The Happy Warrior (15 page)

Though my body was left far behind.

Below me the column, still marching

I could see front to the rear,

All in the sharpest of detail

Each man showing separate and clear.

On the head of a man in the centre

The Russian-made headgear of Pat,

On the left flank beside him a figure

Wearing my battered slouch hat.

I studied that pitiful creature

That I knew was the body of me

And wondered what kept it going

When the part that mattered was free.

At last when the daylight was dying

I came back to the world of pain,

Dragged through the gap that was closing —

I was back in the column again.

I believe that there is an Almighty,

I believe in the power of prayer,

I believe there is life after dying.

I know. I have been Half Way There.

Pte J. Wright

(AWM MSS 1586)

POW Day

No doubt that we were bunnies

To swallow all their talk

Of Yankees at Port Dickson

And Pommies' air support

They marched us out to Changi

Ten thousand men or more;

The fallen by the roadside

Made us yearn no more for war.

We're planting beans by numbers

We're sloping arms no more,

We're through with bloody fighting

For Tojo topped the score.

We live in shell-torn barracks

Minus water, roof and tile,

The NCOs and Pippers

Eat with rank and file

Our clothes they are most scanty,

Our trousers ripped and torn,

We're bloody near as naked

As the day that we were born

Our charpoys they have taken,

We sleep on them no more;

There's naught for us to do

But doss upon the floor.

We rise around eight hundred

And creep down to the tong

And think of old Rexona

And hope it won't be long.

We fall in on the A Parade

And answer to our names

It's “Stand at ease!” “stand easy!”

Then the OC cries again:

“You're still in the AIF lads,

And no matter where you go

The Government of Australia

Expects you to earn your dough.”

Next up we have breakfast

Our appetites to sate,

In single file we get it —

It's rice upon our plate

The greasy babblers moaning,

The backups standing by

And Corporal Death a leading

With hunger in his eye.

Next we're duty company,

It's work to make us hard

Collecting meager rations

Or sweeping up the yard.

Our after-lunch siesta

Is spent in many ways

With dreams of steak and onions

We knew in better days.

We're wakened from our slumber

By a voice that's loud and harsh:

“Come grab your dirty washing

And to the tongs we'll march”

With shades of evening falling

There's visits we must pay

To see Bill and Harry

Who live across the way.

There's pals in other units

There's mates we'll never see

And dreams of dear old Aussie

Our homes across the sea.

The good old swy-ups going,

We brought it to this land

And though we haven't got much dough

I guess we'll land a hand.

“There go the pennies sailing!”

You can hear the boxer holler,

But luck is dead against us

And there goes our only dollar.

‘Lights out' will soon be sounding

And though we all are broke,

I guess that one amongst us.

Will have a light to smoke

It's homeward to our billets

We wend our weary way,

To lie upon the concrete

So ends a POW's day.

Anon

Journey Back to Changi

Tommy 1942

POWs, that's a helluva flamin' word

And here we are, all rounded up, like a branded cattle herd.

God, it seems there's such a lot of us, confused and milling around;

Well, I hope it's all been worth it, for this little patch of ground.

Ahh Mate, I'm bloody hungry, and you're lookin' pretty thin

And these graves are gettin' shallower, and I've got no strength to fill 'em in;

All that keeps me goin' is believin' things'll change

Til then we wait behind these walls while the world gets rearranged...

Ahh Bluey, you look like Death Warmed Up, and I'm feelin' kind o' weak

And I feel I've got much more to say, but it's gettin' hard to speak;

There's so much I could've said and done, but it seems I won't get the chance

Got caught up in this changing world, Ahh, what a merry dance.

Yeah Mate, I know I'm goin'; but I don't want to really leave

And I don't want 'em thinkin' I wore my heart upon my sleeve;

And can you ask 'em, when you're home again, were they really only bluffin'?

And ask 'em for me will you, Mate, did we go through this for nothin'?

Bluey 1992

Well, I've come back here again, old Digger,

And so many years have passed

And things ain't really changed that much

They've just moved on too fast

But, you and your grave, well, you're still here,

A symbol of past mistakes,

And I see those old words that we scratched there:

‘That's Life' and ‘Those are the Breaks'.

Ahh Tommy, old Mate, these thoughts take me back

And a thousand things pass through my mind,

Like the Wire and the Walls that kept us caged up

And the Conflict that makes people blind

And those ghostly old shadows of mates long gone now

With my eyes closed I see 'em once more,

And I wipe out the memory of skeletal men

And recall how I'd known 'em before.

And you, Tommy Brown, I remember you then

And how you thought that we'd both live forever,

What a cruel twist of Fate, when we lost you, old Mate

And this place seemed a long way from heaven.

Yeah, I remember, old friend, when they captured us then

And how we thought that somehow we had failed,

And we dreamed of the day we'd escape in some way

From this hellhole they called Changi Jail.

Oh Mate, I can't linger there, those thoughts lead to despair

And the question you asked, I can't answer;

“All for Nothin'” you said, and we both hung our heads

As we listened to Fate's hollow laughter...

Requiem 1992

Well, the crowds gathered now, once again there's heads bowed

And soft words raise those ghosts from the past,

And while memory's tears fall, to that sad bugle call

We pray your Soul's resting at last.

And while I'm standing here, silent, with head bowed,

Trying hard just to hold back my tears,

I can still hear the words to a song

Sayin' ‘Thanks for the Gift of the Years'.

And Hey Tommy, old son, when my time's finally come

And, I think we'll meet up before long,

We'll recall better times and forgive 'em their crimes,

And I'll teach you the words to that song...

Les Mellet

AIF Cemetery

Untitled

There's a plot of land that's tendered by their comrades by the score,

In which they've buried Diggers who died while Prisoners of War;

They were every bit as gallant in their sufferings through disease

As the men who fell in battle 'gainst the swarming Japanese.

The men who died through shot and shell have made their names immortal

But those who lay and waited death went quietly through his portal;

A flag draped body, stretcher born toward the grave is ferried

The Last Post sounds o'er Changi Camp: another hero buried.

For surely though his end was quiet and far from the muskets rattle

He gave his life to the cause for which his comrades died in battle.

So when in peaceful times to come we turn to thank our Maker

Just say a prayer for those who lie in Changi Camp, ‘God's Acre'.

Anon

Yugoslavia Lost

I feel sick at humanity's naked truth

(Though humanity may be too kind a name)

For a people who blithely wound and claim

Vilification and purity for their youth.

Time has not repelled their hate

Nor distilled the witching brew

Of ancient tensions born anew

To demand a people repatriate.

Time shall surely quell their tears

The anguish, the wounds, the pain,

But time knows festering sores remain

Weeping freely from the ears.

Pity them their bloody ear

That prevents strong screams from sounding near

But pity not their eyes that hear

That see and lust with passion clear.

Yesterday's history holds no lesson

That has not yet been heard nor learned

The page long read then overturned

Quill dipped in blood, a new page begun.

Tony Anetts

Our Life

The blokes are out on the Cease Fire Line

Thinking of home and the girl left behind,

Of cold ale and beaches and sun shining free

Of the land of their fathers where they'd rather be.

It's a place that they think of to help pass the time,

For time there's a plenty as they go through the grind

Of daily patrolling out there on the front

Between Arabs and Persians, the tanks and the grunts.

Life at the front can be boring and dull,

Except for that moment, the break in the lull,

When time is compressed in a cold bead of sweat

And your heart skips a beat and you think of things yet

To be done with your wife or your family at home,

And you question your presence and yearning to roam.

Australia is home and it's where we should be,

But the war is not over and we're not yet free,

So we'll finish our tour with a skip and a jump,

No more to Iran with our swags will we hump,

But travel again to our homeland and wife

And get on with that thing we've forgotten — our life.

Anon

UNIIMOG

(AWM PR 00431)

I Have

I have driven crowded streets where people mill and stand

Dodged through rack and ruin and a beggar's outstretched hand,

I have seen sights of shockingness, of open poverty

The resulting devastation of a people's anarchy,

I have smelt the stale aroma of filth, death and spice,

The stagnant pools of squalor fed by people, dogs and lice

I have held the bony hand, of a starving, dying child

Shared a mother's anguish as her children's bones were piled,

I have dodged rocks and missiles, thrown and aimed at me

Used a baton to deter unabashed thievery,

I have run, sung and played, with children like my own,

Tried to understand their language and the world in which they've grown.

I have experienced a people's fervour, at the Feast of Ramadan

Watched in fascination as Muslim rites are done,

I have been privy to the meeting of a dedicated few

Who loathe their country's lawlessness and wish to start anew,

I have witnessed use of terror by bandits and their kin

And the subsequent denials as the questionings begin.

I have witnessed execution and the sorry stench of death

As bandits and their kind suck their last dark breath,

I have bartered at the markets, as the locals ply their trade

Of selling simple prayer mats, on which Elvis himself has prayed,

I have felt the sheer elation of a people's shout of cheer

Of the call of ‘Australia' yelled from far and near.

I have known so very much in so short a span of days

The experiences of a lifetime in oh so many ways.

Tony Anetts

Changing Tides

The old men of Bagana, Bale and Tore

Had slipped below the waters,

Were brave and proud no more.

Waves of greed and corruption

Had taken their toll through the years

No stranger saw them drowning

And no one saw their tears.

The oasis in the Pacific was paradise no more

All hope was left behind then