The Happy Warrior (16 page)

Washed up on some foreign shore.

Midst the currents of resentment

Drifted M16 and spears

No stranger heard them crying

And no one saw their tears.

White teeth against black faces did little to hide their pain

They hid amongst the jungle

But their hiding was in vain.

For the enemy within them

Knew their deepest thoughts and fears

No stranger felt them tugging

And no one saw their tears.

I stood in line and placed my stone

'twas a tiny thing

But thousands more they did the same

to make this place a home.

And so it was the island rose

The waves rolled back, the tempest clears

And strangers to the island

Had dried away their tears.

L/Col Jack Gregg

Wakunai, Bougainville

11 March 1999

A UNIIMOG Ditty

If I were writing from Balmain

And pigs at last could fly

The news from here in Kurdestan

Would lack essential fire.

And Canberra isn't quite the place

To ponder in your mind

That every time you place your feet —

It could be on a mine.

Or yesterday on that grenade

That rolled beneath your feet

No risk? Well bar that little pin

It was in fact complete!

The aircraft violation

That flew low above the ridge

Was only taking photographs

And not dispersing death.

There's interest in your gas mask

As you watch the vapour trail

Your hand preparing Atropine

If that defence should fail.

The thought “Is that for me?”

Each time you hear something explode

Instils appreciation

For that rocky little hole.

And as you wonder of your mate

In sunny Khorramshar,

He's down behind a wall like you

About to kiss his arse!

Luke Carroll

UNIIMOG

(AWM PR 00431)

Silly Poem

I'm sitting here in Persia, just wondering why I'm here, Dreaming of home, my wife and kids and a pie and a can of beer; It's great here at the Team Site, but it's open to debate, With no TV or shorts or the UN cars it makes us pretty irate; Of course we respect the laws of this rigid Islamic state, We eat their food and so not to be rude we say it's really great; But the first thing I'll do on my CTO is go to a place elsewhere, Where you can drink and swear and wear your shorts and nobody really cares!

T. M.

UNIIMOG

(AWM PR 00431)

Diggers In Blue

Australians should be proud of their Diggers in blue,

Scattered around the world for a cause that's true,

The spirit of the Diggers surge through our veins

As we answer the call again and again.

Our standards are high which is plain to see,

And that's not small praise coming from me,

We work hard and play hard and that's nothing new

Dinkum Sons of Anzacs wearing UN blue.

The dangers are real as we toil day to day

But don't tell anyone, we'll just laugh them away;

Rifle, machine gun, grenade and shell,

Mine or UXB could blow us all to hell.

We try to take care and still do our job —

Don't tell them at home, let them think I'm a slob.

Australians should be proud of their Diggers in blue

As we strive for a concept that should not be new

World peace — blissful peace. Then let me go home

To my wonderful wife and my daughters unknown.

Dave Harris

UNIIMOG

(AWM PR 00431)

The Grunt's Confession

'Twas Grunt, a bright young Infanteer in service of the Queen,

Who found himself in Kurdestan and held in some esteem

By members of the reptile group that goes by name of ‘snakes'

About the time he played a role in letting one escape.

The walk was long and arduous on that, the fateful day,

With Grunt asweating freely as he clambered up the way.

The puffing escort followed and the LO cursed his name,

The Pasdaran all turned around and went the other way.

They made it to the junction and ensured that all was well

Then turned around and recommenced descending from the hill.

But as they passed a small green bush a sentry shouted “Ist!

I'm sure I saw a bloody snake and heard the bastard hiss!”

Said Grunt “We've got some snakes at home would make you miss the show”,

And craning forward he said “Let's see how long these blighters grow!”

But yon Battalion Headquarters had different thoughts in mind,

As all right up to Colonel armed with stones of different size.

As Grunt, still quite oblivious, said “G'day there Joe Blake!”

Old Hissing Sid the Viper came aware of his mistake.

The only way to safety seemed between those bandy legs,

And off he shot toward him like an All Black flying wedge.

Now Grunt, like most young Infanteers, had some synapse delay,

It took him precious seconds as he stood there in the way.

But watching the trajectory, the angles and the lines,

He finally came to realize he was just about to die.

He stood without a motion as he watched his ending come

While most of those behind him all went reaching for their guns

When in that final second of the cataclysmic crash

Young Grunt went fifteen feet straight up and fourteen feet straight back!

He landed midst the firing squad and crashed them to the ground

The whole Battalion Headquarters went running round and round.

And somewhere in the hail of shouts and clash of rifle stocks

Old Hissing Sid the Viper reached the safety of the rocks.

It's rumoured here in Kurdestan that ever since that day

Not one Australian Grunt been bit by one Iranian snake,

And all the diggers stay dispersed against unseen attack

In case it once more goes straight up and fourteen feet straight back.

Luke Carroll

UNIIMOG

(AWM PR 00431)

The Letter

(This poem was written by Mike Subritzky, himself a veteran, during a train journey to farewell his son when he was posted on Operations to Bosnia in 1998, to serve with B Battery, Royal Horse Artillery.)

Dear Mr Subritzky, sorry to be a bore,

but we're sending your son Danny to the Bosnian War.

Yes, we know you did Rhodesia, your cousin Bill did Vietnam,

but we're running out of soldiers and we need a few good men.

Sure, your uncle Jack the Anzac, was in the Battle of Chunuk Bair,

and Bob Subritzky caught a packet on the Somme.

But we need a few good men, to send to Europe once again,

and we'll kit them out and send them with a song.

Cousin Fredo got a head wound in the Monte Cassino fight,

and poor old Archi, he went crazy on the wire one stormy night.

Yes, your family's done its bit, but it doesn't count for shit,

and when your son gets back, we'll give the lad a gong.

Now you know the bloody score, it's just another friggin' war,

and we're off in a couple of days, to the blood and smoke and haze.

Of course your boy should be alright, unless the Serbs decide to fight,

because the Moslems in his sector seem OK.

Mike Subritzky, 1998

Dusk

Now is the healing, quiet hour that fills

This gay, green world with peace and grateful rest,

Where lately over opalescent hills

The blood of slain Day reddened all the west

Now comes at Night's behest,

A glow that over all the forest spills,

As with the gold of promised daffodils.

Of all hours this is best.

It is the time for thoughts of holy things,

Of half-forgotten friends and one's own folk.

O'er all, the garden-scented sweetness clings

To mingle with the wood fire's drifting smoke.

A bull-frog's startled croak

Sounds from the gully where the last bird sings

His laggard vesper hymm, with folded wings;

And Night spreads forth her cloak.

Keeping their vigil, where the great range yearns,

Like rigid sentries stand the wise old gums.

On blundering wings a night-moth reels and turns

And lumbers on, mingling its drowsy hums

With that far roll of drums,

Where the swift creek goes tumbling midst the ferns.

Now, as the first star in the zenith burns,

The dear, soft darkness comes.

C. J. Dennis

UNIIMOG

(AWM PR 00431)

Lights of Dili

(Food for thought)

Toward the lights of Dili, what is that you see?

Home, innocence, suffering, injustice.

Do you complain inwardly at the anguish, the pain of absence,

Or empathise with those whose indignity lays beneath shadows,

Whose blood forges a future, breaths life into a new nation?

Are you willing, able to set aside your loss, your anger,

Overcome adversity, appreciate with clarity the role you play?

Or will you close your eyes to humanity, compassion and reason,

While revelling in your own self pity and shame?

Beyond those lights, what is it that you see?

The greatest pain we endure, our ultimate sacrifice,

Is not the political bunglings or the confusion of power,

Nor the uncertainty of each passing day.

It is not another night being unable to taste normality,

Nor the drudgery, monotony or routine of each wakened breath.

The deepest pain to strike our hearts is that of absence,

Absence from our children, our families, our friends.

It is being denied irreplaceable moments in time,

The closeness and passion that family brings,

The stability, cohesion that friendship nurtures.

Whist doing battle with absence, our weapons of choice —

Commitment, loyalty, faith and charity —

Save and separate us from the rest of society.

With a language strange, and abstract perceptions of life

We transcend, conquer, all barriers to soar ultimately successful.

It is our ability to adapt, to confront challenge with determination,

To forge ahead where others would falter.

These traits are what govern our destiny, make us unique;

This moment in time is what fate has decreed

And we will as always, prevail, for it is our nature.

So if doubt, loneliness and anger consume,

Remember what it is that we take for granted,

Freedom, democracy, a right to choice and speech.

Breath a sigh of relief as you contemplate life,

The predicaments of others and the luxury of your birthright.

Appreciate that your sacrifice is merely inconvenience

When compared to the sacrifice of others less fortunate.

Stand proud knowing you served righteousness, the good of man,

Setting aside your needs, to embrace, to give selflessly,

To those whose only world is one of servitude, aggression and sadness.

And next time you are staring toward that far away isle, ask:

What is it that I see, in those far off Dili lights?

Jim Hodges

A Tribute to a Kimberley Gidja Soldier

To my nephew, Jeremy Manning 

I held back the teardrops from falling

As he walked inside our front room door;

He was over six-foot, every inch a soldier,

And just come back from East Timor.

I had held him in my arms as a baby,

This Kimberley nephew of mine;

We used to share many stories together

And his eyes would brightly shine.

He had said, ‘I wanna be a brave paratrooper,

Although the discipline is hard to take.

I wanna be an example to my people,

As strong as Uluru, not a fake.'

This time he brought two white mates with him

One of them also went to Timor

Under the leadership of Major General Cosgrove,

And boy, you could not ask for more.

For he earned his rank o'er in Vietnam,

And mate, I'll tell you, it's no joke.

He instilled dignity and fire in the guts mate,

And one would die for that kind of bloke.

My fine young nephew with a military hair cut

The Timorese kids, they would shout and sing.

He gave them lollies, picked them up in his arms, mate,

They loved him and treated him like a king.

“Have you been in grave danger?” I asked him.

“Yes, it was a danger we did not foresee.

It took place inside of a foxhole.”

This was the story he told to me.

“One day I faced a cocked machine gun.

Death stared at me square in the face.

I said a silent prayer to my Maker,

To protect me and give me some grace.

“I did not show any fear, nor tremble,

I did not move or even cry.

When the moment of tension was over,

I looked up and thanked God in the sky.

“Uncle Ron, can you give me a Bible?

I lost mine back in East Timor.

This is part of a good soldier's armour

It keeps fear far away from the door.”

His mum came from proud Gidja kinfolks,

His dad Bill, an Irish Aussie at heart.

Their love transcended racial boundaries,

They gave Jeremy, their son, a head start.

I choked in my throat when we said our goodbyes.

He was a Kimberley man through and through.

Yet, he left bridle and saddle, to take up his gun,