The warmth you try to keep;
Last man creeps up to your vehicle
It’s your turn not to sleep.
Up watching, cautiously waiting,
You hope it will come through the night,
If it does it will mean relief
And end the unknown fright.
You know it’s out there somewhere
Watching with eyes open wide,
And if it does reveal itself
It’ll meet the friends by my side.
Suddenly the darkness rules
As the moon is blinded by a cloud,
You’re thinking, “this is the moment!”
As the insects laugh out aloud.
Sounds are easily picked up now
The creaking from nearby willows,
And through the canopy of the trees
A relentless, icy wind blows.
Uncontrolling shivering overpowers you now
As the wind keeps getting colder,
There’s still no sign of it yet,
The night, still it grows older.
He will come, you know full well
That he will visit tonight,
But it’s still lurking in the shadows,
You pray quietly for the sun’s light.
Your friends are waiting silently
To meet it, like it or not,
When it comes they’ll scream at him
Their barrels will glow white hot.
Your shift is nearly over, soon you’ll go
When your watch says that you can,
And creeping up to the next vehicle
You’ll wake the next tired man.
Back in your bag you’ll sleep warm again
Until the morning’s feast,
But before then you’ll rise again
For the coming of the beast.
Cpl. M. J. Walburn
* * *
Time at the Bay
Whilst you’ve got your feet up
I’ll ask you not to disperse,
Stick around and I’ll intrigue you all
By reading you rhyming verse.
A few weeks ago we left Townsville
For there were Army games to play,
So down the coast we travelled
To a place called Shoalwater Bay.
Now I know some may not like it
But I think it’s good for a change,
And anything’s better than bumbling around
For a couple of weeks at High Range.
We travelled down on buses
It’s a poguish way to deploy,
After a thousand and one truck stops
We met up with the rest of the boys.
Churchy, Dyso and Danny,
Blacky, Willy and Bish,
They’d only been there for a couple of days
But a beer and a babe was their wish.
Immediately we were into it
And over the Bay we did roam,
After a couple of days we were settled
The Bay was our temporary new home.
Elanora, Landsbury, The Glen
These would all be places we’d see,
Raspberry Vale and Mount Alec
A Polygon and a Lemon Tree.
We bashed across country as usual
I don’t know how many trees we mowed,
And how many times did we drive up and down
That boring old east-west road?
Mount Tilpal, The Plains and Razorback
In these sectors we left our mark,
They were our AO’s we called them
Vivaldi, Mozart, Beethoven and Bach.
The days and nights were hectic
We didn’t have time to scratch,
Just when we thought we could all flex out
We were into a blue-on-blue match.
Troop rivalry is always a good thing,
I can’t really tell you who won,
But I can tell you this one thing is true —
A lot of callsigns from Two Troop got done.
After this we went down to Camp Growl
To fix the cars that were maimed,
And I don’t know why they call it that
Maybe by lesbians was it named.
A live-fire stint came soon after,
We gave them a mighty good whack,
But the only trouble about this is
Figure-eleven targets don’t shoot back.
We travelled back home on buses again
We filled all the truck stops till
(and to the delight of everyone)
We arrived back home in the Ville.
I don’t know if it was a success
But I can tell this to you all,
Being out scrub for a couple of weeks means
More money to piss up the wall!
* * *
On Exercises
(A soldier’s view)
To think that I have come to this:
In the bush and off the piss,
A place of dreary temperance
Surrounded by incompetence;
Confusion reigns while havoc rules,
Methinks we are controlled by fools;
It makes me fearful of our fate
(And you thought Woodstock was a rock show, Mate!)
Capt. Don Buckby
* * *
Canungra
Canungra is a hateful place,
Of all camps most detested,
And those who do not pass this way
Can count themselves most blessed.
We hate the Sergeant Major’s voice,
We hate the endless hurry,
We hate the ceaseless tearing ’round
And getting in a flurry.
We hate the bayonet like the deuce,
We hate the river crossings,
We hate the march down to the creek,
Just for to do our washing.
We hate the raucous clanging sound
Of cart tyres hung on string,
Which wake us up at early morn
E’en long before birds sing.
But yet there’s something in the place
That sort of, kind of, holds us —
It may be in the comradeship
Of those who are around us.
It’s not a rest home to be sure,
Nor yet is it a picnic,
But though it’s very hard on us
There’s something makes us stick it.
The food’s not bad, there is no doubt
About it, all the credit
Is to the cooks, the way that they
Can manage to prepare it.
Of course there’s not too much to get
But who has time to eat it?
We hardly get a taste of it,
When ‘bang’ — it’s time to beat it!
I will admit it’s interesting,
And also educating,
Each day a change in ‘syllabus’
Helps make it to our liking.
The treks we do are really fun
If one is young and healthy,
But if one’s spirit is not in it
Then all is gone for nothing.
Of course it’s hard, the guns and packs,
No matter just how careful
We are to make them light, they just
Get heavier every minute.
The ground we cover in each march,
Up hill and down to valley,
By jungle track and over fields,
Is really most amazing.
I’m not a very striking chap,
Five-foot-three is my limit,
So when a six-foot leads the way
I soon drop back to rearward.
I struggle on, my head bent low,
There are no signposts pointing
The footprints on the dusty earth
Are all the signposts needed,
Until I come at gather
ing dusk
To where two tracks are crossing,
The prints can go full three ways here,
I must be most discerning.
I made my choice and on I plod,
Though somewhat hesitating,
But then of course I’d talked with God:
’Twas His way I was taking.
Then after having climbed a tree,
As high as I could get,
I saw some lights not far away,
On which my sights I set.
Thus struggling on, I found a track,
’Twas well defined and friendly,
No ‘Wait a Whiles’ upon this path,
They’d met the old machete.
When back at camp and DP One,
Work parties now the fashion,
There’s talk of going further north,
Which generally is the order.
But soon it will be o’er at last,
Canungra long forgotten,
Then what we’ll meet we do not know,
And some not even caring.
Pte.W. J. Baker, NX 139320
Canungra, 1943
* * *
Canungra’s Way.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, morning noon and night,
Over mountain, hill and valley,
Through the scrub and fern-lined gully,
Over rocks and sandy patches,
Hands and faces marked with scratches
Trying to make jungle fighters —
That’s Canungra’s aim.
“Left right left,” ringing in one’s ear,
Up at six and off we gallop,
Double quick time down to river
Wash and shave and back for breakfast,
Gulp it down, no time for sitting,
And no chance whate’er of quitting:
That’s Canungra’s way.
“At-tention!” through it all we go,
Or “Port Arms” rifle inspection,
“Shoulder Arms, we’re going marching,”
“Stand at ease” or “just stand easy,”
Everything to be done neatly,
Shoddiness is not the fashion
Up Canungra way.
One, two, three, changing arms by numbers,
Lesson five will be on Bren gun,
Name the parts and reassemble
Making sure that parts are all clear,
Pull the bolt back, press the trigger;
That’s the way that things are done here,
Up Canungra way.
“Pay attention here, that man on the right,
You will tell us weight of Owen,
How to hold when it is firing,”
Number four will then dismantle
Telling us a cause of stoppage.”
All of this they try to teach us,
Canungra’s own way.
Day by day this is what goes on,
Maybe we will turn out soldiers,
Each a credit to the tutors;
Maybe time will all be wasted,
We, perhaps will ne’er go over,
But for me my choice will never
Be Canungra’s way.
Pte Jim Baker, NX 139320
Canungra, 1943
* * *
Accidents
Statistics prove that accidents with military trucks
Are getting far too numerous, they’re mounting up and up
So that they’re causing grave concern to us and police force too,
And really men, I’m sure you’ll say, it’s just the same with you.
We’re proud of GT116 and all it means to us,
We’re proud of you who do their job without a lot of fuss,
Each truck and man within this camp is needed every one,
The job you’re doing reg’ly helps knock out Jap and Hun.
You say, “I only drive a truck around suburban camps,
Or carting timber, stone, or muck — that won’t Jap ardour damp!”
My boy, we’re each and every one just one tooth on a gear,
Yet one tooth being broken off may prolong war a year.
When trucks o’erturn, the fire brigade and police must burn up juice
To see the truck does not catch fire, be ruined for other use,
And workshops men must leave their jobs, perhaps important too,
To take out towing truck and gear to bring your wrecked ‘bus’ through.
A man or woman may get hurt, who work in factory,
Employed in making shells or tanks for our boys overseas.
So you can see that accidents, it matters not how small
They be, the fact remains that they affect us, one and all.
So if we all will do our best
To drive more carefully,
We’ll have ‘No Accident Month’ I’m sure
And happy we will be.
Pte Jim Baker.
NX139320
116 Aust. Gen. Trans. Coy.
Marrickville NSW. 31 August 1942
* * *
Victory of the Sands
Now the 1st Brigade quoth the old story
How they marched from Tel-El-Habar
Of the four thousand men who started
And the two hundred who got there.
But the 16th Brigade claims the laurels
In the terrible Grecian campaign
How we marched ninety miles over mountains
Non-stop through the snow and the rain.
But the pages of history don’t mention
One march that we’ll never forget
’Twas a march through the Sinai desert
Brought about by an officer’s bet.
Now a course was laid down at places
There were clocks to check on our paces
And home was the camp football ground.
Number 8 ran the distance in fine style
Captain Coslet sat down with a grin
Told his boys that they now had the bag tied
And the laurels were safely within.
But he reckoned without Johnny Blarney
And his team who would follow him through,
Though they weren’t very brilliant at drilling
They had what it takes to get through.
They started off smoothly and happy
With Fogarty setting the pace
The prize was a skinful of Aussie —
Little wonder they made it a race.
But the sand up ‘Tomb’ hill was cruel
And we lagged as we climbed that long slope,
Ronnie William kept heaping on fuel
And his cheery voice brought us new hope.
We passed ‘61’ with two seconds to spare,
Our leaders had gained second wind,
Joe Shaw and Tom Dixon were gasping for air
With Doug Stewart dropping behind.
Jack Blarney sang Old Tipperary
Young Webber sang Mother McKee
George Stephenson’s old puffing billy
Was a fair imitation of me.
Young Shorty said goodbye to dinner
As the winning post came into view
And I thought of Tom Rigg and Pat Edmonds
And the trouble they took with the stew.
George Wickham came out in his scanties
Capt Baird cheered us on with his hat,
We raced in with a two-minute margin
And every man flopped on the mat.
Now if men want to bet in their mess room
Let them bet on the day it will rain,
Desert marching is exclusive to camels
And I’m damned if I’ll try it again.
Anon
(AWM PR 00526)
* * *
A Digger
Carry the claymores
Carry your pack
Carry the radio —
All on your back
Carry your rations
Carry your tent
Carry your clothing —
Sorry you went
Up hill and down hill
Over the ridge
Sleep in the Ulu —
Make your own bridge.
Walk-talking softly
Listen and sign
Eat what you carry —
Watch for a mine.
Give us a break sir
Stop for awhile
Have you ever seen
A CSM smile?
But you change...
Polish up your boots
Polish up your belt
Silver star and brasso —
It’s the best you’ve ever felt.
Fall in at BHQ
Check your hat’s on straight
March off in the evening
To guard the old camp gate.
Margaret Gibbons
We Were the 46th
We were the 46th.
We went to a war that was worlds away,
Why did you go you say?
We went for king,
We went for country,
But most of all we went for our pride in ourselves.
We’re all gone now,
We are no more,
But in the photos and text within, we are reborn,
We live again.
I can see Rollie Touzel,
The Country Boy from Cudgewa,
I can see Alf Willison,
The City Man from Melbourne,
The blue collar and professional alike.
I’m with them now,
With the mates we left behind.
No more are we in the stark madness of Pozieres,
The mud, ice, and the death at Flers,
Or the unbroken wire of Bullecourt,
Where I held a shattered mate’s hand as his young life ebbed away,
I looked him in the eye and told him he’d be just fine,
I lied.
This was the nightmare I lived,
’Till my own life had ended its day.
I was one of those who came home,
To my family, my children;
They were all precious to me,
But they couldn’t understand the difference within,
The pain, the anguish,
The scars of my time could never be healed as those that are physical.
Look at the photo,
Can you tell who I am?
I’m everyone,
A member of the 46th,
An anonymous infantry soldier,
The salt of the earth,
As much as we were from different walks of life
And different parts of the land, we were as one, we were a family:
we were the 46th!
Ian Polanski
* * *