He can go — to Werribee.
Bdr S. J. Lynch
(AWM MSS 1557)
* * *
A Day at the Office
Have you ever been in an Orderly Room
And studied the Clerk’s routine?
No! then come along to the 48th,
Here is the opening scene:
It’s situated near a stream
A number of miles from Lae,
It’s not exactly an artist’s dream
But here we’ll stage the play.
Have you ever seen an aviary
With a gable roof on top?
Yes? We’ll nail a sign ‘A Office’ up
And that’s where we play shop.
The time is almost nine o’clock
The Sarge knows what to expect,
The Adj walks in with piles of bumph,
And the usual “type this next”.
The sun climbs up in the heavens,
The minutes go fleeting on,
The little Sergeant heaves a sigh
And yells for Tonk and Don.
Faint murmurings are heard nearby
Then voices speak without,
And in they walk those clerical guys
With a “what’s all the panic about?”
Don looks spruce with his whiskers off,
Every day it’s considered too cruel,
Grizzles our Tonk with an injured air
“Why Don, you’ve broken the rule!”
Down they squat as they heave a sigh,
Says Don “it’s time for a smoke.”
They roll their fags with a studied grace,
And Tonk starts to crack a joke
The Sergeant gives a disgusted look
For the joke is really taboo,
He rummages around the various files
And finds them something to do.
An oath from Tonk as his screwdriver prods
Into the back of the old machine,
As he backs the spacer and thumps the bar
And tinkers with parts unseen.
Don sets to work with the roll on his knees,
And marches men in and out,
He checks the strengths of Company rolls
And his pen starts scratching about.
When Saturday dawns so bright and fair
There are Field Returns to do;
The Sgt struggles with figures of men
And thinks them all bally-hoo.
Work proceeds at a steady pace
Till the typewriter seems to be stuck;
The Sgt peers o’er the typist’s shoulder
And finds he has overstruck.
He says to Tonk “Don’t spare the rubber,”,
ays Tonk “Looks good paper to me.”
But at him is thrown an eraser,
For the Returns the Old Man must see.
Time goes on the work eases off,
Some letters the boys start to pen.
Don writes some pages to Mother
While Tonk ear bashes to Gwen.
They say to the Sarge about tea time
“You’ve worked us to death all day,
You can pull your silly-gig head in,
We’re giving the game away!”
And so the curtain closes,
On the overworked! happy! three!
Each day is the same in the Orderly Room —
Come again some time and see.
GB
* * *
The Ninth Div Grand Final
’Twas the day of the football premiership
The Ninth Div final grand
When the 48th met the Cavalry
Way up on the Tablelands.
The Tricolours were the favourites
With better form as a guide,
Although the gallant Blue and Whites
Are a never-beaten side.
And they proved it so, at the epic end
Of a game that will never die
When they won the match with a well-earned goal
Ere the final bell rang nigh.
From the start it looked the cavalry
Would take the ridge hands down,
They put the Blues to ground.
High marking safe and brilliantly
To dominate the air
With driving kicks, from end to end
They triumphed everywhere.
For though the 48th strove hard
Their run to grimly stay,
They could not match the brilliance of
The Cav’s grand open play.
Goal after goal they rattled on:
Again, and yet again,
The ‘Troopers’ scored to shade the Blues,
Who battled on in vain.
(Or so did seem) till came half time
When of that break in need
The ‘4-bar-8s’ were six goals down
Oh! what a heartbreak lead.
But few have known just really when
The 48th were beat,
For when their chance looks at its worst
They’re hardest to defeat.
And once again it proved this day
For fighting grimly back
The Blue and Whites came back to win
Upon a hopeless track.
Right through to ‘lemons’ hard they held
The dashing Cavalry
As inch by inch they slowly gained
With dour tenacity.
Yea (spite of all) at ‘lemons’ still
The Cav by four goals led,
Full well the ‘4-bar-8’ men knew
The task which lay ahead.
So when the final term commenced
Straight from the starting bell
The Blues went in to do or die
And played the game like hell.
Though hard the rattled Tricolours
Tried everything they knew
To stem the tide; relentlessly
Surged on the ‘White and Blue’.
Time after time into attack
With telling drives they came,
And paralysed the Cav’s defence
By closing up the game.
With deadly kicking, true but sure,
Their score crept upwards slow –
Three points behind, a goal to win —
Five minutes left to go!
Then ere the bell rings Smithy marks
A few yards out of goals,
“I hope he gets it!” “May he miss!”
Implore some thousand souls.
As midst a silence deathly still,
His screw-punt neatly spun
Between the sticks: comes cheering shrill –
The 48th had won!
Anon
* * *
Much Ado About Nothing
The 48th is in disgrace for robbing an Itie nob:
Some rascal snatched a Colonel’s watch, worth about two bob.
It surely was an awful deed; in the Army it’s just not done,
And I suppose until they find it, no victory can be won.
They’ve looked in all the pawn shops from Alex to Aleppo
But not a sign can anyone find of that imitation ‘Sheppo’.
Kit inspections have been held, they’ve questioned every man,
Tried various ways to dig it up, but b — d if they can.
To find Scirrocco’s timepiece is more important than the front
All the best brains in the Army are joining in the hunt.
They’re trying hard to find it and I’ve a strong suspicion
I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if that was Churchill’s mission.
The search goes on from day to day; morning, noon and night,
But seems the old wop’s done it in — the watch has gone alright.
Perhaps some joker wogged it and went out on the shicker
And that would be the proper thing to do with that old ticker.
For I’ll tell you my opinion of all this bloody rot,
They could stop this cranky racket if that Itie mug was shot:
For I don’t suppose they questioned him or looked in his valise
For the food those Dago b — s took from starving kids in Greece.
I don’t suppose they asked him, who took our comrades’ lives,
Took away those good Australians leaving sorrowing kids and wives.
No, they’ll see that he is comfortable and treat him like a toff,
While the people home are paying us to kill the b — s off.
Anon
* * *
Army Pay
I’m but a bloomin’ private,
One of the simple kind,
It’s not that I’m a moaner,
But there’s something on my mind;
Even if you think me thankless,
I still must have my say,
I find that I am always broke
With a dollar for my pay.
It’s not that I am sorry
That I joined to win this war;
My pocket is always empty,
I’d like a little more.
Nearly all Australian soldiers
Have their pint of beer each day,
I find I can’t afford it
On my paltry army pay.
Perhaps you’ll say I knew it
When I volunteered to join,
And I only have myself to blame
For any lack of coin;
And to be quite truthful,
I don’t regret the day
That I signed on the dotted line
To work for army pay.
The way I use the rifle
Causes quite a fuss,
They say I must be cross-eyed
And I couldn’t hit a bus;
My shots all miss the target,
From the bull they’re far away,
But I line up with the marksmen
For my paltry army pay.
When we have a route march
My feet both ache and pain,
To make conditions perfect
It always starts to rain.
The pack gets very heavy
And makes my shoulders sway,
I stagger back exhausted
To get my paltry pay.
I look back with amusement,
When I, a raw recruit,
Marched around in circles
In a brand new khaki suit.
Although those days are distant
And I have sailed away,
My income hasn’t altered —
I’m on the same old pay.
Raymond John Colenso
(AWM PR 00689)
* * *
Nil Illegitimi Carborundum
We knew he was a wrong ’un when he got on to the ship,
For he had no dignity at all and gave us all the pip
When he handed out our telegrams like an awful office boy,
And by his manner acted as if he gave each child a toy.
Then he started on the tannoy. God! How I hate his voice
“Pay attention everybody.” He’d be hung by public choice
When he speaks his futile rubbish and we laugh behind our hand,
As it’s only through senility he got his scarlet band.
His idea of being a Commandant is to keep things hush, the drip,
As he would be quite depressed if we were happy on the trip.
He only says, “You can’t do this,” he never says you can,
Which is only just what every girl used once to say to man.
He said “No leave at Freetown,” which didn’t matter much,
But the same thing said at Capetown had quite a different touch.
“There is danger on the small boats, as the weather is so rough.”
But when it calmed next morning the airmen called his bluff.
Those that hadn’t left the night before to buy things for their wife
Took the waterboat for Capetown to have some fun and strife;
The Old Boy nearly had a fit and ‘Staff’ warned all concerned
That any sailor who broke ship would quickly be interned.
But this only caused more laughter and decided all the boys
To go and see the Capetown Folk and taste the city’s joys;
Even Royal Naval Sailors, who seldom flout the law,
Joined the happy throng in hundreds and with cheers pulled for the shore.
So the Navy still can take it, leave I mean, not tyrant stuff,
And their thumbs went to their nostrils at the Commandant’s cheap bluff;
In the meantime the old blighter, who found he had no power,
Crept in shame into his cabin, where he moaned for hour on hour.
So a happy trip was stonkered by a blurry bureaucrat
Just a silly senile fellow, who will get a bowler hat,
For we’ve warned the old War Office and Australia’s got the tip
That no Aussie troops will travel with this CO on a ship.
If Captain Bligh was Commandant, we’d have known just where we stood,
But now we just get mucked about and know nothing that we should;
We’ll soon forget because of all the fun we’ve had together,
So ‘Here’s to’ home and those we love in sunny Aussie weather.
Anon
(AWM PR 83 198)
* * *
“If”… A Version for Land Girls
(With apologies to Rudyard Kipling and in appreciation of England’s Land Army.
If you can keep your feet when snow still lingers
And paths are skating rinks of solid rain;
If you can pick wet sprouts with frozen fingers
And fill two trugs, unheedful of the pain;
If you can force each tired and aching sinew
To lift you from your warm and cosy bed
And sally forth without a morsel in you
To misty mangled field or gloomy shed;
If, with a cheerful face and lips unpouting
You can dig potatoes from ice-cold mud;
If you can call until you’re hoarse with shouting
For cows you thought were calmly chewing cud
And track them down at last in someone’s garden,
Employed in crushing beetroots in the ground,
Then humbly beg the hostile owners pardon
And drive them home without an angry sound;
If, when you’re scything grass, you find there lying
Sickles, shears and other worn out tools,
Things that chip your scythe and send you flying,
Left there by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Yet never lose your patience for a minute or
Though your sun-baked head is in a whirl —
Yours is the earth (and the insects in it)
And … what is more … you’ll be a saint, my girl.
Anon
(AWM PR 84 286)
* * *
The Lass’s Lament
No use looking bloody coy,
Can’t even catch a bloody boy,
Life is robbed of bloody joy,
Oh bloody, bloody. bloody!
When this bloody war is won,
Perhaps we’ll get some bloody fun,
Been living like a bloody nun,
Oh bloody, bloody, bloody!
Tired of talking to bloody ladies,
Of what the latest bloody shade is,
They can go to bloody Hades,
Oh bloody, bloody, bloody!
Waiting round for bloody letters,
Knitting piles of bloody sweaters,
Better if the Nazis get us,
Oh bloody, bloody, bloody!
Anon
* * *
My Old Brown Hat
It hasn’t got roller brim, it shows no shiny nap,
It sports no fancy ribbons, just a weather beaten s
trap;
It never swanked around the block to give the girls a treat
It’s not the kind of nifty lid they’d stand in Collins Street;
It’s nothing like the jumping jack you wear with evening dress,
It was never foaled by Woodrow, and it never heard of tress;
You wouldn’t call it just the juicy onion for the play,
Nor the thing to hook a clue with on the bridge on Henley Day;
It would be a hellish compliment to call it homely brown,
But it’s one side’s cocked up handsome when it isn’t hanging down;
It has served through forty climates up from Collingwood to Leith,
And it fits the frosty dial that is grinning underneath
It’s stopped a brace of bullets (it has also missed a few)
It’s my dingy, dinkum cobber, for I’ve never liked them new,
So cut it out, and never think a bloke has got a rat,
When he says “I love you like I do my old brown hat”.
We was hell and all in Cairo, where our notions of the law
Was mostly wrote with knuckles on the population’s jaw;
And coming up one evening — there were three of us — and gay,
I bumped a filthy nigger in a dirty alleyway;
He slung opinions round him with a shocking lack of tone,
So I handed him a hefty one across the dizzy bone.
He pulled a knife and yelled and then, with twenty seconds gone,
The father and mother of a blooming mix was on,
We was back to wall and dicky till some cobbers took a share,
And the sight of our old brown brims was the thing that brought them there;
And only for me twisting as the blow came humming down,
For this scar upon my shoulder I’d have worn an angel’s crown;
I was half an inch from heaven — twig the cut upon the brim —
So I’ll keep it, a memento, till I sing my parting hymn,
Till the left of time has feinted and the right has biffed me flat,
And for a halo afterwards, my old brown hat.
I took it out to Anzac, where I duly humped it from,
And I wore it for a diadem when fluttering to the Somme;
We found a front line sector, and we hadn’t hardly come,
When Fritzie showed a sign which read ‘Australians Welcome Home’;
We weren’t out to disappoint, we had a sense of fair,
We were grateful for the welcome, and we handed back a share;
We deal him good and plenty, and I think he understands,