The Happy Warrior (33 page)

By jingo, we got a surprise.

Now I guess you've all seen the advert,

Depicting a bloke with no wool

Wed to a woman who trapped him

Just for the money — the fool.

Admitting that Peter's no pauper

Tho' bloody near bankrupt of hair

No woman would wed him for money

He's no bloody millionaire.

This got the boys thinking shrewdly

“What's Peter Edward's game?”

She can't harry him for his money,

And his thatch is a crying shame.”

But, kept under observation,

The boys discovered at length

That Pete was the hunted, not hunter —

The lass was exerting her strength.

Then came an expert manoeuvre,

A strategic withdrawal by name,

The woman abandoned her quarry

In search of more gullible game.

You must hand it to Frank Sanguinetti,

(Not a bad bloke, you'll find),

A chap with a couple of youngsters

And a charming young wife left behind.

He didn't fall for the glamour

Of a wench who'd be outcast in Vic,

Carried on with his regular business

And helped any kids who got sick.

Bishop and Stormy were others

Whose passions were not aroused,

Both likely-looking youngsters, too,

And neither of them espoused.

Theirs was the call of duty,

Likewise the Gunner (T),

“What is the love of a woman

Compared with the love of the sea?”

John Coles was another non-starter

In this Bacchanalian game,

His thought of his wife and his family

Hung on to his unbesmirched name.

Even our Yankee Allies,

Renowned for their womenly guiles,

Simply greeted the females with décor

And a few irreproachable smiles.

The Doctor had the boys guessing,

No one could quite make out

When he welcomed the femmes at the gangway

Just what it was all about.

Was it professional manner?

Or was he going to flout

The trust with which he's divested?

He got the best of the doubt.

Put a query alongside Bob Wilshire,

He wasn't seen much up on deck

Probably down in his cabin

With a passionate dame 'round his neck.

Tough luck for Skipper Nobby:

Whether he liked it or not,

The laws of the Navy dictated

The bridge was to be his spot.

Rather a handsome blighter,

Would've acquitted himself well

If given a chance like the others,

Might've trapped an unwary gal.

So listen, down in the Wardroom,

Why don't you take a hint:

It's the man that gets the woman —

Don't care if you own the mint.

And though braid may look just ducky,

It's superficial just,

It's the man in you that gets 'em,

If get a woman you must.

Just look around the messdecks,

And see what I'm talking about,

You'll be looking then at he-men,

Men's men without a doubt.

So curb your sexual hunger

Wake up and do your stuff!

And never lose your heads boys,

Over a little bit of fluff.

‘Longfellow'

Tobruk Test

You've heard of Bradman, Hammond,

MacCartney, Woodfull, Hobbs,

You've heard of how MacDougall topped the score

Now I'd like to tell you

How we play cricket in Tobruk

In a way the game was never played before.

The players are a mixture,

They come from every rank

And their dress would not be quite the thing at Lord's;

But you don't need caps and flannels

And expensive batting gloves

To get the fullest sport the game affords.

The wicket's rather tricky

For it's mat on desert sand

But for us it's really plenty good enough,

And what with big bomb craters

And holes from nine-inch shells,

The outfield could be well described as rough.

The boundary's partly tank trap

With the balance dannert wire

And the grandstand's just a bit of sandy bank,

While our single sightboard's furnished

By a shot-down Jerry plane

And the scorer's in a ruined Itie tank

One drawback is a minefield

Which is at the desert end

And critics might find fault with this and that,

But to us all runs are good ones

Even if a man should score

Four leg byes off the top of his tin hat.

The barracking is very choice,

The Hill would learn a lot

If they could listen in to all the cries

As the Quartermaster Sergeant

Bowls the Colonel neck and crop

With a yorker while some dust was in his eyes

And the time the Signals runner

Scored the winning hit

When, as he sprinted round the wire to try and save the four,

The Battery Sergeant Major

Fell into a crater deep

And the batsman ran another seven more.

If we drive one in the minefield

We always run it out

For that is what the local rules defines:

It's always good for six at least,

Some times as high as ten

While the fieldsman picks his way in through the mines.

Though we never stop for shell-fire

We're not too keen on planes,

But when the Stukas start to hover round

You can sometimes get a wicket,

If you're game enough to stay

By bowling as the batsman goes to ground

So when we're back in Sydney

And others start to talk

Of cricket, why we'll quell them with a look:

“You blokes have never seen

A game of cricket properly played

The way we used to play it in Tobruk.”

Anon

(AWM PR 00359)

Promotion

“Promotion,” said one cocksure bloke,

Needs personality

You tell the CO some good joke,

And earn three stripes — watch me!”

He slapped the Colonels back and said,

“Old Cock, let's have a drink!”

No stripes for him, no gold and red —

Just three weeks in the clink.

Anon

(AWM PR 00526)

ANZAC Exchange

Sarge, I think I'm buggered,

I'm bitten on me back,

a bloody snake's bin crawlin' thru the grass.

So call the Medic quick,

to give me arm a prick

and take away the pain until I pass.

Yer mate the Bombardier,

can have me ‘ish' of beer,

I won't be drinkin' Fosters when I go.

I've wrote me mum a note,

and I've put it in me pack,

she's livin' down near Kunga-munga-mo.

So tell me Aussie mates,

youse Kiwi bloody skates,

have caused the death of one of Anzac's finest.

And when I pass away

don't put me in the clay,

the bloody dingoes here are rife as goats.

What's that you bloody say?

the chopper's on its way,

it won't be here in time to save this Digger.

The Doc he said it's what?

Now how did that get there?

A tear tab from a beer can caused this wound?

Well, the pain will pass away,

and I'll fight another day,

but pleeze youse Kiwis keep this to yourselves!

Mike Subritzky

161 Battery at Enoggora, 1986

Galloping Horses

He may have been tall and distinguished

with full head of hair and a mo

Trim and taut and terrific

and always ready to go.

Or maybe he's not quite so tall,

with less hair, and not quite so trim.

He could have been bald — not quite perfect,

but no one to question him.

Short hair, no sideburns, no creases,

spit polish and brasso — no choice

Pace stick, measured stride, and you shuddered —

just at the sound of his voice.

He's old now, and grey, sometimes lonely,

but he smiles at the time that he spent

Making men out of boys for the Army —

and he wonders where you all went.

Margaret Gibbons

At the Trees

I saw him today at the trees,

Almost seventy now, got crook knees,

And his weight is a problem as well —

But he always has stories to tell.

He laughs while he works with his mates

As they rake and shovel and rest,

And the young ones who look passing by

Never think these may be the best.

The best of the 50s and 60s,

The best of the 70s too,

They walked tall and straight and unflinching

They were rascals and marksmen all through.

They have secrets they share when together

They have thoughts of their own none can share,

But to know just what they are thinking

You really had to be there.

You had to have lain in an ambush

Or jumped from a chopper in flight

Or waded in deep smelly water

Or said to a mate “You'll be right!”

But the work party's over for now

And he's off to his home and to ‘Mum';

He values the time he spends with his mates

And he still feels the beat of the drum.

Margaret Gibbons

Old Bob

A hellhole like New Guinea,

Which can health and spirit rob,

May have wore him down and sickened

But never bested Bob.

The years of work and raisin' children,

That seeming endless plod,

Did not to my knowin'

Show up too much bad in Bob.

That cruel blow which struck him

May have cost his pride and job

But could not make him quiet —

He was a ‘goer' was our Bob.

The great occasions of my life,

Wedding's joy and death's harsh sob,

Were made sweeter or a comfort

By the presence of our Bob.

His latter years were hard ones

While cancer did its job

But never weak complaining

I ever heard from Bob

He's left us now to rest at last

Some say 'tis best — Poor Bob —

But 'tis we who are the poorer

For the passing of our Bob.

Capt. Don Buckby

Tom the Barber

This poem was written for the retirement of Mr Dennis Hardy who was known affectionately by all as Tom the Barber. Tom had been one of Defence's resident, and no doubt the longest serving (long suffering?) barbers in Sydney for forty years, mainly in the Moorebank/Holsworthy districts.

Old Tom the barber's cut the hair of a hundred thousand soldiers,

And passed along the soldiers' lore and tales for forty years.

He's never hurried or upset — a happy jovial soul,

Comedy and tragedy with equal gusto told.

His shop remains the repository of memories, dreams and such,

So little space it's hard to find the room to store so much;

Mementoes left by customers of lands and times gone by

To continue myths and legends long after we all die.

He's also got some naughty books of ladies with no clothes on,

He says its ‘art', but we believe it's for customer satisfaction;

The customers are mesmerised, no anaesthetic needed,

Tom snips and combs and tells his tales, his sallies go unheeded.

And now old Tom has ‘pulled the pin', a well earned rest is waiting,

He's served his time, he's done his bit, no other way of stating;

We wish him well for all his plans, contented in retirement,

No doubt we'll see him round the traps and bleed him of his pension.

And when he gets to heaven will he cut St Peter's hair?

Or do they have a need for such as Tom away up there?

And what about those naughty books what will the Blessed think?

A holy penthouse version of ‘Angels in the Pink'!

What will you do to fill your days now cutting hair no longer,

A lazy day, a beer or two, or maybe something stronger?

Farewell, old friend, (as many have the right to call him such)

For all your work and friendship — Thankyou very much.

WO2 Paul Barrett

Lionel Lyons

In my usual verses

Sarcasm always shines,

This time I shall be different

As I dedicate these lines

To a friend who has departed

Into the great beyond

And joined the wife who left him

Thus tying the severed bond.

On every second Sunday morn

For seventeen long years,