The Happy Warrior (34 page)

While placing flowers on her grave

He shed bitter tears.

He never missed attending,

In sunshine or in rain,

Although his every visit

Only added to the pain.

Time, the greatest healer,

Couldn't mend his broken heart,

But now I know he's happy —

They no longer are apart.

He was always at our meetings,

He attended every night,

To see him playing poker

Was but a common sight.

He was in fact an addict

To this game of luck and skill,

But, no longer will he deal the cards,

Or ask, “How many Bill?”

No one can tell by watching

If his luck was good or bad

He wore the same expression

Whatever cards he had.

Now the Lodge has lost this Brother

And we have lost our friend

Because his life was finished

And Fate had written end.

He's rejoined the wife he loved

And side by side they lie,

By his sudden death is shown

All that lives must die.

Brothers, be upstanding,

And toast to one we love,

Although we'll always miss him

He was needed up above.

I'll ask you all to join me,

Repeat with me these lines:

“You'll never be forgotten,

Farewell, Lionel Lyons.”

Raymond John Colenso

(AWM PR 00689)

Jungle Jim

Where the jungle is the toughest,

Where the going is the roughest,

Bathed in sweat with face so grim

You will find him — Jungle Jim.

Wading through the filth and mud,

He has proved he is no dud;

“Onward always” is his hymn,

He's a tiger — Jungle Jim.

Where he goes he pulls his weight,

At rendezvous he's never late,

Though he's light and rather slim,

He's a battler — Jungle Jim.

When at last he fades away,

(Not we hope, for many a day)

Then the angels tour will sing:

“Here he comes — Old Jungle Jim.”

‘Gibbo'

(AWM PR 00074)

Bert of Bardia

Bert of Bardia, back in town,

Bert of Bardia, big and brown,

Dragging a leg with a shattered knee,

Came to the bar and drank with me.

There was a mournful look on Bert,

He had the air of a man whole hurt,

And glancing down at his blighted limb

My heart was sorry indeed for him.

“Stiff luck!” I said, then it seemed to me,

That I had made a mistake, for he

With his strong half smile and his manly touch,

Declared, “Aw, it isn't that so much.”

And his gaze went through that city bar

Till fixed, it seemed, on things afar,

And I knew that he saw the sand dunes,

In Libya under the scorching skies.

And I knew that in spite of the price of war,

He yearned to be back with his mates once more,

There with the cobbers he loved so well,

Fighting his way through a dusty hell.

And it cheered me to think there were other grim

And resolute sons of the soil, like him,

The type who will see the battle through,

So ‘Bert of Bardia' here's to you!

Anon

War Graves on Tarakan

Will you walk with me in the heat of the day

Till we come at the crossroads on the way

Of a dusty road on Tarakan

To a scene in the scheme of the war's mad plan?

There are soldiers there in a little square

Who will breathe no more of the dust-filled air,

On the trails they died, by the road they rest

With foreign soil on each manly chest.

On the crosses which mark the arid mounds

Are the tales of courage which know no bounds

‘Killed in Action' and ‘Died of Wounds'

But wasted lives are war's worst ruin.

You will see mates at the graveside stand

Quietly, slouch hats held in hand

And you may grieve, as they will too,

For the hopes and dreams which will not come true.

In death these men have simple needs,

No separate tracts for differing creeds;

For the shoulders, which never were cold in life

Are together in death as they were in strife.

You may gaze at the flag which hangs from the mast

To honour the men who were staunch to the last

And fancy you hear a quiet voice say:

Australia, my country, will you repay.

Will you warm my heart, give daily bread

To the hungry mouths which once were fed

Through the sweat and toil of a fallen man

Who sleeps by the road on Tarakan,

So when you return by the dusty road

You may bear your share of a sacred load

With a pride whose flame ignited them

Will burn to the sound of the last ‘Amen!'

FO T. Latham

(AWM MSS 1234)

White Crosses

On the day before leave taking

From this place called Tobruk Bay

One last visit I'll be making

To that graveyard down the way

Where eight hundred small white crosses

And eight hundred sacred mounds

Show the place wherein our Heroes

Sleep the last on foreign ground.

Every white cross tells a story

With a number rank and name

Every mound is one of glory

For it holds an Anzac frame.

Each join state a space divided

[missing line]

In the square of Libyan sand

Fairest square in all the land

Every mound holds someone's Digger

Every cross a mother's pride,

And Australia's fame grows bigger

For the way those Heroes died.

Best of mates it's hard to leave you

In this sandy waste so bare

But fond hearts will not forget you

In your native land so fair.

We know not our destination

When we leave this hostile bay

But we've this determination

We will square the debt some day

And perhaps it sounds like ‘hooey'

But the orders read ‘No noise'

Or I'd shout one long last “Cooee!”

As a farewell from the boys.

Pte Worthington

QX11656

(AWM MSS 1562)

Untitled

The following poem was prefaced with: ‘Lines pencilled after a fruitless search for the grave of my late beloved nephew Charles Chetwynd Currie. Killed in Action, Lone Pine ANZAC Aug 8th 15 after being wounded in the landing April 25th 15. Killed after volunteering to bomb an enemy trench — the first to volunteer from his native town.'

Although directed to the place

I cannot find a single trace

Of where my bonnie nephew sleeps

For whom, poor Nel, my sister weeps;

Howe'er I try the search is vain,

Perhaps some day I'll try again.

One of the first to volunteer

To serve the flag he loved so dear,

Thus answering his country's call

He freely gave his life — his all —

From home and kindred far apart;

Unknown to flinch, that noble heart.

Weep not dear sister; well I know

His loss must seem a bitter blow

But he to whom such praise is given

Must find a corner high in heaven,

For none deserves it more than he

Who sleeps so far across the sea.

But changed events and gathering years

At length may stem a mother's tears;

Father's, sisters', brothers' grief

Who, in these facts may find relief,

That Charlie fell amidst the brave

And rests within a soldier's grave.

(AWM MSS 1445)

The Letter Which Came Too Late

Fondest love and tender wishes,

From your loving Mother dear,

I hope this letter brings you

Good luck with every cheer.

We miss your kind and smiling face,

We wish that you were home

God give you strength and guidance,

No matter where you roam.

There's a chair beside the fireside,

Where once you used to sit,

A lampstand in the corner

You always wanted lit.

Your presence at the table,

We all can't help but miss,

Your boyish sort of manner

When you gave your good-night kiss.

It seems so very long ago

You kissed us at the door,

Our eyes were full of parting tears —

My son was off to war.

I pray son that God's Angels

Will guide my loving son,

And bring him safely back to me

When all this war is won.

A log burns in the fireside,

No better place you'd choose,

A wireless in the corner

Is giving out the news.

“Our bombers raided Buna,

And four did not return.”

That anxious waiting Mother —

Her heart will always yearn.

W. A. Dutton

(AWM MSS 1481)

Honour the Brave

On the palm-fringed shores of an emerald isle

Just north of Samari,

In shaded jungle palm groves,

From the burning northern sky.

Dusky dark-haired maidens,

With dark and fuzzy hair,

Their skin is dark and shiny,

A skirt of grass they wear.

Fragrant, scented breezes

Blow in from out the bay,

With the tang of musty seaweed

In the salt foam and the spray.

Tall and lofty palm leaves

Reach out to touch the bay,

Their leaves are long and slender

In the breeze they swing and sway.

In this tropical jaded splendour,

Along with nature's law,

You forget the past and horror

Of this world and bloody war.

But down there on those beaches,

A month or so gone by,

Men, they fought with fury

And many had to die;

To save this jungle paradise

From a foe who mars its joy,

And an island far away to south

Where once he was a boy;

To stem the rising Nippon tide

Which tried to reach our shore.

To take from us the beauty

Of the bushland [we] adore.

They fell there, bathed in glory,

Their suits of green stained red,

And now they sleep in peace and still,

A cross above their head.

They'll never see that victory

For which their lives they gave;

But we shall not forget you,

Our gallant strong and brave.

W. A. Dutton

(AWM MSS1481)

Vale

Let him be

That dying eagle,

Let the flames devour his nest

Multicoloured, golden, blazing,

Like the sunset in the west.

Let him be,

While his life's sands are running

Fast unto the end

Beyond the little helping

Of his closest friend;

Pause and once remember

Smiling lips and laughing eyes,

Then turn your back upon him

While he dies.

Pilot Officer T. L. Stewart

(AWM MSS 1250)

Shed Thou No Tears

Shed thou no tears —

This road they chose, this way of pain was theirs

Who drank the cup of bitterness

And lie in alien soil, hungering for home

From fields wherein the streams of youth ran deep

They heard the far clear call and answered

Out from the quiet places and the gentle folk

They knew and loved, and graciousness

They went and questioned not.

Thorns were their portion and their end a lesser Calvary

…weep not for them

For they have gone beyond the night and found

Quiet havens where the laughing waters run, and rest is given.

They sleep in fields of Aramanth, flow'r crowned,

And all their glory lights the hills of Heaven.

Pte Gladstone George Harvey ‘Harry' Barratt

(AWM MSS 1297)

A Grave in the Grass:

Stand to, sentry...

The dreams of the past file by,

While the buried hopes of a Mother

'Neath the kunai grasses lie.

A small wooden cross

And a tin hat mark his bed…

Salute, when you're passing, soldier,

Where a mother's dreams lie dead.

Here, where the hand of evil

Has slain the brave and good,

Pause, and pray... for a Mother...

By this little cross of wood.

Bdr Sydney J. Lynch