So they took it in a week.
Anon
* * *
The Battle of Jahore
There’s a strip of rubber country
North of Singapore;
To the Diggers it was a death trap,
On the map it’s called Jahore.
’Twas against tremendous odds
The boys put on a show
That was the equal of the Anzacs
At Gallipoli long ago.
But men on the ground can never fight
The terrors of the sky;
Without air support they just lie still
To wait on death and die.
Face to face odds matter not
For the Digger loves a scrap,
But when the sky is full of planes
And every one a Jap,
It’s then you wonder, was it a dream,
For in the paper that you read,
Air support will soon arrive
As production goes ahead.
There’s a strip of rubber country
Which some day we will take,
For that is all he asked of us
The chap who was our mate.
Then we’ll hand Malaya over
And with it goes Jahore,
And we’ll pray to God we’re never called
To defend it any more.
Anon
* * *
At Anchor in Aden
There’s a cobalt blue that’s brilliant
As I gaze into the sky,
There’s a sheen of blue-green waters
And a dhow is sailing by.
The fleecy clouds are fading
As the sun climbs further still,
The sullen sea reflects its glare,
Its heat frowns on the hill.
There’s a range of rocks so rugged,
Some million years gone by,
May have held a valley verdant
Beneath a kindlier sky.
They rise up stark and sombre
From out the Gulf’s green wave;
They are barren as the desert,
As forbidding as the grave.
Gaunt hills that girt the harbour
And guard the dead Red Sea,
To ships that sail the ocean
A sign of sanctuary.
It’s one more Empire outpost,
A bulwark of the Nation,
That earns an exile’s edict,
A place of desolation.
Where strategy commands the sea,
Where ships across it sail,
Where wealth is won from toil and trade
A port must mark the trail.
And thus it is that Aden,
Sheer rock and desert dust,
Was found and won by Britain
And hold to it we must.
For all of us the fight is fought
And play our parts we will,
And though our thoughts stray far away,
Our eyes are on the Hill.
The day will dawn, the tide will turn,
Our term in exile ended;
We’ll greet again our hearth and homes
And reap the vision splendid.
John L. Wylie
(AWM MSS 1375)
* * *
Tulagi
In commemoration of the sinking of HMAS Canberra in Tulagi Bay, Solomon Islands, 9 August 1942
We sailed north, invasion our aim,
Not for honour or fame,
Just to teach the Japs to play the game.
When we reached Tulagi,
The invasion barges were in the Bay,
How many soldiers was hard to say,
But when they landed there was hell to pay
on that island of Tulagi.
The sailors were quiet, the atmosphere tense,
The Admiral kept them in suspense,
And nobody knew the Japs defence
When we sailed into Tulagi.
The Japanese bombers left Rabaul
To answer the island’s desperate call
And some of them were seen to fall
into the Bay of Tulagi.
The torpedo bombers came to attack,
All we heard was the sharp ack-ack
As our ack-ack guns drove them back
Away from Tulagi.
Then late at night action sounded,
And to their guns the sailors bounded,
As into the Canberra many shells pounded
just off Tulagi.
The sailors were almost in their stride
When a Japanese torpedo hit our side,
And many a brave sailor reeled and died
Near the Island of Tulagi.
Although we could not help the fleet,
Our wounded Captain kept his feet,
He was one who didn’t admit defeat
when we sank in Tulagi.
Able Seaman ‘Happy’ Fellows
* * *
A Survivor
A Tribute to Greece
I ask no nobler task than to portray,
As one fate spared to flee your fire-raked shore,
The glorious martyred courage that today
Flames fiercer than the brilliant meteor.
I’d write Your valiant fight two years ago
That stained the scales of Liberty with blood!
What more vivid memory could I know
Than Athens, warm and gay, steeped in the flood
Of Grecian sunlight, like a vibrant maid,
Splendid with life and love, with head held high?
Though ruthless rape still holds its ghastly fate,
You’ll not cringe and cry the plea that Byron made;
For there will come a new Thermopolae,
To give rebirth, to purge the German hate.
Tpr W. L. Johnson
VX8303
(AWM PR 87/062)
* * *
Gundeck Reverie
(RAN Reverie)
Where the deep blue of the ocean meets the brighter blue of sky,
Where white capped waves and wind swept clouds are scudding gaily by,
From east to west, from north to south, as far as eye can see,
That ever distant circle, the horizon, calls to me.
It calls me with a yearning only sailors can define,
Ports and harbors, sailing ships, the tang of ocean brine;
There’s magic in the surging sea, the trackless ocean way,
There’s music in the lullaby of wind and flying spray.
When golden sun gives way to night, with myriad stars a throng
The moonlit sea, the rhythmic throb of engines is my song.
Yet the call of hearth and homeland intrudes my reverie,
For there’s sadness in a woman’s heart, who lonely waits for me.
On duty on the gundeck as we plough across the sea,
All the action and adventure, all the splendor fades from me —
Far beyond the distant skyline, beyond the boundless foam,
There’s a wistful woman praying that his ship comes safely home.
There’s a cosy little cottage and each night a vacant chair,
And a loving heart is heavy, for a loved one isn’t there.
The children, as they go to bed, kneel down at night to pray:
“Dear God, Will you bring Daddy back? Please bring him home some day.”
L/Sig John L. Wylie W 769
Aden, Arabia, December 1940
(AWM MSS 1375)
* * *
On the Sanananda Beach
The palm trees sway at the close of day
On Sananand Beach,
A cloud-filled sky bids the sun goodbye
Beyond the jungle’s reach.
Each swirling wave seems to engrave
A pattern on the sands:
A silent word, unseen, unheard,
Cut out by nature’s hands.
A shadow falls and a wild bird coils
To the sinking sun and the sea;
The fast fading light, and the still of the night
Bring a breath of a mystery.
The bird’s call stops and the night breeze drops,
And an awful stillness reigns;
A soothing calm like a healing balm,
But the sound of the sea remains.
As if in a dream, there comes a wild scream,
As aeroplanes roar overhead;
With bombs and with fire, they leave a huge pyre,
Of wounded bodies and dead.
The jungle recesses and lost wildernesses
Resound to the battle’s affray;
The earth splits asunder, and echoes like thunder
Roll onward and echo away.
Far into the night continues the fight,
And the noise of the struggle is heard,
Where silence was breathless and stillness once deathless
Excepting the call of the bird.
After ages, at last, the battle is past,
The noise and the action no more,
The trees maimed and broken, a grim tragic token
Of the terrible havoc of war.
A soft quietness steals and the moonlight reveals
The result of this death-dealing game;
The sky rains its dew, as if all nature too
Were weeping with pity and shame.
An unseen hand has sketched on the sand
A pattern just out of reach,
Of many a wave that flows o’er a grave
On the Sanananda Beach.
Pte C. R. Shaw
Q126475
(AWM PR 87/062)
* * *
The Ringers from the North
They have finished with the riding, down the lonely cattle trails,
They are through with swapping stories, watching riders from the rails,
And the moleskins and the leggings that are sweaty, old and torn
Are discarded for the glory of a Khaki Uniform.
They won’t be drafting bullocks for many days to come
And the noise of rushing cattle will yield to roaring guns,
And those nights spent by the campfire in the stock camps near the yard
Will just be pleasant memories to a ringer doing guard.
They are using, now, a field gun where they once just used the reins,
And they’re marching and they’re drilling getting cusses for their pains,
But they know the job’s worth doing, as they know a good man’s worth,
They are number one good fellows are the ringers from the north.
And when they’re cold and hungry, sitting shivering like lost souls
There will come some fragrant memories of grilling rib-bones on the coals
With a damper in the ashes and a quart pot full of tea
And the black boys hobbling horses singing native songs of glee.
And when the war is over and the bugle calls no more,
Then the ringers will be moving to a southern tropic shore
And as the sky grows crimson beneath the setting sun
You will see each ringer heading for a distant cattle run.
Lance Bombardier Sydney Kelly
(AWM PR 87/062)
* * *
Bomber
As darkness covers the tarmac,
The bombers grasp the sky;
Their crews are cold with sweat,
For fear that they might die.
A pilot sits transfixed
Before his knobs and dials and switches;
His navigator sits and stares,
Not a muscle twitches.
The engines drone regardless,
The gunner tests his guns,
Assures himself that they will work
When he must down the Huns.
The planes roar out across the sea,
The target drawing near,
Until the sounds of those before them
On the wind the crews could hear.
Burst of flack and wicked tracer
Lacerate the night;
Bomb run commenced,
The pilot must not deviate in flight.
Ahead there is a blinding flash,
A bomber bursts in flames —
All the men aboard are dead,
Glorious are their names.
Planes are falling from the sky,
Torn blazing from the night,
Balls of fire with smoking trails,
They plummet out of sight.
The cry of “Bombs away!” at last,
Time again to breathe,
Power on to climb and turn,
A lifetime to achieve.
The 109s are all around;
Cannon and machine gun fire.
Silhouetted against the flames,
The bombers’ funeral pyre.
The survivors claw their way
Towards the coast and homeward bound,
Trailing smoke and glycol —
Still the fighters hound.
A badly damaged straggler
Limps across the sky;
The surviving crew are cold with sweat,
For fear that they might die.
The navigator’s lifeless form
Lies twisted on his sight,
Near stalling speed the plane
Prepares to slip beneath the night.
The gunner stares through sightless eyes,
At nothing to be seen,
Reflecting tiny images
Where once such life had been.
The pilot, numbed by pain and shock,
Sits rigid all alone;
He tries to keep his plane aloft
To reach the aerodrome.
Airspeed reaching critical,
Heartbeats measure lifetime,
Survival hypothetical.
Shattered screen and instruments,
The air an icy flow,
The engines cough and splutter,
Oh, how the wind does blow!
Greg Brooks
* * *
Egypt? For Australia We Fight
We’re here because we’re here is a song we used to sing
Before we left Australia for the fray
Well, we’re here now, with a vengeance and here we’ve got to stop
For there’s not the slightest chance to get away.
We said farewell to loved ones e’re we left Port Melbourne Pier
To fight against big odds on land and sea,
But the freedom of Australia must be guarded at all costs
And we’ll fight like hell to keep our country free.
We long to leave these lands of strife, of misery and pain,
We long to see our homes and loved ones too,
But until our foe is conquered and the Kaiser sheaths his sword
We’ll clench our teeth and see this matter through.
Tpr W. H. Johnstone (?)
8th ALH, AIF
(AWM PR 84/049)
* * *
Of Courage and Fear
What thoughts through [a] warrior’s mind might pass,
What scattered gems are there?
Memories fond, of times long past,
Tomorrow’s dreams to share.
That darkest time, await the dawn,
The chill of night a cloak,
Lonely, midst the milling crowd
Where seldom a word is spoke.
Embraced in silent solitude
Yet part of a common bond,
For here all souls react as one,
Ponder fate, which waits beyond.
To live, to die, what fortune hides
In heavy thoughts aquired?
Yet too soon, to feel the rush
When first the shots are fired.
What feeling stirs this pounding heart
Dark thoughts, yet far from clear,
Perhaps a threatening
warrior bold
Or a lonely soul with fear.
Confronting soon, as warriors must
When decision time draws near,
The conflict of courage and duty
Against his basic, mortal fear.
For without fear, there is no courage,
Gone all values held so dear;
A warrior, who would be a hero
Needs the emotional catalyst, fear.
James D. Young
I’d Like to be There
I would like to be there in November
To talk with you, just like old times;
I’d like to see who will remember,
And walk for a while in the lines.
Hear the noise of the cooks in the morning,
Steal a smoke on picquet at night,
Dodge the RSM as he wanders,
Ready to give me a fright.
And I’d like to play football on sports day
And shoot on the old rifle range,
Catch a tram to the B.E. on weekends,
Or Grand Central just for a change.
I wonder who you all married?
And how many children you had?
Where you worked, and if you succeeded?
See — proves you weren’t all that bad.
And I’d like to visit the chapel,
Maybe see all the trees in the rain,
Polish my boots on a Sunday
And stand on parade once again.
But I can’t be there in November.
I lie here in Korea’s cold clime.
But thankyou for planting the trees
And thankyou for taking the time.
To Remember a Mate.
Margaret Gibbons
* * *
I’ve Had Me Share of Rubber Trees
I’ve had me share of rubber trees and screamin’ Sergeant-Majors
And livin’ like a mongrel dog in those stuffed-out canvas cages;
’Ad me share of screamin’ jets and whoopin’ bloody rockets,
Beetles in me under dacks, bull ants in me pockets.
Had me share of mud ’n slush and raining like a bastard,
And when it rains, it rains here mate — a fortnight once it lasted.
’Ad me share of crawling things and human ones is with ’em
Bitin’ round your tender spots and at the bosses bum they’re sniffin’,