Away from the noises of war
Away from the horror of living
And all that had happened before.
Contented and painless I floated
In wonderous peace of mind,
Not dreaming, but thinking and seeing,
Though my body was left far behind.
Below me the column, still marching
I could see front to the rear,
All in the sharpest of detail
Each man showing separate and clear.
On the head of a man in the centre
The Russian-made headgear of Pat,
On the left flank beside him a figure
Wearing my battered slouch hat.
I studied that pitiful creature
That I knew was the body of me
And wondered what kept it going
When the part that mattered was free.
At last when the daylight was dying
I came back to the world of pain,
Dragged through the gap that was closing —
I was back in the column again.
I believe that there is an Almighty,
I believe in the power of prayer,
I believe there is life after dying.
I know. I have been Half Way There.
Pte J. Wright
(AWM MSS 1586)
* * *
POW Day
No doubt that we were bunnies
To swallow all their talk
Of Yankees at Port Dickson
And Pommies’ air support
They marched us out to Changi
Ten thousand men or more;
The fallen by the roadside
Made us yearn no more for war.
We’re planting beans by numbers
We’re sloping arms no more,
We’re through with bloody fighting
For Tojo topped the score.
We live in shell-torn barracks
Minus water, roof and tile,
The NCOs and Pippers
Eat with rank and file
Our clothes they are most scanty,
Our trousers ripped and torn,
We’re bloody near as naked
As the day that we were born
Our charpoys they have taken,
We sleep on them no more;
There’s naught for us to do
But doss upon the floor.
We rise around eight hundred
And creep down to the tong
And think of old Rexona
And hope it won’t be long.
We fall in on the A Parade
And answer to our names
It’s “Stand at ease!” “stand easy!”
Then the OC cries again:
“You’re still in the AIF lads,
And no matter where you go
The Government of Australia
Expects you to earn your dough.”
Next up we have breakfast
Our appetites to sate,
In single file we get it —
It’s rice upon our plate
The greasy babblers moaning,
The backups standing by
And Corporal Death a leading
With hunger in his eye.
Next we’re duty company,
It’s work to make us hard
Collecting meager rations
Or sweeping up the yard.
Our after-lunch siesta
Is spent in many ways
With dreams of steak and onions
We knew in better days.
We’re wakened from our slumber
By a voice that’s loud and harsh:
“Come grab your dirty washing
And to the tongs we’ll march”
With shades of evening falling
There’s visits we must pay
To see Bill and Harry
Who live across the way.
There’s pals in other units
There’s mates we’ll never see
And dreams of dear old Aussie
Our homes across the sea.
The good old swy-ups going,
We brought it to this land
And though we haven’t got much dough
I guess we’ll land a hand.
“There go the pennies sailing!”
You can hear the boxer holler,
But luck is dead against us
And there goes our only dollar.
‘Lights out’ will soon be sounding
And though we all are broke,
I guess that one amongst us.
Will have a light to smoke
It’s homeward to our billets
We wend our weary way,
To lie upon the concrete
So ends a POW’s day.
Anon
* * *
Journey Back to Changi
Tommy 1942
POWs, that’s a helluva flamin’ word
And here we are, all rounded up, like a branded cattle herd.
God, it seems there’s such a lot of us, confused and milling around;
Well, I hope it’s all been worth it, for this little patch of ground.
Ahh Mate, I’m bloody hungry, and you’re lookin’ pretty thin
And these graves are gettin’ shallower, and I’ve got no strength to fill ’em in;
All that keeps me goin’ is believin’ things’ll change
Til then we wait behind these walls while the world gets rearranged...
Ahh Bluey, you look like Death Warmed Up, and I’m feelin’ kind o’ weak
And I feel I’ve got much more to say, but it’s gettin’ hard to speak;
There’s so much I could’ve said and done, but it seems I won’t get the chance
Got caught up in this changing world, Ahh, what a merry dance.
Yeah Mate, I know I’m goin’; but I don’t want to really leave
And I don’t want ’em thinkin’ I wore my heart upon my sleeve;
And can you ask ’em, when you’re home again, were they really only bluffin’?
And ask ’em for me will you, Mate, did we go through this for nothin’?
Bluey 1992
Well, I’ve come back here again, old Digger,
And so many years have passed
And things ain’t really changed that much
They’ve just moved on too fast
But, you and your grave, well, you’re still here,
A symbol of past mistakes,
And I see those old words that we scratched there:
‘That’s Life’ and ‘Those are the Breaks’.
Ahh Tommy, old Mate, these thoughts take me back
And a thousand things pass through my mind,
Like the Wire and the Walls that kept us caged up
And the Conflict that makes people blind
And those ghostly old shadows of mates long gone now
With my eyes closed I see ’em once more,
And I wipe out the memory of skeletal men
And recall how I’d known ’em before.
And you, Tommy Brown, I remember you then
And how you thought that we’d both live forever,
What a cruel twist of Fate, when we lost you, old Mate
And this place seemed a long way from heaven.
Yeah, I remember, old friend, when they captured us then
And how we thought that somehow we had failed,
And we dreamed of the day we’d escape in some way
From this hellhole they called Changi Jail.
Oh Mate, I can’t linger there, those thoughts lead to despair
And the question you asked, I can’t answer;
“All for Nothin’” you said, and we both hung our heads
As we listened to Fate’s hollow laughter...
Requiem 1992
Well, the crowds gathered now, once again there’s heads bowed
And soft words raise those ghosts from the past,
And while memory’s tears fall, to that sad bugle call
We pray your Soul’s resting at last.
And while I’m standing here, silent, with head bowed,
Trying hard just to hold back my tears,
I can still hear the words to a song
Sayin’ ‘Thanks for the Gift of the Years’.
And Hey Tommy, old son, when my time’s finally come
And, I think we’ll meet up before long,
We’ll recall better times and forgive ’em their crimes,
And I’ll teach you the words to that song...
Les Mellet
AIF Cemetery
* * *
Untitled
There’s a plot of land that’s tendered by their comrades by the score,
In which they’ve buried Diggers who died while Prisoners of War;
They were every bit as gallant in their sufferings through disease
As the men who fell in battle ’gainst the swarming Japanese.
The men who died through shot and shell have made their names immortal
But those who lay and waited death went quietly through his portal;
A flag draped body, stretcher born toward the grave is ferried
The Last Post sounds o’er Changi Camp: another hero buried.
For surely though his end was quiet and far from the muskets rattle
He gave his life to the cause for which his comrades died in battle.
So when in peaceful times to come we turn to thank our Maker
Just say a prayer for those who lie in Changi Camp, ‘God’s Acre’.
Anon
Yugoslavia Lost
I feel sick at humanity’s naked truth
(Though humanity may be too kind a name)
For a people who blithely wound and claim
Vilification and purity for their youth.
Time has not repelled their hate
Nor distilled the witching brew
Of ancient tensions born anew
To demand a people repatriate.
Time shall surely quell their tears
The anguish, the wounds, the pain,
But time knows festering sores remain
Weeping freely from the ears.
Pity them their bloody ear
That prevents strong screams from sounding near
But pity not their eyes that hear
That see and lust with passion clear.
Yesterday’s history holds no lesson
That has not yet been heard nor learned
The page long read then overturned
Quill dipped in blood, a new page begun.
Tony Anetts
* * *
Our Life
The blokes are out on the Cease Fire Line
Thinking of home and the girl left behind,
Of cold ale and beaches and sun shining free
Of the land of their fathers where they’d rather be.
It’s a place that they think of to help pass the time,
For time there’s a plenty as they go through the grind
Of daily patrolling out there on the front
Between Arabs and Persians, the tanks and the grunts.
Life at the front can be boring and dull,
Except for that moment, the break in the lull,
When time is compressed in a cold bead of sweat
And your heart skips a beat and you think of things yet
To be done with your wife or your family at home,
And you question your presence and yearning to roam.
Australia is home and it’s where we should be,
But the war is not over and we’re not yet free,
So we’ll finish our tour with a skip and a jump,
No more to Iran with our swags will we hump,
But travel again to our homeland and wife
And get on with that thing we’ve forgotten — our life.
Anon
UNIIMOG
(AWM PR 00431)
* * *
I Have
I have driven crowded streets where people mill and stand
Dodged through rack and ruin and a beggar’s outstretched hand,
I have seen sights of shockingness, of open poverty
The resulting devastation of a people’s anarchy,
I have smelt the stale aroma of filth, death and spice,
The stagnant pools of squalor fed by people, dogs and lice
I have held the bony hand, of a starving, dying child
Shared a mother’s anguish as her children’s bones were piled,
I have dodged rocks and missiles, thrown and aimed at me
Used a baton to deter unabashed thievery,
I have run, sung and played, with children like my own,
Tried to understand their language and the world in which they’ve grown.
I have experienced a people’s fervour, at the Feast of Ramadan
Watched in fascination as Muslim rites are done,
I have been privy to the meeting of a dedicated few
Who loathe their country’s lawlessness and wish to start anew,
I have witnessed use of terror by bandits and their kin
And the subsequent denials as the questionings begin.
I have witnessed execution and the sorry stench of death
As bandits and their kind suck their last dark breath,
I have bartered at the markets, as the locals ply their trade
Of selling simple prayer mats, on which Elvis himself has prayed,
I have felt the sheer elation of a people’s shout of cheer
Of the call of ‘Australia’ yelled from far and near.
I have known so very much in so short a span of days
The experiences of a lifetime in oh so many ways.
Tony Anetts
* * *
Changing Tides
The old men of Bagana, Bale and Tore
Had slipped below the waters,
Were brave and proud no more.
Had taken their toll through the years
No stranger saw them drowning
And no one saw their tears.
The oasis in the Pacific was paradise no more
All hope was left behind then
Washed up on some foreign shore.
Midst the currents of resentment
Drifted M16 and spears
No stranger heard them crying
And no one saw their tears.
White teeth against black faces did little to hide their pain
They hid amongst the jungle
But their hiding was in vain.
For the enemy within them
Knew their deepest thoughts and fears
No stranger felt them tugging
And no one saw their tears.
I stood in line and placed my stone
’twas a tiny thing
But thousands more they did the same
to make this place a home.
And so it was the island rose
The waves rolled back, the tempest clears
And strangers to the island
Had dried away their tears.
L/Col Jack Gregg
Wakunai, Bougainville
11 March 1999
* * *
A UNIIMOG Ditty
If I were writing from Balmain
And pigs at last could fly
The news from here in Kurdestan
Would lack essential fire.
And Canberra isn’t quite the place
To ponder in your mind
That every time you place your feet —
It could be on a mine.
Or yesterday on that grenade
That rolled beneath your feet
No risk? Well bar that little pin
It was in fact complete!
The aircraft violation
That flew low above the ridge
Was only ta
king photographs
And not dispersing death.
There’s interest in your gas mask
As you watch the vapour trail
Your hand preparing Atropine
If that defence should fail.
The thought “Is that for me?”
Each time you hear something explode
Instils appreciation
For that rocky little hole.
And as you wonder of your mate
In sunny Khorramshar,
He’s down behind a wall like you
About to kiss his arse!
Luke Carroll
UNIIMOG
(AWM PR 00431)
* * *
Silly Poem
I’m sitting here in Persia, just wondering why I’m here, Dreaming of home, my wife and kids and a pie and a can of beer; It’s great here at the Team Site, but it’s open to debate, With no TV or shorts or the UN cars it makes us pretty irate; Of course we respect the laws of this rigid Islamic state, We eat their food and so not to be rude we say it’s really great; But the first thing I’ll do on my CTO is go to a place elsewhere, Where you can drink and swear and wear your shorts and nobody really cares!
T. M.
UNIIMOG
(AWM PR 00431)
* * *
Diggers In Blue
Australians should be proud of their Diggers in blue,
Scattered around the world for a cause that’s true,
The spirit of the Diggers surge through our veins
As we answer the call again and again.
Our standards are high which is plain to see,
And that’s not small praise coming from me,
We work hard and play hard and that’s nothing new
Dinkum Sons of Anzacs wearing UN blue.
The dangers are real as we toil day to day
But don’t tell anyone, we’ll just laugh them away;
Rifle, machine gun, grenade and shell,
Mine or UXB could blow us all to hell.
We try to take care and still do our job —
Don’t tell them at home, let them think I’m a slob.
Australians should be proud of their Diggers in blue
As we strive for a concept that should not be new
World peace — blissful peace. Then let me go home
To my wonderful wife and my daughters unknown.