The Happy Warrior (42 page)

Along those dark, damp jungle trails

Where snipers wait and hide,

Where friend and foe look just as one,

Here innocence quickly died.

Not easy is the battle fought,

No beginning, who knows the end?

Ours not to reason why

Just advance, withdraw, defend.

Now others face the hidden foe,

Bring forth the bold and brave!

No more to feel the sting of death

See the victory of the grave.

By definition be they veterans,

Those who muster here today,

To hand on a proud tradition

Then just quietly fade away.

To journey home with head held high,

In each heart a promise made,

To honour those who paid the price

And missed the last parade.

James D. Young

Of the Regiment

You'll see me march on Anzac Day,

With grey and thinning hair,

And you'll say “The poor old bugger

I wonder why he's there?”

I am there because — once I served

Near China on snow-clad barren hills,

And sweltered in the summer heat —

Encountered different ills.

I have lived on crowded troop-ships

Crossed the China Sea by plane.

I have slept in steamy jungles

And been drenched in tropic rain.

I have walked across the pipeline,

Heard the sound of ambush gun.

Listened to the monkeys' chatter,

Paced a trishaw just for fun.

I have lived in hootchies awful

On the soil of foreign land.

And I've sat at night for dinner

With my feet in river sand.

And I watched a young friend die

And kept marching through the day

And I wonder why I did it,

But seldom had a say.

So you see me march on Anzac Day

I'm old, a little bent,

I'm a soldier — proud to be,

A member of the Regiment.

Margaret Gibbons

The 25th of April

The twenty-fifth of April is always a special day

No matter what some people think, or what some people say.

It's a day for remembrance, a day for ‘rejoices',

'Specially when we hear the old familiar voices.

So we get together each Anzac eve

In a place called Caulfield Central,

And for most of us, as it's our annual ‘run':

Attendance is essential.

We answered a signal that came by mail

It's message loud like thunder,

Which simply read “It's time again chaps

To meet your mates from
Warramunga.
”

We were met at the door by Lefty and Bill,

While just inside were Smouge Smith and Ray Gill;

And Lloyd Wicks with Georgeson, our Eight Mess talker,

Were being ear-bashed by ‘Vicrail', Doug Walker.

We had a great night, which was intended,

As usual, were sad when it all just ended.

And when the beer went off there was great sorrow:

“Don't forget Chaps, we march tomorrow!”

Next morning we rose early, which was no mean feat;

As usual, Jimmy Georgeson produced a real treat.

But somehow breakfast wasn't the same this year

As ‘Skipper' (Jimmy's little dog) was no longer here.

We mustered about ten in Swanston street

And listened to the bands and marching feet

Of the Army, as they'd gone first this year;

As for us, it was wait and give forth a loud cheer.

Came eleven o'clock it was our turn to go,

And the order was given to “Lash up and stow”;

Of course it was shouted by the one with the chest,

Gunner T. Mal McDonald, who stands out from the rest.

Then off we moved in perfect file,

As this has always been our style,

To march to the music and keep the beat:

'Tis funny how some have two left feet.

Don Walker at our head was again to be seen

Decked out in ‘number ones' as he always has been.

The sun was bright — how our medals did shine

As Warramunga ‘steamed' up the steps of the Shrine.

We mustered well into the twenties this year —

A number that's not bad to boast —

And after the march, to the base for a beer,

For the Airforce have long been our host.

With money in the centre to buy lots of ‘jugs'

It gave time to look at old familiar ‘mugs'.

Yes, the Stokers were there and of course, quite loud,

We found ‘Joe' Jelleff and old ‘Bluey' Stroud.

With a glass in his hand and, as usual, so merry,

Is the one and only by name of ‘Chris' Cherry;

Find with him, devouring a sandwich of steak,

Of course, you have guessed it, was Geoffrey Quinnfrake.

So, after we'd eaten and drunk all in sight

And were starting to look a bit of a fright,

‘Twas home we decided we'd all best appear.

Then, we departed: “See ya next year?”

Tim Lawrance

18 September 1981

(Ex Stoker, HMAS Warramunga 1943–46)

Soldiers on Anzac Day

Old Soldiers marching in a line, ranks one behind another,

Remembering dead comrades, each one they still call Brother,

And women march the footsteps as their Sisters fought and died,

Some children marching hand in hand ask why their Grandpa cried.

Young Soldiers follow in their path continuing tradition,

Respect for those who went before and would follow to perdition.

Maintaining all the customs and the stories left behind

For future generations of Soldiers then to find.

Battlefields and deeds of war, all thoughts of yesteryear,

Gallipoli to Vietnam at last have led them here

With all the conflicts in between where Soldiers died in service,

So honour's left and soul's respect for Veteran and for Novice.

Dead Soldiers returned to Australia in their Comrades thoughts, so sad,

Remembering their sacrifice and friendships' pride they had,

And those who only gave their limbs, their blood or sanity,

They gave without regretting and they gave it willingly.

But as they look from heaven on the fields they battled for,

They see a thankless people, polis rotten to the core:

Deceitful greedy businessmen and criminals are rife,

Is this what they all fought for? Is this worth human life?

They answered conscience call that their country shouted loud,

They gave their best, they gave their all and did Australia proud.

The cost was never counted — not the wounds and not the pain

But the question of Dead Soldiers: “Did we really die in vain?”

WO2 Paul Barrett

My Pilgrimage

Seven thousand Aussie lads lie dead on a distant shore,

They died to give us nationhood but nobody seems to care anymore,

I've wept for them at the place they bled, on a hill by Anzac Cove,

Where the Anzac legend of courage and nerve left nothing else to prove.

I draped our flag upon the grave of a cheeky boy of sixteen years,

Who, with his mates, was landed at Gallipoli to fight for peace, not cheers?

And as I gazed across the rows of many a common soldier's grave,

I reflected and displayed my pride in these who paid the price of being brave.

With map in hand, and Turkish guide, I walked the Anzac battlefields and wondered ‘How the Hell?'

And read the plaques on monuments that their foes have placed where they fell,

For our Anzacs had earned respect for both fighting prowess and compassion,

They would not yield, and bloody battles fought, yet with foe would share their ration.

I served with mates a generation later and sought to emulate their style,

The nationhood and Anzac courage bequeathed to us was undergoing trial,

We fought as hard and paid the price that all soldiers do regret,

And thousands more young Aussie blokes now lie in places we must not forget.

They were heroes then, at Gallipoli and along the Kokoda Trail,

And all the places where they fought are forgotten as our memories fail,

I made my pilgrimage to their graves for they gave us value not found in banks,

They gave the greatest gift to folk like me and you, so we owe them a prayer of thanks.

I've prayed that our sons will not be called again, to resist a tyrant's greed,

For the price we pay is a price too much to bear, despite a soldier's valiant deed

And many a wife and mother has to endure the loss of a loved one who was called,

A soldier knows what must be done, yet knowing leaves him not enthralled.

As I stood among the rows of graves in Bomana, near ‘The Track',

Then later at Simpson's Plot by the Dardanelles, I thought I heard a crack,

I heard again the sound of shot and shell and knew how they had felt,

I had come to pay respect to these whom I do honour, so in silent prayer I knelt.

Australia owes so much to these men who died to give us life,

We must learn about their deeds, thanking God that we did not face their strife.

My pilgrimage was personal, for I lost a mate or two, and I feel the sacredness of their rest,

They pointed me to Christ, who also gave His life that we too could share the best.

If you by chance do visit Turkish shores, go pay your tribute to those who gave Australia pride,

Or do the same in New Guinea or Bougainville; it's not too tough, you'll take it in your stride,

Why not a moments silence on Flanders Fields or Tobruk, as you pass through,

Give meaning to your holiday; let the spirit of old Anzacs brighten up the crew.

And if you think that wars are a waste of lives and you are dead against them,

So were they my friend, but it was our way of life they valued so the tide they had to stem,

I had to go and visit, my pilgrimage to make, as I did some years ago to a hill called Calvary;

They have not shared the peace we have, yet what they gave

the world I wish to tell, ‘twas their lives to set us free.

Bill Phillips

1997

Their Service — Our Heritage

From Colonial Heritage they came, enduring hardship and adversity,

Which bred in them disdain of authority so they resorted to humour and mockery,

Life too short to tolerate pomposity, they rather thought common purpose the greater need;

This rugged band showed initiative, tenacity and a fierce determination to succeed.

A unifying spirit grew that dismissed the burdens of their station,

Drawing them together to become a vibrant, virile nation;

These federation youngsters did not hesitate when called to go and stem the flow,

When Kaiser Bill and Ilk sought to conquer Europe and deliver a fatal blow.

From city, town and country shed they came to meet the challenge of the fray,

It might cost an arm, a leg, a life, but what true blue Aussie lad would let this stand in his way?

The spirit of their heritage was quite unique and had a special quality,

‘Twas an energy powerful enough to inspire them to overcome this emergency.

They soon were trained and shipped to fields of battle and many a mother cried,

For upon Gallipoli and other foreign shores they fought and bled 'n' died,

Their selflessness and mateship, courage and determination, meeting every challenge and never giving in

Ensured captive nations' freedom, for they had not gone to fight, they had gone to win.

These federation youngsters bravely fought to bring our Nation recognition and pride;

Their heartbreaking sacrifice changed the course of history for they had stemmed the tide,

Now friend and foe salute them, ponder their compassion and fine qualities,

Which we now proudly share for their spirit has lifted Australia to the skies.

A generation later were called to emulate their deeds,

And won a mighty victory with the indomitable spirit that every Aussie heeds;

So we see in times of bush fire, flood and tragic moments their spirit live again,

And when Olympic challenges face us we'll remember ‘Their Service — Our Heritage' and victory attain.

Bill Phillips

1999

The Sacred Dead

I stand with head both bowed and bare

To honour the sacred dead,

Gone, yet never to return,

Matters not what words are said.

The path of honour and virtue,

Once trod by the brave and the bold,

Young men who followed the colours,

Young men who will never grow old.

Let bugles blow and flags half mast

In exultation of their glory,

Those valiant souls we left behind

Let history tell their story.

Behind closed eyes a picture grows

As troops march home from war,

Spoilt by the countless empty places

Which were filled by men before.

May their sacrifice be not forgotten

Let their aureoled presence shine bright,

Each individual, a national hero

Who lost their last great right.

James D. Young

Anzacs

What mean these great white ships at sea, ploughing their eastward tack,

Bearing their precious human freight, bringing the spent men back?

They mean that Australia has been there, they mean she has played the game,

And her wonderful sons have won their share of everlasting fame.

Battered, and worn, and war-scarred, those who had left their land,

Strong in their glowing manhood, by England to take their stand;

Those who had sailed, when the war cloud burst, out on a distant foam