The Happy Warrior (17 page)

A brave soldier and real Aussie mate, it is true.

A great example he is to his own people

His own countrymen thought he was great,

Yes, he is a might fine Australian

And a real dinky die Aussie mate.

So, to all Aboriginal youth in Australia,

You can train in the Navy, Airforce or Army.

May Jeremy Manning's life be an example

Of helping people in all lands to be free.

Ron Williams

Aboriginal War Historian 

Mighty Lady

A warship never sleeps, never tires, never weeps,

But lives and breathes with the life of the present,

Pulsating with the souls of a distant past.

Her heartbeat, her voice a constant companion,

To those who served before and to those who will again.

She is a mystery, an enigma a challenge,

She is many things to many men;

A tired mistress who requires painful attention,

Demands respect, dictates loyalty, commitment.

To those who serve, her repayment in kind, her thanks,

Is that of drudgery, long days and empty nights,

Loneliness, absence and weary confinement.

Unforgivingly harsh and a true task master,

She is a tired mistress who will give no quarter.

A beautiful lady, who shines through trials and tribulations

Keeper, protector of righteousness,

Of value, moral standard, ideals.

A symbol of nations, a wonder to behold,

One which exemplifies honour, typifies pride.

A chariot, a conduit for faith and hope,

A beautiful lady who encompasses all things noble.

Her life's blood, sailors, give her magnificence,

Each with their own unique manner, character,

Different creeds, beliefs, ideals and history.

Melded, bonded, thrust together as one,

With a single goal a single purpose and direction,

To ensure that she breathes, achieves,

The greatness that destiny has bestowed upon her.

She has been, and will be, many things to many men,

But for me she stirs consciousness, conflicting memories.

She has been my home, my prison, a sanctuary, a trap,

The source of joy, pain, passion and anguish.

I know I will never escape her profound impact, her hold,

For years with her have moulded perceptions,

Have etched changes within my heart, upon my soul.

A surge of affection will always flow through my veins,

As I reflect upon a brief moment in time,

When my service was dedicated to her life.

The tides of change will never dull or wash away

Those years of bitter-sweet memories.

And my heart will always resonate with mixed emotion

As I look back toward her from destiny's distant path.

So when she reaps vengeance with feminine wrath,

Or you feel the sting of her unforgiving demeanour,

Remember what it is to sail within her,

What it means, signifies, to be a part of that life blood.

Take pride, take comfort and solace, from the knowledge

It was your commitment, your strength, your passion

Who gave spirit to a mighty lady of the sea.

Jim Hodges

6 October 1999

Air Hours at the Ops Cell

There were air hours at the Ops Cell,

The word soon flashed around,

Let's stop some road-moved rations,

And air-drop them to the ground

We need a bit of ADE

And space on Caribou

To set this lot of tucker

Adrift from out the blue.

Our OPSO was an air drop man,

Full bottle on that score;

We put the plan into his hand

To make it doubly sure.

All was booked and ready made

When Mate, you wouldn't credit it,

Again the hand of HQ came

And turned it all to — .

Instead of a few, well planned drops,

'Twas all turned on its head;

“Let's take the entire ration break

And drop the lot instead.”

The Wombats and the rigging crew

Then did a double take —

To break and pack this mighty stack

A sleepless night would make.

The hours came and slowly went,

The sweat in rivers poured

Until at last, the word was passed

“She's set to go on board!”

The ink had hardly time to dry

Upon the message pad

When alteration followed change

And the blasted lot went bad.

Confusion reigned, the air turned blue

The OPSO threw a fit,

But just remember one thing lads,

There's training value in it.

Capt. Don Buckby

Duties

There are many minor ailments

That plague a man through life,

To some it is their station

And others 'tis their wife.

And even carefree soldiers

Have a reason to complain,

I mean the many duties

That follow in a chain.

Some of them are easy

But most of them are bad,

They must think I like them,

I find it very sad.

If they're ever under strength

And need a couple more,

They pounce with pure enjoyment

On five-five-eight-three-four.

It may be company runner

Or picquet in the town;

They may need a glamour guard,

So my name goes down.

Now I've touched a tender spot,

It always makes me swear,

And even baldy headed chaps

Try to tear their hair.

When they post the duties

I'm always on the list,

Even though my turn is past

My name is never missed.

I soldier on without complaint

But inwardly I moan:

Of the many duties,

It's guard that makes me groan.

The hours aren't excessive,

Just eight in twenty-four,

But when the ordeal's over

In health I feel quite poor.

I'm always so tired

That I can't even speak,

If they wouldn't wake me

I'd slumber for a week.

But when they blow reveille,

I must rise and shine

And prepare for daily training,

For we parade at nine.

Raymond John Colenso

(AWM PR 00689)

The Coming of the Beast

It's a lonely winter evening

The air is cold the moon is high,

All the nature is passive now

There's not a star in the sky.

Tucked away in your bag it's pleasant there,

The warmth you try to keep;

Last man creeps up to your vehicle

It's your turn not to sleep.

Up watching, cautiously waiting,

You hope it will come through the night,

If it does it will mean relief

And end the unknown fright.

You know it's out there somewhere

Watching with eyes open wide,

And if it does reveal itself

It'll meet the friends by my side.

Suddenly the darkness rules

As the moon is blinded by a cloud,

You're thinking, “this is the moment!”

As the insects laugh out aloud.

Sounds are easily picked up now

The creaking from nearby willows,

And through the canopy of the trees

A relentless, icy wind blows.

Uncontrolling shivering overpowers you now

As the wind keeps getting colder,

There's still no sign of it yet,

The night, still it grows older.

He will come, you know full well

That he will visit tonight,

But it's still lurking in the shadows,

You pray quietly for the sun's light.

Your friends are waiting silently

To meet it, like it or not,

When it comes they'll scream at him

Their barrels will glow white hot.

Your shift is nearly over, soon you'll go

When your watch says that you can,

And creeping up to the next vehicle

You'll wake the next tired man.

Back in your bag you'll sleep warm again

Until the morning's feast,

But before then you'll rise again

For the coming of the beast.

Cpl. M. J. Walburn

Time at the Bay

Whilst you've got your feet up

I'll ask you not to disperse,

Stick around and I'll intrigue you all

By reading you rhyming verse.

A few weeks ago we left Townsville

For there were Army games to play,

So down the coast we travelled

To a place called Shoalwater Bay.

Now I know some may not like it

But I think it's good for a change,

And anything's better than bumbling around

For a couple of weeks at High Range.

We travelled down on buses

It's a poguish way to deploy,

After a thousand and one truck stops

We met up with the rest of the boys.

Churchy, Dyso and Danny,

Blacky, Willy and Bish,

They'd only been there for a couple of days

But a beer and a babe was their wish.

Immediately we were into it

And over the Bay we did roam,

After a couple of days we were settled

The Bay was our temporary new home.

Elanora, Landsbury, The Glen

These would all be places we'd see,

Raspberry Vale and Mount Alec

A Polygon and a Lemon Tree.

We bashed across country as usual

I don't know how many trees we mowed,

And how many times did we drive up and down

That boring old east-west road?

Mount Tilpal, The Plains and Razorback

In these sectors we left our mark,

They were our AO's we called them

Vivaldi, Mozart, Beethoven and Bach.

The days and nights were hectic

We didn't have time to scratch,

Just when we thought we could all flex out

We were into a blue-on-blue match.

Troop rivalry is always a good thing,

I can't really tell you who won,

But I can tell you this one thing is true —

A lot of callsigns from Two Troop got done.

After this we went down to Camp Growl

To fix the cars that were maimed,

And I don't know why they call it that

Maybe by lesbians was it named.

A live-fire stint came soon after,

We gave them a mighty good whack,

But the only trouble about this is

Figure-eleven targets don't shoot back.

We travelled back home on buses again

We filled all the truck stops till

(and to the delight of everyone)

We arrived back home in the Ville.

I don't know if it was a success

But I can tell this to you all,

Being out scrub for a couple of weeks means

More money to piss up the wall!

L/Cpl M. J. Walburn

On Exercises

(A soldier's view)

To think that I have come to this:

In the bush and off the piss,

A place of dreary temperance

Surrounded by incompetence;

Confusion reigns while havoc rules,

Methinks we are controlled by fools;

It makes me fearful of our fate

(And you thought Woodstock was a rock show, Mate!)

Capt. Don Buckby

Canungra

Canungra is a hateful place,

Of all camps most detested,

And those who do not pass this way

Can count themselves most blessed.

We hate the Sergeant Major's voice,

We hate the endless hurry,

We hate the ceaseless tearing 'round

And getting in a flurry.

We hate the bayonet like the deuce,

We hate the river crossings,

We hate the march down to the creek,

Just for to do our washing.

We hate the raucous clanging sound

Of cart tyres hung on string,

Which wake us up at early morn

E'en long before birds sing.

But yet there's something in the place

That sort of, kind of, holds us —

It may be in the comradeship

Of those who are around us.

It's not a rest home to be sure,

Nor yet is it a picnic,

But though it's very hard on us

There's something makes us stick it.

The food's not bad, there is no doubt

About it, all the credit

Is to the cooks, the way that they

Can manage to prepare it.

Of course there's not too much to get

But who has time to eat it?

We hardly get a taste of it,

When ‘bang' — it's time to beat it!

I will admit it's interesting,

And also educating,

Each day a change in ‘syllabus'

Helps make it to our liking.

The treks we do are really fun

If one is young and healthy,