I’ve had me share of sweaty gear and rashes on me belly
And watchin’ Yankee football on the stuffed out canteen telly;
‘Ad me share of dipping out on sex and lovin’ and boozin’,
Yeah I’m in this bloody place, but it sure wasn’t my choosin.’
Had this bloody Vietnam and a war that ain’t fair dinkum,
Had the swamps and chook-house towns and everythin’ is stinkin’,
Had me share of countin’ days and boots with ten foot laces,
I’ve had me share, I’ve ’ad it mate — ‘up’ all them foreign places!
Anon
(AWM MSS 0870)
* * *
105’s 105s
A tribute to the Officers and Men of 105 Field Battery Royal Australian Artillery, the Battle for Long Tan and the 105mm Pack Howitzer and its role during that battle. This poem is dedicated to all of the Veterans who took part in this battle and kept alive the spirit of the Anzacs.
“Take Post! Take Post!” They’d heard it before,
They were quick to their guns, a few even swore,
But this was a fire mission like none in the past
And so it had started the battle at Long Tan.
The boys from D Company were in a fix,
Not far from the Dat, about two clicks,
The call came in for support to survive
And to the fore were 105’s 105s.
In the rubber plantation the boys on the ground,
Facing enemy fire from all around,
Conditions appalling the mud and fierce rain,
Visibility a problem but confusion restrained;
The position more clearly with bright blue flashes,
From the guns in support landing rounds in the ashes;
The gunfire was loud, bright and blaring,
Placed a look on the diggers surprised and glaring.
They knew there was hope with accurate fire
To help them survive the mud and the mire,
The guns so constant with dangerous close fire.
Back at the Dat the actions were true,
The boys on the guns they knew what to do;
The weather so bad the rain teeming down,
Strong cordite mist was hugging the ground,
Empty cart cases were forming a mound,
But the guns would not cease until the very last round,
From 105’s 105s.
The battle raged on through that terrible night,
Uncertain the thoughts of the men in the fight,
But the soldiers had been trained for a job to be done
And all fought and battled until it was won.
At the end of it all they all looked around,
They were tired, drenched and spent,
And looked at each other in wonderment.
Through the days that had passed battle honours had been won,
You could not but admire the Australian Son,
But then a glance at that little gun, 105’s 105s.
WO2 Bill Pritchard
* * *
Body Bags
Body bags slick, shining green,
white nylon zips unable to stem
the knowing of limp slack lines
and men who once were friends.
Floppy hands and heavy carry
to waiting helicopter doors,
and mates who once smiled
now stacked on aluminium floors.
Congealed blood and torn boots
by the bamboo groves,
and thumping rotor blades
taking away the stiffened hands.
Stacked, flopped, almost liquid
in the obscene formlessness of plastic,
hiding the end product of insanity
and the awful work of jumping mines.
Taking from your pocket a letter
still unread, but opened by shrapnel,
and here an arm, and there a leg,
neatly body-bagged, and bloody well dead.
The ashes of unshown grief choking us
along with the red dust as you go away,
now a mere dot in the vault of the sky,
wrapped with your memories in a bag.
Lt John A. Moller
RNZIR Whiskey Two
Vietnam
* * *
The Last Step
Had enough time to cry
“My God!”
As the innocent track
Leapt up in a moment
Of sound and fury
And the jumping mine
Cut him in two
At his pubic hair line.
And in the dark shadows
On the sides of the track
His friends all retched
And gently reached back,
Pulling their bayonets
To prod the bloody track.
Fighting down their fear
And wanting to run,
But knowing if they did
They’d be dead, every one;
Feeling for the trip-wires
And the shining prongs,
Inch by inch all prodding
The leaf mould and the slime.
John A. Moller
* * *
A Salute to the Men of Long Tan
Kiss your wives and farewell your friends,
it’s time my lads to stand with the men;
Bloodied red bayonets and mouths painful dry,
bandage your brothers, and try not to cry.
The Vietcong are coming all black down the road
so take up your rifles and aim well and load;
Forget all your dreams and remember your past,
I fear that this battle may well be your last.
Stay firm in the trenches, shoot slightly low,
ignore dying friends as the cannon mouths glow,
The enemy are evil and slavery their name,
so fix tight your bayonets and mark well the aim.
So kiss all your wives and hug tight your child,
for today is the day when death will run wild;
The tracer bright ribbons will cut them down clean
in the eddies of battle by dirty brown streams.
So hold tight your brothers and farewell your babes,
today is the day you’ll be in your graves;
Falling and calling in cordite’s white cloud
the jungle forever your lonely brave shroud.
So remember my friends those D Company men
who laid down their lives in Long Tan’s green glens,
Salute all your sons and the seventeen lost
who paid for our freedom — the ultimate cost.
John A. Moller
* * *
Forgotten Heroes
We marched for seven days and nights,
We marched with heavy feet and hearts,
We marched along the dusty roads,
We marched with weathered heavy souls.
We saw the children and the farms,
We saw the choppers and napalm,
We saw the smoke and then the flames
And deceived ourselves to hide the shame.
We closed our eyes to restless sleep,
We prayed the Lord our souls to keep,
We counted days until we went home,
To the country we loved, to the country we’d outgrown.
We hid in the jungle from our foe,
We played our parts in this terror filled role,
We sighted guns and dug our pits,
And in between we took the hits.
We numbed our minds to the pain we felt,
And drank to forget the death we dealt,
We showed no fear except to ourselves,
And tried to protect our mental health.
Our lives were changed in those fateful years,
Scars were forged with blood and tears,
We did our time and paid our dues,
We returned h
ome spat on and ridiculed.
We served our country,
For the good of democracy,
We returned home like criminals,
Chained to hypocrisy.
Pte J. Harris
17 March 1998
* * *
Just Us
I’ve never done this thing before
“Pick ’em up and take ’em to war.”
What could be so hard in that?
We load them on, and it’s off to Nui Dat.
I watch these blokes real close,
They’re tough, keen and different to most;
They train and train and some more —
This must be some hell of a war
We’re getting close, I can see a change,
Gun crews ready, check the range,
All the lights are turned down low,
Black curtains are now the go.
Whispers from the mess decks low,
No one sleeps and cigarettes glow;
Tracer fire fills the night,
A young sailor hugs his lifejacket real tight.
The morning light it comes at last,
Let’s get these blokes off real fast;
The sound of choppers fills the air;
There are bloody things going on everywhere
Look them in the eye before they go:
What will Fate on them bestow?
Their faces you’ll remember for all time —
Farewell, fall in line, great Aussie, shine!
Barry Buttle
Escape
If you can quit the compound undetected
And clear your tracks nor leave the smallest trace,
And follow out the program you’ve selected
Nor lose your grasp of distance, time and place,
If you can walk at night by compass bearing
Or ride the railways in the light of day
And temper your elusiveness with daring,
Trusting that sometimes bluff will find a way,
If you can follow sour frustration
And gaze unmoved at failure’s ugly shape
Remembering, as further inspiration,
It was and is your duty to escape,
If you can keep the great Gestapo guessing,
With explanations only partly true
And leave them in their heart of hearts confessing
They didn’t get the whole truth out of you,
If you can use your ‘cooler’ fortnight clearly
For planning methods wiser than before
And treat your first miscalculations merely
As hints let fall by fate to teach you more,
If you scheme on with patience and precision
(It wasn’t in a day they builded Rome)
And make escape your single sole ambition —
The next time you attempt it you’ll get home.
F/Lt G. Bretel
(AWM PR 88 160)
* * *
Stalag Luft III
Here we are at Stalag Three,
Drinking beer at the bar
With lovely girls to serve the beer...
like bloody hell we are.
We traveled here in luxury
The whole trip for a quid,
A sleeping berth for each of us...
like bloody hell we did
Our feather beds are two feet deep
The carpet’s almost new,
In easy chairs we sit all day...
like bloody hell we do.
The goons are bloody wizard chaps,
Their hopes of victory good,
We’d change them places any day...
like bloody hell we would.
When winter comes and snow’s around,
The temperature at nil,
We’ll find hot bottles in our beds...
like bloody hell we will.
It’s heaven on earth at Stalag Three,
A life we’d hate to miss,
It’s everything we’ve always wished...
like bloody hell it is.
F. O. J McCleery (?)
(AWM PR 88 160)
* * *
There’s Always Bloody Something
Bloody times is bloody hard
Bloody wire for bloody guard
Bloody dogs in bloody yard,
Bloody, Bloody, Bloody.
Bloody tea is bloody vile
Bloody cocoa makes you smile
Cocoa made in bloody style,
Bloody, Bloody, Bloody.
Bloody ice rink, bloody mud
Bloody skates no bloody good
Sat where once I bloody stood
Bloody, Bloody, Bloody.
Bloody salmon’s bloody queer
Looks at you with bloody leer
Is it good? no bloody fear!
Bloody, Bloody, Bloody.
Bloody bridge all bloody day
Learning how to bloody play
Bloody Blackwoods bloody way,
Bloody, Bloody, Bloody.
Now and then tho’ bloody stale
Censor hands out bloody mail
Better draw the bloody veil,
Bloody, Bloody, Bloody.
Bloody girlfriend drops me flat
Like a dog on bloody mat
Gets a Yank like bloody that,
Bloody, Bloody, Bloody.
Bloody sawdust in the bread
Must have come from bloody bed
Better all be bloody dead,
Bloody, Bloody, Bloody.
Don’t it get your bloody goat;
Was it Shaw who bloody wrote
“Where the hell’s that bloody boat?”
Bloody, Bloody, Bloody.
Now I’ve reached the bloody end
Nearly round the bloody bend
That’s the general bloody trend,
Bloody, Bloody, Bloody.
F. O. J McCleery (?)
(AWM PR 88 160)
* * *
This War
It started back in ’14
And it’s just kicked off again,
Another war to end all wars
In the good Lord’s sacred name.
The Jerry blame the Poles,
But it’s poor silly B___!
Who lie fighting in the holes
They decked us out in khaki
With buttons shining bright,
With a rifle and a bayonet
They taught us how to fight.
They taught us the art of battle
In a most efficient way
With church blessings every Sunday:
God speed you on your way!
But the day is shortly coming
When we will all be free
To board the good old steamer
That sails Pacific seas.
With sweethearts there to meet us,
And friends and pals galore,
They’ll line that golden waterfront
Along old Aussie’s shore.
And when the boat is anchored
And the birds are at the nest
We’ll think of our fallen comrades
Who have done their very best.
POW unknown
(AWM 3 DRL 3527)
* * *
Mail
Nothing is so cheering
To a POW in camp
As a letter, good news bearing,
With a good old Aussie stamp.
Everyone in camp is waiting
Everybody without fail,
Be it officer or rating,
For the coming of the mail.
“Anything for me?” asks Larry
When the postman comes around,
“Sorry old boy; one for Harry,
But nothing from your home town.”
Many men feel heavy-hearted
When they hear old Larry say:
“Not a letter since we parted,
But one may come some d
ay.”
When this b___ war is over
And at last are homeward bound,
Sailing up the straits, in clover
No need to wait the postman’s round.
Anon
(AWM 3 DRL 3527)
* * *
Half Way There
Despite all the carnage around us
We always believed we could cope,
For through all the darkness of evil
There was always the Lantern of Hope.
So slowly the days dragged onward,
Each getting worse than before,
Each morning a maximum effort
Each Prayer “Please God, only once more!”
The column climbed over the saddle
And stopped in the snow on its crest
As we saw for the first time before us
The plains stretch away to the West.
Below, The Bohemian Basin
As far as the eye could behold,
White with the mantle of winter
The streams frozen solid with cold.
Slowly we marched through the snow drifts,
Where Wenceslas’ footstep once trod,
Past quaint little roadside chapels,
Reminders of man’s faith in God.
The pain that accompanies starvation
Increased to the nth degree;
The Grim Reaper sat on our shoulders
Like Sinbad’s Old Man of the Sea.
The limit of living had reached us,
I sat with Patrick my friend;
We could march no more with the column
This day would be Journey’s End.
But ’ere the Grim Reaper could claim us
A Swedish white wagon arrived,
Handing out Red Cross foodstuffs
So thus once again we survived.
The Lantern of Hope, rekindled,
Burned bright when the wagon had gone;
We picked up our miserable bundles
And those who could stand carried on.
O’er the Elbe to the Erzgebirge Ranges
Plodding the sodden tracks,
With the Lantern of Hope growing dim now
And the Reaper again on our backs
Whilst struggling along the by-roads
Something affected my soul
There was a gap in the pain that enclosed me
And my spirit slipped out of the hole
Up, up and away I went floating