So call the Medic quick,
to give me arm a prick
and take away the pain until I pass.
Yer mate the Bombardier,
can have me ‘ish’ of beer,
I won’t be drinkin’ Fosters when I go.
I’ve wrote me mum a note,
and I’ve put it in me pack,
she’s livin’ down near Kunga-munga-mo.
So tell me Aussie mates,
youse Kiwi bloody skates,
have caused the death of one of Anzac’s finest.
And when I pass away
don’t put me in the clay,
the bloody dingoes here are rife as goats.
What’s that you bloody say?
the chopper’s on its way,
it won’t be here in time to save this Digger.
The Doc he said it’s what?
Now how did that get there?
A tear tab from a beer can caused this wound?
Well, the pain will pass away,
and I’ll fight another day,
but pleeze youse Kiwis keep this to yourselves!
Mike Subritzky
161 Battery at Enoggora, 1986
Galloping Horses
He may have been tall and distinguished
with full head of hair and a mo
Trim and taut and terrific
and always ready to go.
Or maybe he’s not quite so tall,
with less hair, and not quite so trim.
He could have been bald — not quite perfect,
but no one to question him.
Short hair, no sideburns, no creases,
spit polish and brasso — no choice
Pace stick, measured stride, and you shuddered —
just at the sound of his voice.
He’s old now, and grey, sometimes lonely,
but he smiles at the time that he spent
Making men out of boys for the Army —
and he wonders where you all went.
Margaret Gibbons
* * *
At the Trees
I saw him today at the trees,
Almost seventy now, got crook knees,
And his weight is a problem as well —
But he always has stories to tell.
He laughs while he works with his mates
As they rake and shovel and rest,
And the young ones who look passing by
Never think these may be the best.
The best of the 50s and 60s,
The best of the 70s too,
They walked tall and straight and unflinching
They were rascals and marksmen all through.
They have secrets they share when together
They have thoughts of their own none can share,
But to know just what they are thinking
You really had to be there.
You had to have lain in an ambush
Or jumped from a chopper in flight
Or waded in deep smelly water
Or said to a mate “You’ll be right!”
But the work party’s over for now
And he’s off to his home and to ‘Mum’;
He values the time he spends with his mates
And he still feels the beat of the drum.
Margaret Gibbons
* * *
Old Bob
A hellhole like New Guinea,
Which can health and spirit rob,
May have wore him down and sickened
But never bested Bob.
The years of work and raisin’ children,
That seeming endless plod,
Did not to my knowin’
Show up too much bad in Bob.
That cruel blow which struck him
May have cost his pride and job
But could not make him quiet —
He was a ‘goer’ was our Bob.
The great occasions of my life,
Wedding’s joy and death’s harsh sob,
Were made sweeter or a comfort
By the presence of our Bob.
His latter years were hard ones
While cancer did its job
But never weak complaining
I ever heard from Bob
He’s left us now to rest at last
Some say ’tis best — Poor Bob —
But ’tis we who are the poorer
For the passing of our Bob.
Capt. Don Buckby
* * *
Tom the Barber
This poem was written for the retirement of Mr Dennis Hardy who was known affectionately by all as Tom the Barber. Tom had been one of Defence’s resident, and no doubt the longest serving (long suffering?) barbers in Sydney for forty years, mainly in the Moorebank/Holsworthy districts.
Old Tom the barber’s cut the hair of a hundred thousand soldiers,
And passed along the soldiers’ lore and tales for forty years.
He’s never hurried or upset — a happy jovial soul,
Comedy and tragedy with equal gusto told.
His shop remains the repository of memories, dreams and such,
So little space it’s hard to find the room to store so much;
Mementoes left by customers of lands and times gone by
To continue myths and legends long after we all die.
He’s also got some naughty books of ladies with no clothes on,
He says its ‘art’, but we believe it’s for customer satisfaction;
The customers are mesmerised, no anaesthetic needed,
Tom snips and combs and tells his tales, his sallies go unheeded.
And now old Tom has ‘pulled the pin’, a well earned rest is waiting,
He’s served his time, he’s done his bit, no other way of stating;
We wish him well for all his plans, contented in retirement,
No doubt we’ll see him round the traps and bleed him of his pension.
And when he gets to heaven will he cut St Peter’s hair?
Or do they have a need for such as Tom away up there?
And what about those naughty books what will the Blessed think?
A holy penthouse version of ‘Angels in the Pink’!
What will you do to fill your days now cutting hair no longer,
A lazy day, a beer or two, or maybe something stronger?
Farewell, old friend, (as many have the right to call him such)
For all your work and friendship — Thankyou very much.
WO2 Paul Barrett
* * *
Lionel Lyons
In my usual verses
Sarcasm always shines,
This time I shall be different
As I dedicate these lines
To a friend who has departed
Into the great beyond
And joined the wife who left him
Thus tying the severed bond.
On every second Sunday morn
For seventeen long years,
While placing flowers on her grave
He shed bitter tears.
He never missed attending,
In sunshine or in rain,
Although his every visit
Only added to the pain.
Time, the greatest healer,
Couldn’t mend his broken heart,
But now I know he’s happy —
They no longer are apart.
He was always at our meetings,
He attended every night,
To see him playing poker
Was but a common sight.
He was in fact an addict
To this game of luck and skill,
But, no longer will he deal the cards,
Or ask, “How many Bill?”
No one can tell by watching
If his luck was good or bad
He wore the same expression
Whatever cards he had.
Now the Lodge has lost this Brother
And we have lost our
friend
Because his life was finished
And Fate had written end.
He’s rejoined the wife he loved
And side by side they lie,
By his sudden death is shown
All that lives must die.
Brothers, be upstanding,
And toast to one we love,
Although we’ll always miss him
He was needed up above.
I’ll ask you all to join me,
Repeat with me these lines:
“You’ll never be forgotten,
Farewell, Lionel Lyons.”
Raymond John Colenso
(AWM PR 00689)
* * *
Jungle Jim
Where the jungle is the toughest,
Where the going is the roughest,
Bathed in sweat with face so grim
You will find him — Jungle Jim.
Wading through the filth and mud,
He has proved he is no dud;
“Onward always” is his hymn,
He’s a tiger — Jungle Jim.
Where he goes he pulls his weight,
At rendezvous he’s never late,
Though he’s light and rather slim,
He’s a battler — Jungle Jim.
When at last he fades away,
(Not we hope, for many a day)
Then the angels tour will sing:
“Here he comes — Old Jungle Jim.”
‘Gibbo’
(AWM PR 00074)
* * *
Bert of Bardia
Bert of Bardia, back in town,
Bert of Bardia, big and brown,
Dragging a leg with a shattered knee,
Came to the bar and drank with me.
There was a mournful look on Bert,
He had the air of a man whole hurt,
And glancing down at his blighted limb
My heart was sorry indeed for him.
“Stiff luck!” I said, then it seemed to me,
That I had made a mistake, for he
With his strong half smile and his manly touch,
Declared, “Aw, it isn’t that so much.”
And his gaze went through that city bar
Till fixed, it seemed, on things afar,
And I knew that he saw the sand dunes,
In Libya under the scorching skies.
And I knew that in spite of the price of war,
He yearned to be back with his mates once more,
There with the cobbers he loved so well,
Fighting his way through a dusty hell.
And it cheered me to think there were other grim
And resolute sons of the soil, like him,
The type who will see the battle through,
So ‘Bert of Bardia’ here’s to you!
Anon
War Graves on Tarakan
Will you walk with me in the heat of the day
Till we come at the crossroads on the way
Of a dusty road on Tarakan
To a scene in the scheme of the war’s mad plan?
There are soldiers there in a little square
Who will breathe no more of the dust-filled air,
On the trails they died, by the road they rest
With foreign soil on each manly chest.
On the crosses which mark the arid mounds
Are the tales of courage which know no bounds
‘Killed in Action’ and ‘Died of Wounds’
But wasted lives are war’s worst ruin.
You will see mates at the graveside stand
Quietly, slouch hats held in hand
And you may grieve, as they will too,
For the hopes and dreams which will not come true.
In death these men have simple needs,
No separate tracts for differing creeds;
For the shoulders, which never were cold in life
Are together in death as they were in strife.
You may gaze at the flag which hangs from the mast
To honour the men who were staunch to the last
And fancy you hear a quiet voice say:
Australia, my country, will you repay.
Will you warm my heart, give daily bread
To the hungry mouths which once were fed
Through the sweat and toil of a fallen man
Who sleeps by the road on Tarakan,
So when you return by the dusty road
You may bear your share of a sacred load
With a pride whose flame ignited them
Will burn to the sound of the last ‘Amen!’
FO T. Latham
(AWM MSS 1234)
* * *
White Crosses
On the day before leave taking
From this place called Tobruk Bay
One last visit I’ll be making
To that graveyard down the way
Where eight hundred small white crosses
And eight hundred sacred mounds
Show the place wherein our Heroes
Sleep the last on foreign ground.
Every white cross tells a story
With a number rank and name
Every mound is one of glory
For it holds an Anzac frame.
Each join state a space divided
[missing line]
In the square of Libyan sand
Fairest square in all the land
Every mound holds someone’s Digger
Every cross a mother’s pride,
And Australia’s fame grows bigger
For the way those Heroes died.
Best of mates it’s hard to leave you
In this sandy waste so bare
But fond hearts will not forget you
In your native land so fair.
We know not our destination
When we leave this hostile bay
But we’ve this determination
We will square the debt some day
And perhaps it sounds like ‘hooey’
But the orders read ‘No noise’
As a farewell from the boys.
Pte Worthington
QX11656
(AWM MSS 1562)
* * *
Untitled
The following poem was prefaced with: ‘Lines pencilled after a fruitless search for the grave of my late beloved nephew Charles Chetwynd Currie. Killed in Action, Lone Pine ANZAC Aug 8th 15 after being wounded in the landing April 25th 15. Killed after volunteering to bomb an enemy trench — the first to volunteer from his native town.’
Although directed to the place
I cannot find a single trace
Of where my bonnie nephew sleeps
For whom, poor Nel, my sister weeps;
Howe’er I try the search is vain,
Perhaps some day I’ll try again.
One of the first to volunteer
To serve the flag he loved so dear,
Thus answering his country’s call
He freely gave his life — his all —
From home and kindred far apart;
Unknown to flinch, that noble heart.
Weep not dear sister; well I know
His loss must seem a bitter blow
But he to whom such praise is given
Must find a corner high in heaven,
For none deserves it more than he
Who sleeps so far across the sea.
But changed events and gathering years
At length may stem a mother’s tears;
Father’s, sisters’, brothers’ grief
Who, in these facts may find relief,
That Charlie fell amidst the brave
And rests within a soldier’s grave.
(AWM MSS 1445)
* * *
The Letter Which Came Too Late
Fondest love and tender wishes,
From your loving Mother dear,
&nbs
p; I hope this letter brings you
Good luck with every cheer.
We miss your kind and smiling face,
We wish that you were home
God give you strength and guidance,
No matter where you roam.
There’s a chair beside the fireside,
Where once you used to sit,
A lampstand in the corner
You always wanted lit.
Your presence at the table,
We all can’t help but miss,
Your boyish sort of manner
When you gave your good-night kiss.
It seems so very long ago
You kissed us at the door,
Our eyes were full of parting tears —
My son was off to war.
I pray son that God’s Angels
Will guide my loving son,
And bring him safely back to me
When all this war is won.
A log burns in the fireside,
No better place you’d choose,
A wireless in the corner
Is giving out the news.
“Our bombers raided Buna,
And four did not return.”
That anxious waiting Mother —
Her heart will always yearn.
W. A. Dutton
(AWM MSS 1481)
* * *
Honour the Brave
On the palm-fringed shores of an emerald isle
Just north of Samari,
In shaded jungle palm groves,
From the burning northern sky.
Dusky dark-haired maidens,
With dark and fuzzy hair,
Their skin is dark and shiny,
A skirt of grass they wear.
Fragrant, scented breezes
Blow in from out the bay,
With the tang of musty seaweed
In the salt foam and the spray.
Tall and lofty palm leaves
Reach out to touch the bay,
Their leaves are long and slender
In the breeze they swing and sway.
In this tropical jaded splendour,
Along with nature’s law,
You forget the past and horror
Of this world and bloody war.
But down there on those beaches,
A month or so gone by,
Men, they fought with fury
And many had to die;