Her probing prow sought out the Jap
Defying all his cannon
To wipe ‘Australia’ off the map
And rename it ‘South Nippon!’
She braved each storm and shed each green
Flung from the briny main.
She swam the tropics like a Queen
In calm, or hurricane.
From North to South and back again
Wherever she was sent,
Her handsome hide oft showed the strain
But served with fierce intent.
She carried all who served in her
With confidence and strength —
No comfort, ours, in any berth
Along her spartan length.
She wasn’t just some ‘Lady Fair’
Although her lines were such
For she was but a ‘Dog of War’
Without the ‘Midas Touch’.
We love her still, our mem’ries bright,
Her every action marked,
Till we are gone far out of sight
We’ll live the love she sparked.
L. (Tarz) Perkins.
* * *
Destroyer
A gallant little ship sails the sea today,
Fighting for old Aussie and paving the way
For liberty and freedom
We know will come one day.
Her name is Warramunga,
A tribal ship by class,
Manned by young Australians,
Who will stand up till the last.
So hats off to the ship and men,
May she ride the sea and foam,
And God guide them back to the ones they love,
Back to home sweet home.
Leading Stoker F. J. ‘Shags’ Turner
1943
* * *
The Warramunga
The Warramunga is a destroyer
Built at Cockatoo;
When the shakedown trials are finished,
She’ll do close on forty-two.
Then whether we sail the Indian
Or the beautiful blue Pacific,
What we’ve got for Tojo’s boys
Is something just terrific
Three twin four-point-sevens
Backed up by twin four-inch,
If the enemy comes within our range
They are sure to feel the pinch.
The A. A. boys are watching,
Waiting for the day
That one of the Japanese bombers
Would fly across our way.
The torpedo men are waiting
For the detector to get a ping
So they can drop a water bomb
And teach those Japs a thing.
We are like the Aboriginal tribe
With a mission to fulfil,
So to keep up their motto
Warramunga ‘hunt to kill.’
A. B ‘Happy’ Fellows
1942–3
* * *
Never Forget Them
Through day and night our brothers marched
To a long-off desert town,
In a last ditch effort from the Allies
To bring the enemy down.
As they charged against the Turks
Their desperation was hard not to see,
In the trenches and behind the guns
The scared Turks, they did flee.
Although the task seemed impossible
The town they took that day,
Victoriously they raised the flag
Before the sun went down.
All these men are gone now
Their experiences left in the past,
But as long as there are blokes like us
Their memory will always last.
Other units in the Army today
To find their roots they’ve tried,
Most of them have nothing near
What we’ve got ‘Cavalry pride’.
So remember what they did,
These men you’ve never met,
Echo it through the generations
So that no one will ever forget.
L. Cpl. Michael Walburn
The Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels of the Owen Stanley Ranges…
Many a Mother in Australia, when the busy day is done,
Sends a prayer to the Almighty, for the keeping of her son,
Asking that an angel guide him and bring him safely back,
Now we see those prayers are answered on the Owen Stanley Track.
Though they haven’t any halo, only holes slashed through the ear
And their faces marked with tattoos and with scratch pins in their hair,
Bringing back the badly wounded, just as steady as a hearse,
Using leaves to keep the rain off, and as gentle as a nurse.
Slow and careful in bad places on the awful mountain track
And the look upon their faces makes us think that Christ was black,
Not a move to hurt the carried, they treat him like a saint;
It’s a picture worth recording, that an artist’s yet to paint.
Many a lad will see his Mother and the husbands see their wives,
Just because the Fuzzy Wuzzies carried them to save their lives.
From mortar or machine gun fire, or a chance surprise attack,
To safety and the care of doctors at the bottom of the track.
May the Mothers in Australia when they offer up a prayer
Mention these impromptu angels with the fuzzy wuzzy hair.
Sapper Herbert Beros
(AWM PR 88 019)
* * *
…And the Answer by an Aussie Mother
We, the mothers of Australia, as we kneel each night in prayer
Will be sure to ask God’s blessing for the men with fuzzy hair,
And may the great Creator who made both black and white
Help us to remember how they helped to win the fight.
For surely he has used these men with fuzzy-wuzzy hair
To guard and watch the wounded with tender loving care,
And perhaps when they are tired with blistered aching back
He’ll take the yoke upon Himself and help them down the track.
And God will be the Artist and this picture He will paint,
Of a fuzzy wuzzy angel with the halo of a saint,
And his presence will go with them in tropic heat and rain
And he’ll help them tend the wounded in sickness and in pain.
So we thank you Fuzzy Wuzzy, for all that you have done,
Not only for Australia, but for every Mother’s son;
And we’re glad to call you friend although your faces may be black,
For we know that Christ walked with you on the Owen Stanley track.
Anon
(AWM PR 91 061)
* * *
Crosses
Private Tommy Gray of the illustrious all-WA 2/16th infantry battalion was killed in the battle for Damour fighting against pro-Nazi elements of the French Foreign Legion in June, 1941. The poem was first published in the AIF News in Palestine in September of that year. One of Tom’s mates found it on his body. Tom was an Aboriginal stock-man, a legend and highly regarded in the Pilbara region of WA in the 1930s.
Each life has its crosses,
and a soldier has his share
From a trip across the ocean, to that envied Croix de Guerre.
There are crosses by the sensor, far too many so it seems,
There are crosses on the letters from the girlfriend of his dreams,
There are crosses worn by heroes who have faced the storm of lead,
There’s a cross when he is wounded and a cross when he is dead.
There’s a little cross of mercy
that very few may own,
To a soldier it is second
to that of God alone:
It’s a cross that’s worn by women,
when we see it we believe
That we r
ecognize an angel
by the Red Cross on her sleeve.
Pte Tommy Gray
1941
(AWM MSS 1562)
* * *
Praise to the Nurses
(Written whilst a patient in 2/2 Hospital)
You may talk about the Anzacs over on Gallipoli,
You may talk about the heroes of Tobruk,
You may praise the Royal Navy and the Air Force thrown in too,
I know their gallant deeds would fill a book.
There’s the fuzzy wuzzy angels too, who’ve had a lot of praise,
Of course they deserved it - every one,
The AWAS, and of course the WAAFS, and all the rest of them,
Can each have written to their names, “Well Done!”
But what about the Red Cross nurse? Are they not heroines too?
If ever a band deserved the title they
Have earned it every day they served,
And sometimes without thanks or even smiles to help them on their way.
From dawn of day, ’til dark of night, with never ceasing care,
They tend to all our endless wants and needs,
With smiling face and tender touch and pleasant words of cheer,
Their very presence breathes a note of peace.
Though often feeling worn and tired and sad at heart as well,
They gamely carry on their ceaseless task,
Concerned with others’ comfort and their peace of mind as well,
Are they not Heroines? All of them, I ask?
Pte Jim Baker, NX139320
Moratai NEI, 1945
* * *
Young Shannon McAliney
It is hard to describe to the uninitiated
The unity and spirit that our Army has created.
For the Army is a family, where to serve is to belong,
Where bonds are everlasting and friendships made are strong.
For us to lose a mate is akin to losing family
And today I lost my brother — young Shannon McAliney.
I heard tonight of Shannon as the CO paced the floor;
It soon became apparent this was ground not trod before,
For all our previous patients had been black not white of skin,
My stomach felt uneasy and my calm was paper-thin.
I watched with trepidation as his stretcher hurried past
Hoping against hope that tonight was not his last;
The mere presence of the CO and the grey haired RSM
Turned me sickly cold, for these were very busy men.
I cannot describe the bitter feeling or the empty hollow pain
When I heard the long count start up, then quieten down again.
Angry and frustrated, my nerves felt tightly strung
At the death of Shannon McAliney, who died so very young.
You know, I never knew young Shannon, couldn’t tell him from another,
Yet Shannon McAliney was and is my brother.
Tony Anetts
* * *
Barley, Wheat and Rye
I’m just a lonesome land girl, my home is miles away,
I’m away here in the outback and working hard each day.
Ploughing, digging, sowing, to help the food supply,
Growing barley, wheat and rye.
We, of this women’s service, raise our voices high:
“Come on girls and join us, give the Land Army a try!”
And when the war is over, you can proudly cry:
“I helped to feed the country with barley, wheat and rye!”
Anon
(AWM PR 84 286)
* * *
Australian Women’s Land Army
From their homes of peace and comfort, from the city’s sparkling lights,
To the bush of toil and hardship with its lone and silent nights
Come the daughters of Australia, set to take whate’er befalls,
Glad to cast aside the ball gown for the patriot’s overalls.
And they plough and sow and harrow, and each one pulls her weight,
They get up very early and knock off very late;
They’re doing man-sized missions as they’ve never done before,
Which is no small contribution to the winning of the war.
’Mongst the paddies, pigs and pumpkins, ’midst the cabbages and beet,
In the freezing winds of winter and the summer’s scorching heat,
As they battle choking dust clouds and plod through slush and rain,
They are fighting too for Victory and their toil is not in vain.
Suntanned, strong and healthy, they are feminine and dear,
They’re the mothers of tomorrow, and Australia need not fear
While she fosters daughters like them, marching boldly with her sons,
To steer the plough triumphantly while her brother mans the guns.
They are fighting a silent battle on the front behind the front,
And their combat — just as vital, though it’s girls who bear the brunt.
Smeared with grease and grime of tractors, clad in dirty overalls,
Unsung heroines of warfare, answering to their Nation’s calls.
And the watchword on their banner they, in Freedom cause, unfurled
Is, ‘The hand that guides the tractor is the hand that feeds the world!’
The first round of the battle goes to their men who fight,
While those fair and silent workers continue day and night,
On the farms and in the dairies, on the outback station runs,
Those girls with grit are needed just as much as men with guns.
Sgt S. Clark. RAA
(AWM PR 84 286)
* * *
To “Bobby Tobruk” “The Dog”
He was only a stump-tailed poodle
He had no pedigree,
He was born in a Libyan dust storm
He’d do his share at line guard
And share of piquet as well,
And never a crime had Bobby
And never an AML.
He saw his share of fighting
And fought like a soldier too
For we taught him concealment and cover
In the barracks of Mersa Matruh.
He barked on the plains of Olympus
And fought in the thick of the van
The boys of C Company loved him
And voted young Bobby a man.
For Bobby was born to battle
Though with none of a battler’s luck,
And he who dodged dive bombers
Had to die ‘neath an Arab truck.
So we gave him a soldier’s funeral —
It was all that we could do —
For Bobby Tobruk was a cobber of ours
And helped us see it through.
Anon
(AWM PR 00526)
* * *
Black Anzac
They have forgotten him, need him no more,
He who fought for his land in nearly every war;
Tribal fights before his country was taken by Captain Cook,
Then went overseas to fight at Gallipolli and Tobruk.
World War One two black Anzacs were there,
France, Europe’s desert, New Guinea’s jungle, did his share
Korea, Malaya, Vietnam again black soldier enlisted —
Fight for democracy was his duty he insisted.
Back home went his own way not looking for praise,
Like when he was a warrior in the forgotten tribal days;
Down on the Gold Coast a monument in the Bora Ring,
Recognition at last his praises they are starting to sing.
This black soldier who never marches on Anzac Day
Living in his Gunya doesn’t have much to say,
Thinks of his friends who fought, some returned some died,
If only one day they could march together by his side.
His medals he keeps hidden away from prying eyes;
No one knows, no one sees the tears in his old black eyes —
He’s been outcast just left by himself to die,
Recognition at last black Anzac hold your head high.
Every year at Gold Coast’s Yegurnbah Bora Ring site
Black Anzac in uniform and medals a magnificent sight
The rock with Aboriginal tribal totems paintings inset
The Kon-iburnerri people’s inscription of lest we forget.
Anon
(AWM PR 91 163)
* * *
To a Comrade
In this time of dreary waiting
Many happy hours were spent
Sharing all our fun together
Taking jokes as they were meant.
Now our joyful days are over
Fate decrees that we must part
But the memory of our friendship
Gives us all a cheerful heart.
So where’er your travels take you,
And whatever friends you make,
You’ll know you’ve lots of comrades
And a friendship none can break.
W. P. Toffin
(AWM 3 DRL 3527)
* * *
The Sailor
It isn’t in the papers, so you do not always know
Where to find him, so just address your letters ‘care of GPO’
Today he isn’t where tomorrow he may be,
For yesterday he’s somewhere and the day before at sea.
You can see him in a bar room, and groggy on his feet,
You can see him slowly stagger up the middle of the street,
You can see him with his missus and baby in his arms,
You can see him with a sheila or a girl of doubtful charms.
You can see him when he’s cockeyed drunk and out upon a spree
But you never seem to realise the time he’s been at sea,
Where he’s keeping middle watches for days and days on end;
It isn’t any wonder that it drives him round the bend.
When the great Pacific rollers come crashing o’er the bows
And the ship shakes and shudders, then slowly forward plows,