The Happy Warrior (24 page)

May the trees grow straight and tall

And the sheoaks murmur softly:

“Thanks for answering the call.”

Margaret Gibbons

Glimpse

Hold on to freedom despite the price it costs,

Take heart in your failures, despite all you have lost.

Hold out for memories of the times spent in the past —

Close your eyes and wish for me, I'm coming home at last.

Tired bones and weary legs have travelled me so far,

But strike the light on the old front porch and leave the door ajar.

These legs have still some miles to roam,

Today I'm coming home.

I feel just like my father was looking from a distance,

Stretching out to bridge the gap, but I always find resistance.

To only hear your voice so sweet from the end of a telephone line,

It echoes in this broken heart, and pleads to turn back time.

To carefully rearrange the photos as time ages your face,

To carefully construct the albums to ensure you're not erased,

To have to ask for details which should never be forgot,

To justify the guilty thoughts and lie that I have not.

To wrestle with emotions and fight back salty tears,

The flood of these emotions which signify the years.

These years are ones of fulfilled dreams, but darkened with regret,

Of a selfish motivated man with promises not kept.

I long for days of undue stress, a time when I'll retreat,

A time when family surrounds me and life seems so complete

When I can make amends for all the years I've been away —

Leave that candle burning please, I won't be home today.

Pte J. Harris

19 May 1998

Sad Song Calling

There's something about that sad sound,

That haunting sound when they play
The last Post

You can feel something deep in your soul

As tho' you've been touched by a ghost.

Yeah, there's something about that sound,

Close your eyes and you're drifting away

And without really knowing just how

You are standing on Suvla Bay.

And around you there's the Dead and the Dying

Lonely shapes of the victims of War

And you suddenly find yourself crying

As you hear that sad bugle once more.

'Tis a song that was born of a sadness,

'Tis a song we too often repeat

As we call to all those who've departed

When old soldiers and memories meet.

It's a sound that drifts over the trenches

And it weaves thru' the tall jungle trees

And it whispers “Sometimes we are beaten

But we'll never be brought to our knees.”

For the song touches all with a spirit

And reminds us how fragile we are,

And while our minds may feel memory's wounds

It's the heart where we're bearing the scar.

That song is the sound of the Fallen

And the wind blows it 'cross foreign lands

From Milne Bay to the green fields of Flanders

To the dust of El Alamein sands

And the wind takes it ‘cross seas and oceans

To the places wherever men fell,

And caresses the ghosts who are resting

And its song touches all those as well.

And the sound follows trails they have trodden

Calling those that the jungles retain

Waking Sandakan Death Marchers, sleeping,

Then returns home to those who remain.

And for those who still march every April

It will call to their spirits as well

And for those who stand watching, and wondering

Touch their hearts with the stories you tell

Leave the gaps in your ranks when you're marching

They'll be filled, tho' they see no one there

Play The Last Post, and send its song skyward,

And the last note will hang in the air.

For there's something about that sad sound

That haunting sound when they play The Last Post

You can feel something deep in your soul

As tho' you've been touched by a ghost...

Les Mellet

The Battle Ground

With Diggers' blood in foreign mud, and flies and stench and gore

And the wounded scream and the rest just dream, of life before the war,

And the twang and whine of the bullets flying, and the machine gun's deadly tap

And smoke filled air and a sense of despair, and the mortar's lethal clap.

Day after day 'til no one cares and no one thinks to stop,

And night after night we continue to fight and kill the cream of the crop

Ten thousand a day we waste good men, we snuff their youthful life,

Then we do it again and again and again in this terrible useless fight.

The Sergeant's back is broken and the Corporal long since dead

The soldiers' eyes are sunk right back in his bandaged blood-stained head;

The medic sits in a sludge-filled pit with a bullet in his heart,

And the coward cries as the hero dies, his body ripped apart.

And no one knows where the boundary goes or who is shooting who

And the world's a mess and you hope at best that you'll manage to see it through.

Well the years long past from that war at last, I made it out alive

And every year we march and drink beer to those who didn't survive.

But the dreams still come and the scars never left, and I'm missing an eye and an ear,

And the sight of young men in greens with a gun, still strangle my soul with fear.

But I guess I'll get by just living a lie and I'll see it through 'til the end

But my heart and my mind are shattered inside, and my soul can never mend.

Ron Wilson

Thoughts of Home

I've just come in off duty

And I'm feeling rather blue

So the best thing I can think of

Is to drop a line to you.

Writing seems to cheer one

Makes a man remember home

And often makes him wonder

Why he commenced to roam.

Now if by chance they get me,

Should put me out of gear,

I'll go out like a Briton

Like you would have me, Dear.

But in the meantime while I live

When the bombs and cannon roar

I'll pray with all my heart, Dear,

That we will meet once more.

And when the boys come sailing back

To great Australia fair,

Among the smiling happy band,

Here's hoping I'll be there.

Lt Alfred William Salmon

(AWM PR 00297)

For Honour and for Her

Somewhere a woman, thrusting fear away,

Faces the future bravely for your sake,

Toils on from dawn till dark, from day to day,

Fights back the tears, no heeds the bitter ache;

She loves you, trusts you, breathes in prayer your name,

Soil not her faith in you by sin or shame.

Somewhere a woman — mother, sweetheart, wife —

Waits betwixt hopes and fears for your return;

Her kiss, her words, will cheer you in the strife

When death, itself, confronts you grim and stern.

But let her image all your reverence claim

When base temptations scorch you with their flame.

Somewhere a woman watches, thrilled with pride,

Shrined in her heart, you share a place with none.

She toils, she waits, she prays till side by side

You stand together when the battle's done

O keep for her dear sake a stainless name,

Bring back to her a manhood free from shame!

Anon

(AWM PR 91 104)

Dear Mother

Dedicated to my mother, Winifred Colenso 

Weep not Mother darling,

Drive away those tears,

You think I'm still a baby

But I'm older than my years.

Now that I've joined the colours

I must go away

To help my fellow countrymen

In the coming fray.

For many years you nursed me

And kept me fit and well,

If I thought it would help you

I'd gladly go through hell.

Do not be despondent,

For I hate to see you blue,

No matter where I travel

I will always think of you.

As the person who has loved me

And reared me with fond care,

Your son can't be a shirker,

He too, must do his share.

As much as this does grieve me

To go away from you,

I must do my duty

As you would wish me to.

Although I know it hurts you

To see your son depart,

I can but assure you,

That you'll always own my heart.

Raymond John Colenso

(AWM PR 00689)

Mothers Day

Australians are in action

In Libya and in Greece,

While some are in Malaya —

As yet, they're still at peace.

Again the name Anzac

Is known throughout the world,

It's these sons of heroes

Who keep our flag unfurled.

To Hitler they're a menace,

These lads so brown and tall,

The way they wield their bayonets

Forms a solid human wall.

But to mothers in Australia,

These men are only boys —

They remember them as babies,

Playing with their toys.

Men or boys it matters not,

Whichever they may be,

Their mothers will be waiting

And watching at the Quay.

The sons they nursed for many years

Are fighting far away,

They who kept them fit and well

Now — can only pray.

Mothers Day comes once a year,

This time it brings regret,

Many children's photos

Are ribboned: “Lest we Forget.”

But others bring back memories

Of men who strive and fight

To protect their mother's safety —

This will shall conquer might.

Raymond John Colenso

(AWM PR 00689)

When

Many of the wealthy men,

In business all their lives,

Often have to travel

Overseas without their wives.

They know upon departure

The date when they'll return

To their families in the country

Of the waratah and fern.

But men who join the AIF

Know not when and where

They'll see the faces

Of their loved ones free from care.

They're fighting for a right to live,

For peace from racial hate,

But for many of the heroes

Peace will reign too late.

I left my wife and baby

By Sydney Harbour's shore

To go and join my comrades

And put an end to war.

My curly headed baby boy

Is much too young to know

That his father couldn't stay behind —

I simply had to go.

If the war lasts many years

There will be the danger

That David will not know me,

He'll consider me a stranger.

Pearl, my wife, will teach him

To hope and pray for peace;

She knows that I cannot return

Until this war does cease.

Raymond John Colenso

(AWM PR 00689)

Thoughts

When the still of night is creeping

My thoughts return to home,

To far and distant Sydney

Whose streets I once did roam.

The loved ones I have left behind

Are brought quite near to me,

The sacred gift of thinking

Forms a bridge across the sea.

Visions of the future

Help to aid my lonely heart,

And the noble art of writing

Plays a most important part.

To make a life-like image

Of the ones I left behind,

It prevents the threat of boredom

From preying on my mind.

Discomforts are forgotten

When my thoughts commence to stray

To the many happy moments

Before I sailed away.

My lonely heart is sated

By the thoughts of friends who wait

For the deliverance of mankind

From these days of strife and hate.

Raymond John Colenso

(AWM PR 00689)

Dreams

When I left Sydney Harbour,

Its calm blue waters deep

Became a graven image

To haunt me while I sleep,

And remind me of my homeland

Many thousand miles away,

Of the womenfolk I left behind —

Oh! How I rue that day!

When I left my Mother