls no more,

Then the ringers will be moving to a southern tropic shore

And as the sky grows crimson beneath the setting sun

You will see each ringer heading for a distant cattle run.

Lance Bombardier Sydney Kelly 

(AWM PR 87/062)

Bomber

As darkness covers the tarmac,

The bombers grasp the sky;

Their crews are cold with sweat,

For fear that they might die.

A pilot sits transfixed

Before his knobs and dials and switches;

His navigator sits and stares,

Not a muscle twitches.

The engines drone regardless,

The gunner tests his guns,

Assures himself that they will work

When he must down the Huns.

The planes roar out across the sea,

The target drawing near,

Until the sounds of those before them

On the wind the crews could hear.

Burst of flack and wicked tracer

Lacerate the night;

Bomb run commenced,

The pilot must not deviate in flight.

Ahead there is a blinding flash,

A bomber bursts in flames —

All the men aboard are dead,

Glorious are their names.

Planes are falling from the sky,

Torn blazing from the night,

Balls of fire with smoking trails,

They plummet out of sight.

The cry of “Bombs away!” at last,

Time again to breathe,

Power on to climb and turn,

A lifetime to achieve.

The 109s are all around;

Cannon and machine gun fire.

Silhouetted against the flames,

The bombers' funeral pyre.

The survivors claw their way

Towards the coast and homeward bound,

Trailing smoke and glycol —

Still the fighters hound.

A badly damaged straggler

Limps across the sky;

The surviving crew are cold with sweat,

For fear that they might die.

The navigator's lifeless form

Lies twisted on his sight,

Near stalling speed the plane

Prepares to slip beneath the night.

The gunner stares through sightless eyes,

At nothing to be seen,

Reflecting tiny images

Where once such life had been.

The pilot, numbed by pain and shock,

Sits rigid all alone;

He tries to keep his plane aloft

To reach the aerodrome.

The altimeter is winding down,

Airspeed reaching critical,

Heartbeats measure lifetime,

Survival hypothetical.

Shattered screen and instruments,

The air an icy flow,

The engines cough and splutter,

Oh, how the wind does blow!

Greg Brooks

Egypt? For Australia We Fight

We're here because we're here
is a song we used to sing

Before we left Australia for the fray

Well, we're here now, with a vengeance and here we've got to stop

For there's not the slightest chance to get away.

We said farewell to loved ones e're we left Port Melbourne Pier

To fight against big odds on land and sea,

But the freedom of Australia must be guarded at all costs

And we'll fight like hell to keep our country free.

We long to leave these lands of strife, of misery and pain,

We long to see our homes and loved ones too,

But until our foe is conquered and the Kaiser sheaths his sword

We'll clench our teeth and see this matter through.

Tpr W. H. Johnstone (?)

8th ALH, AIF

(AWM PR 84/049)

Of Courage and Fear

What thoughts through [a] warrior's mind might pass,

What scattered gems are there?

Memories fond, of times long past,

Tomorrow's dreams to share.

That darkest time, await the dawn,

The chill of night a cloak,

Lonely, midst the milling crowd

Where seldom a word is spoke.

Embraced in silent solitude

Yet part of a common bond,

For here all souls react as one,

Ponder fate, which waits beyond.

To live, to die, what fortune hides

In heavy thoughts aquired?

Yet too soon, to feel the rush

When first the shots are fired.

What feeling stirs this pounding heart

Dark thoughts, yet far from clear,

Perhaps a threatening warrior bold

Or a lonely soul with fear.

Confronting soon, as warriors must

When decision time draws near,

The conflict of courage and duty

Against his basic, mortal fear.

For without fear, there is no courage,

Gone all values held so dear;

A warrior, who would be a hero

Needs the emotional catalyst, fear.

James D. Young

I'd Like to be There

I would like to be there in November

To talk with you, just like old times;

I'd like to see who will remember,

And walk for a while in the lines.

Hear the noise of the cooks in the morning,

Steal a smoke on picquet at night,

Dodge the RSM as he wanders,

Ready to give me a fright.

And I'd like to play football on sports day

And shoot on the old rifle range,

Catch a tram to the B.E. on weekends,

Or Grand Central just for a change.

I wonder who you all married?

And how many children you had?

Where you worked, and if you succeeded?

See — proves you weren't all that bad.

And I'd like to visit the chapel,

Maybe see all the trees in the rain,

Polish my boots on a Sunday

And stand on parade once again.

But I can't be there in November.

I lie here in Korea's cold clime.

But thankyou for planting the trees

And thankyou for taking the time.

To Remember a Mate.

Margaret Gibbons

I've Had Me Share of Rubber Trees

I've had me share of rubber trees and screamin' Sergeant-Majors

And livin' like a mongrel dog in those stuffed-out canvas cages;

'Ad me share of screamin' jets and whoopin' bloody rockets,

Beetles in me under dacks, bull ants in me pockets.

Had me share of mud 'n slush and raining like a bastard,

And when it rains, it rains here mate — a fortnight once it lasted.

'Ad me share of crawling things and human ones is with 'em

Bitin' round your tender spots and at the bosses bum they're sniffin',

I've had me share of sweaty gear and rashes on me belly

And watchin' Yankee football on the stuffed out canteen telly;

‘Ad me share of dipping out on sex and lovin' and boozin',

Yeah I'm in this bloody place, but it sure wasn't my choosin.'

Had this bloody Vietnam and a war that ain't fair dinkum,

Had the swamps and chook-house towns and everythin' is stinkin',

Had me share of countin' days and boots with ten foot laces,

I've had me share, I've 'ad it mate — ‘up' all them foreign places!

Anon

(AWM MSS 0870)

105's 105s

A tribute to the Officers and Men of 105 Field Battery Royal Australian Artillery, the Battle for Long Tan and the 105mm Pack Howitzer and its role during that battle. This poem is dedicated to all of the Veterans who took part in this battle and kept alive the spirit of the Anzacs.

“Take Post! Take Post!” They'd heard it before,

They were quick to their guns, a few even swore,

But this was a fire mission like none in the past

And so it had started the battle at Long Tan.

The boys from D Company were in a fix,

Not far from the Dat, about two clicks,

The call came in for support to survive

And to the fore were 105's 105s.

In the rubber plantation the boys on the ground,

Facing enemy fire from all around,

Conditions appalling the mud and fierce rain,

Visibility a problem but confusion restrained;

The position more clearly with bright blue flashes,

From the guns in support landing rounds in the ashes;

The gunfire was loud, bright and blaring,

Placed a look on the diggers surprised and glaring.

They knew there was hope with accurate fire

To help them survive the mud and the mire,

The guns so constant with dangerous close fire.

Back at the Dat the actions were true,

The boys on the guns they knew what to do;

The weather so bad the rain teeming down,

Strong cordite mist was hugging the ground,

Empty cart cases were forming a mound,

But the guns would not cease until the very last round,

From 105's 105s.

The battle raged on through that terrible night,

Uncertain the thoughts of the men in the fight,

But the soldiers had been trained for a job to be done

And all fought and battled until it was won.

At the end of it all they all looked around,

They were tired, drenched and spent,

And looked at each other in wonderment.

Through the days that had passed battle honours had been won,

You could not but admire the Australian Son,

But then a glance at that little gun, 105's 105s.

WO2 Bill Pritchard

Body Bags

Body bags slick, shining green,

white nylon zips unable to stem

the knowing of limp slack lines

and men who once were friends.

Floppy hands and heavy carry

to waiting helicopter doors,

and mates who once smiled

now stacked on aluminium floors.

Congealed blood and torn boots

by the bamboo groves,

and thumping rotor blades

taking away the stiffened hands.

Stacked, flopped, almost liquid

in the obscene formlessness of plastic,

hiding the end product of insanity

and the awful work of jumping mines.

Taking from your pocket a letter

still unread, but opened by shrapnel,

and here an arm, and there a leg,

neatly body-bagged, and bloody well dead.

The ashes of unshown grief choking us

along with the red dust as you go away,

now a mere dot in the vault of the sky,

wrapped with your memories in a bag.