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    The Happy Warrior

    Page 26
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    Bile — you rotten blankard — bile

      But it couldn’t last forever,

      It had been quite a fair ole run —

      She at last began to bubble

      An’ I knew that I had won.

      Fifteen miles or more I’d covered

      I deserved a spot of luck,

      For a bloke wat run as I did

      Can’t be classed as short of pluck.

      But a sudden notion hit me

      An’ I got an awful shock

      An’ I acted for some seconds

      Like a bloke wat’s done ’is block,

      Then I kicked that billy from me

      An’ I groaned in anguish dire —

      I ’ad left that tea and sugar

      Where I’d lit that bloody fire.

      T. V. Tiemey

      (AWM PR 00526)

      * * *

      The Boozers’ Lament

      We’ve fought upon Gallipoli

      And toiled on Egypt’s plain

      We’ve travelled far across the sea

      To face the foe again;

      We’ve faced the perils of the deep

      And faced them with good cheer

      But now they give us cause to weep

      They’ve gone and stopped our beer.

      We wouldn’t mind if they had stopped

      The pickles and the cheese

      They might have cut the marmalade

      Or issued fewer peas,

      But it’s a sin to drink red vin

      Or for a cobber shout

      Which kind of sets me wondering

      If they’ve cut the champagne out.

      They stopped our rum, we didn’t mind

      While we had beer to soak,

      But now they gone and stopped the wine

      It’s getting past a joke.

      Each countenance you see is sad

      Within each eye a tear,

      The greatest injury we’ve had

      Is cutting out our beer.

      For you must shun the flowing bowl

      And turn you from the wine,

      And water drink to cheer your soul

      If it should chance to pine;

      And you must order coffee

      When you toast the folks at home

      And spend your cash on toffee

      Chewing gum and honey comb.

      There’s microbes in the water lads

      So drink it with a will

      And every mother’s son of us

      Will jolly soon be ill.

      And when we’re on the sick parade

      The Doctor he will cry:

      “The lads, I fear, must have their beer

      Else they will surely die!”

      Sgt A.M. Dick (?)

      (AWM PR 00187)

      * * *

      Oh! It’s Nice to be a Soldier.

      Now I’ve joined up with the Army

      It’s a home away from home,

      The meals are really lovely

      And you never hear a moan,

      For it’s about this little rest home

      That this tale I’m going to tell:

      The Sergeant Major, he’s a pet,

      The Captain’s really swell,

      The Corporals are so nice to me,

      And that’s fair dinky-di,

      That when this war is over

      I’ll just break down and cry.

      Chorus

      Oh! It’s nice to be a soldier,

      Soldering will just suit me!

      From first thing in the morning

      Till it’s time to go to bed

      We’re digging holes and sloping arms

      Till we’re silly in the head.

      When the canteen opens

      All the boys begin to play

      And by the time we get to sleep

      It dawns another day.

      But it’s nice to be a Soldier

      Soldiering will just suit me.

      Now every morning on parade

      You cannot hear a sound,

      Especially when the Sergeant Major’s

      Marching up and down.

      There’s a morning in particular

      I was a trifle late,

      The Captain gave me such a look

      And said “You’re in a state.”

      Then after I saluted him

      This was my sad reply,

      “I took a Number Nine last night

      And my God! I nearly died!”

      Now they march us out like lunatics

      They call it on parade,

      No one tells us anything

      And the boys all look dismayed.

      Then off we go to the RAP

      Where we hang round telling yarns,

      Until they squirt a little antidote

      Into our flaming arms.

      Then after this is over

      They take us for a march,

      It’s bad luck for the molly dooke

      He cannot scratch his tail.

      Will Handley

      (AWM PR 85 205)

      * * *

      Bully Beef

      Here I sit and sadly wonder

      Why they sent me Bully Beef

      Why the living, jumping thunder

      I should bear such awful grief?

      Did I ever, in my childhood

      Cause my parents grief and pain?

      Did I ever in a passion try to wreck a railway train?

      Have I been a drunken husband?

      Have I ever beat my wife?

      Did I ever, just for past-time

      Try to take my neighbour’s life?

      If I haven’t, then I tell you

      It is far beyond belief

      Why they sent me greasy, sloppy

      Undeciphered Bully Beef

      Bully Beef, by all that’s mighty

      Streaky, strangly Bully-Beef

      I’d sooner face a thousand Jackos

      Than half a tin of Bully-Beef.

      Ask the cook, what’s for dinner

      And he’ll tell you bully beef

      Breakfast, dinner, tea or supper

      All consists of bully beef.

      bully beef, why blow me, Charlie,

      I would forfeit ten days pay

      If I could lose the sight of bully

      Just for one clear gladsome ray.

      Yet, they send me in a parcel

      Along with greetings, short and brief,

      Lots of nice things, sweet and tasty

      But, among them, bully beef!

      Tpr W. H. Johnstone (?)

      8th ALH, AIF

      (AWM PR 84/049)

      * * *

      Female Invasion

      When the Munga steamed out of Sydney

      On a wintry July afternoon,

      Who would have thought for a moment

      There’d be females invading her soon.

      No one guessed when the Japs gave it best

      What the future held in store;

      The normally sexed were not perplexed

      About a celibate year or more.

      Not so our boys from the Wardroom,

      Our inspiration, to wit,

      A gentlemen can’t keep his end up

      Without getting his regular bit.

      So you should have seen the excitement

      When the news got ’round down there,

      We were taking on women and children:

      ’Twould’ve driven their wives to despair.

      Now a bright boy is Subby Jack Alway,

      Intent on making his bid

      Knew the surest way to a woman’s heart

      Is to make a hit with the kid.

      None can gainsay that this worthy

      Didn’t play his role to a tee,

      ’Twas only a matter of minutes

      And he had a kid on his knees.

      Who knows what went on in his cabin?

      You can please yourselves about that,

      But a bloke with a technique so subtle

      Won’t waste time with a sniveling brat.

      Now we’ve got a bloke name of Robeson,

     
    ; An Engineer Subby, brand new,

      Who fancies himself as a lover

      We were anxious to see what he’d do.

      In a minute or two from his debut

      The women were calling his bluff,

      And the boys looked anxiously ’bout them

      For a bloke made of sterner stuff.

      They weren’t to wait long for the answer

      For presently hove into view

      A real Casanova, no kidding,

      With a lover’s Varsity Blue.

      This bloke’s a national hero,

      I’ll prove it to you old chap

      Didn’t the Women’s Weekly

      Reproduce his masculine map?

      Noel Abrams (to whom I’m referring)

      Wasn’t beating about the bush,

      He went straight into action

      With a regular gem of a blush.

      This buggered the blokes’ calculations:

      “Who’s going to save the side?”

      They’d put all their dollars on Abrams,

      A good bet, it can’t be denied.

      Meantime the bookies were chuckling,

      They’d selected the pick of the bunch,

      But they didn’t let on to their cobbers

      The guts of their shrewd little hunch.

      This gent may’ve been schooled at

      Eton, Harrow or Oxford, by Jove,

      A regular hit with the ladies

      And not a bad sort of a cove.

      Well there’s no harm in him thinking it, fellers,

      When a bloke likes to get himself in,

      It’s a hell of a pity, admitted,

      And a source of constant chagrin.

      But as long as it isn’t contagious,

      Don’t be a victim, my man,

      Let him talk himself blind if he wishes

      And get himself in when he can.

      He’s got a beautiful accent

      A product of RANC,

      You’ll find it in most straight ringers,

      The hallmark of dignity.

      Ed Dollard’s the gent I’m portraying

      Number one boy in the ship,

      Well equipped both in poise and in stature,

      Not averse to admiring a hip.

      As most of the women were English

      His bearing was made for the job,

      And his form at this critical juncture

      Was watched avidly by the mob.

      He’s in an enviable possie,

      The master of all he surveys,

      It’s impressed all the women, the sucker,

      His power in so many cute ways.

      But despite his advantage as Jimmy

      Our Ed didn’t do so hot,

      But it wasn’t for lack of trying

      He was giving it all he’d got.

      Somehow these straight-ringers reckon

      They’re perso-boys plus, it appears,

      Take Edwards, mother perm product,

      And not very far on in years.

      The blokes hadn’t reckoned with Peter

      On account of his thinning thatch,

      They thought that the women would shun him

      Foresaw no potential match.

      The first thing that came to our notice —

      We could hardly believe our eyes —

      Was a game of ‘Handles’ on X deck

      By jingo, we got a surprise.

      Now I guess you’ve all seen the advert,

      Depicting a bloke with no wool

      Wed to a woman who trapped him

      Just for the money — the fool.

      Admitting that Peter’s no pauper

      Tho’ bloody near bankrupt of hair

      No woman would wed him for money

      He’s no bloody millionaire.

      This got the boys thinking shrewdly

      “What’s Peter Edward’s game?”

      She can’t harry him for his money,

      And his thatch is a crying shame.”

      But, kept under observation,

      The boys discovered at length

      That Pete was the hunted, not hunter —

      The lass was exerting her strength.

      Then came an expert manoeuvre,

      A strategic withdrawal by name,

      The woman abandoned her quarry

      In search of more gullible game.

      You must hand it to Frank Sanguinetti,

      (Not a bad bloke, you’ll find),

      A chap with a couple of youngsters

      And a charming young wife left behind.

      He didn’t fall for the glamour

      Of a wench who’d be outcast in Vic,

      Carried on with his regular business

      And helped any kids who got sick.

      Bishop and Stormy were others

      Whose passions were not aroused,

      Both likely-looking youngsters, too,

      And neither of them espoused.

      Theirs was the call of duty,

      Likewise the Gunner (T),

      “What is the love of a woman

      Compared with the love of the sea?”

      John Coles was another non-starter

      In this Bacchanalian game,

      His thought of his wife and his family

      Hung on to his unbesmirched name.

      Even our Yankee Allies,

      Renowned for their womenly guiles,

      Simply greeted the females with décor

      And a few irreproachable smiles.

      The Doctor had the boys guessing,

      No one could quite make out

      When he welcomed the femmes at the gangway

      Just what it was all about.

      Was it professional manner?

      Or was he going to flout

      The trust with which he’s divested?

      He got the best of the doubt.

      Put a query alongside Bob Wilshire,

      He wasn’t seen much up on deck

      Probably down in his cabin

      With a passionate dame ’round his neck.

      Tough luck for Skipper Nobby:

      Whether he liked it or not,

      The laws of the Navy dictated

      The bridge was to be his spot.

      Rather a handsome blighter,

      Would’ve acquitted himself well

      If given a chance like the others,

      Might’ve trapped an unwary gal.

      So listen, down in the Wardroom,

      Why don’t you take a hint:

      It’s the man that gets the woman —

      Don’t care if you own the mint.

      And though braid may look just ducky,

      It’s superficial just,

      It’s the man in you that gets ’em,

      If get a woman you must.

      Just look around the messdecks,

      And see what I’m talking about,

      You’ll be looking then at he-men,

      Men’s men without a doubt.

      So curb your sexual hunger

      Wake up and do your stuff!

      And never lose your heads boys,

      Over a little bit of fluff.

      ‘Longfellow’

      * * *

      Tobruk Test

      You’ve heard of Bradman, Hammond,

      MacCartney, Woodfull, Hobbs,

      You’ve heard of how MacDougall topped the score

      Now I’d like to tell you

      How we play cricket in Tobruk

      In a way the game was never played before.

      The players are a mixture,

      They come from every rank

      And their dress would not be quite the thing at Lord’s;

      But you don’t need caps and flannels

      And expensive batting gloves

      To get the fullest sport the game affords.

      The wicket’s rather tricky

      For it’s mat on desert sand

      But for us it’s really plenty good enough,

      And what with big bomb craters

      And holes from nine-inch shells,

    &nb
    sp; The outfield could be well described as rough.

      The boundary’s partly tank trap

      With the balance dannert wire

      And the grandstand’s just a bit of sandy bank,

      While our single sightboard’s furnished

      By a shot-down Jerry plane

      And the scorer’s in a ruined Itie tank

      One drawback is a minefield

      Which is at the desert end

      And critics might find fault with this and that,

      But to us all runs are good ones

      Even if a man should score

      Four leg byes off the top of his tin hat.

      The barracking is very choice,

      The Hill would learn a lot

      If they could listen in to all the cries

      As the Quartermaster Sergeant

      Bowls the Colonel neck and crop

      With a yorker while some dust was in his eyes

      And the time the Signals runner

      Scored the winning hit

      When, as he sprinted round the wire to try and save the four,

      The Battery Sergeant Major

      Fell into a crater deep

      And the batsman ran another seven more.

      If we drive one in the minefield

      We always run it out

      For that is what the local rules defines:

      It’s always good for six at least,

      Some times as high as ten

      While the fieldsman picks his way in through the mines.

      Though we never stop for shell-fire

      We’re not too keen on planes,

      But when the Stukas start to hover round

      You can sometimes get a wicket,

      If you’re game enough to stay

      By bowling as the batsman goes to ground

      So when we’re back in Sydney

      And others start to talk

      Of cricket, why we’ll quell them with a look:

      “You blokes have never seen

      A game of cricket properly played

      The way we used to play it in Tobruk.”

      Anon

      (AWM PR 00359)

      * * *

      Promotion

      “Promotion,” said one cocksure bloke,

      Needs personality

      You tell the CO some good joke,

      And earn three stripes — watch me!”

      He slapped the Colonels back and said,

      “Old Cock, let’s have a drink!”

      No stripes for him, no gold and red —

      Just three weeks in the clink.

      Anon

      (AWM PR 00526)

      * * *

      ANZAC Exchange

      Sarge, I think I’m buggered,

      I’m bitten on me back,

      a bloody snake’s bin crawlin’ thru the grass.

     


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