When shadows fall and night has come
At the close of a glorious day,
The birds have all flown home to rest
And silent lies the bay.
It brings back tender memories
Of the eve before the dawn,
When everything was peace and still,
The evening breeze was warm.
But on that bloody morning
War’s dread drums did beat,
The battle raged with fury
With powder smoke and heat.
And now the battle’s over,
And peace reigns on the bay
We hear it at the sunset
And at the close of day.
Sounding across the still night air,
Reminiscently soft and sweet,
A voice of a distant bugle
As it plays the last retreat.
Its notes are soft and soothing,
Like a voice they seem to say,
“Sleep on ye valiant heroes,
Who fell beside the bay.”
A symbol of Remembrance
Is that starry cross on high,
Like God’s own guiding angels,
It stands there in the sky.
Throughout the long and dreary night,
God’s guiding angels keep
A watch on graves beneath the palms
Where gallant heroes sleep.
W. A. Dutton
(AWM MSS 1481)
* * *
The Men in Green
These jaded sons of Anzacs,
Valiant in every deed,
Their daring and their courage,
An example we might lead.
From Milne Bay and Buna,
Of Lae and Kokoda fame,
Their blood on the beaten jungle
Has written their glorious name.
Through rivers, creeks and jungle
And land that no one knew,
They overcame the setbacks,
These men in Nature’s hue.
A cross stands in the jungle,
A tin hat on its frame,
It bears the scribbled letters
Of a fallen hero’s name.
Perhaps a kiddy’s daddy,
Perhaps a mother’s son,
Lies down beneath that heap of earth,
His life and duty done.
Nippon’s scattered remnants,
Retreat before their might.
Broken in disorder,
They leave the bloody fight.
Onwards, ever onwards,
Their work and fight unseen,
These gallant sons of Anzacs,
Who wear the jungle green
W. A. Dutton
(AWM MSS 1481)
* * *
The Road to Kokoda
Dedicated to the Gallant Australians who battled through the Owen Stanley Ranges New Guinea, 1942
The road to Kokoda;
Through the pages of history we’ll look back
Of the hardships and the suffering
On that jungle beaten track.
Their goal was always onwards,
Up high and perilous slopes;
In spite of the setbacks
Their hearts were full of hopes.
The weary, worn and wounded
Who had stopped a knife or shell,
Were carried back to safety
From this unforgotten hell.
Their bearers they were gallant,
Their skin was shiny black;
Through unseen work and glory
They brought the wounded back.
These Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels
Their childlike actions odd,
Had surely come from heaven
And were sent to us by God.
Every inch a hardship,
Every mile a woe,
Carried our boys nearer
Toward a cunning foe.
So on this road of glory
With many a turn and bend,
Towards a well earned victory
When they reach their journey’s end.
W. A. Dutton
(AWM MSS 1481)
* * *
Bomb Happy
We are the bomb happy children
We play around the drome every day
We just love to build a dispersal
Or help at constructing a bay.
As we dive in and out of slit-trenches
Our officers say it’s a shame
But they don’t understand that it’s only
Just part of our bomb happy game.
Lt Alfred William Salmon
(AWM PR 00297)
* * *
I Joined Up in the AIF
I joined up in the AIF,
Just eighteen months ago,
To get a blinking uniform
And see the ruddy show.
My mother waved goodbye to me,
Her eyes were pools of pain
As she said, “God bless you, laddie,
And bring you home again.”
My brother laughed and jeered at me
And said, “It’s ballyhoo!
You’re one of Menzies’ tourists
Of the war you’ll have no view.”
So he’s still home in civvies
With my sheila and my job,
While I’m stuck in the Army
Scared to open up my gob.
A billiard cue’s his rifle,
A racecourse ‘No-man’s Land’,
While I’m stuck in the desert,
With plurry flies and sand.
Or away up in the trenches,
Too afraid to lift my head,
For fear a blasted sniper
Will plug it full of lead.
Sometimes I’d sell my rifle
And chuck away my gear,
For a night out with a sheila
And a belly full of beer.
But when I think of Aussie
And my brother loafing there,
I pull a hitch upon my belt
And strive to do my share.
I’ve made a lot of cobbers
Of men and just mere kids,
And wouldn’t lose a one of them
For all of Nuffield’s quids.
So when I’m feeling kind of blue
Or rotten for a while,
I shove a round up in the spout,
Then face old Fritz, and smile.
L/Cpl A. W. Clark
QX5546
(AWM PR 83 151)
* * *
Ass
In a certain women’s paper
That is published once a week
There are many lying statements
About which I must speak.
They use a national crisis
As a purpose for this end,
Then send a woman writer
And say that we’re her friends.
She said: “We like the country,
The climate suits us swell.”
She forgot it’s only training,
For when we go to hell.
Long after our arrival
The mail plane brought her in,
If only she’d stayed longer
Her waist would soon get thin.
She mentioned leave in Singapore,
Although she failed to say
That once a year we get this leave,
We have to train each day.
She may have liked the country;
Perhaps we would like it too,
If we travelled round in cars
With nothing else to do.
Because of women waiting
For news of men abroad,
They paint a perfect picture,
The truth, it is ignored.
They create a wrong impression,
It’s sure to boost their sales;
Though truth may be stranger
Lies make the better tales.
Our unit never saw her,
Our camp was far fro
m town;
Think of the discomfort
In a weary travel down.
Now she’s back in Aussie,
We’d like to be there, too.
She goes on writing falsehoods —
There’s nothing we can do.
Raymond John Colenso
(AWM PR 00689)
* * *
Leave in Malaya
You’ve heard of scrumptious parties
And tiffin feasts galore
That the AIF are having
At Kuala Lumpa and Singapore,
And tales of taxi dancers
So soothing on the eyes;
I’ll stage for you the dinkum facts
Without such varnished lies.
To make it more authentic
I’ll tell you what I’ve seen;
Perhaps your views will alter
When you find out what I mean.
The first Australian convoy
To land troops in the East
Had no honoured welcome party
Or celebration feast.
Two hundred miles or more,
I cannot quote the figures,
The censor would be sore.
We landed in the jungle,
And settled down to work;
We never had the chance to rest,
Let alone to shirk.
It appears some high official
Thought it would be good
To make us work four times as hard
As any white man should.
They had to prove our toughness;
To them it seemed great fun,
To show the seasoned Tommies
Just how the job is done.
No man can beat the tropics
Be he white or brown,
Yet we worked for nine long weeks
And never saw a town.
If you stop and think a moment
You’ll know what happened next,
I’m afraid I cannot tell you;
Our friend the censor would be vexed.
And then without a warning
They shocked us to the core
With a very generous offer
Of leave in Singapore.
Like everything that’s pleasant,
This scheme had a catch —
Twice a week leave parties left
With fifteen in each batch;
So even if the planters,
All the Englishmen from here,
Escorted us to parties
And filled us up with beer,
We wouldn’t be on velvet
As many seem to think;
Every man would wait a year
Before he got free drink.
Like the easier glamour
These parties are a myth,
So also was the woman
Whose husband’s name was Smith.
She wrote about our parties
And how we liked the clime
Although she never saw us —
She didn’t have the time.
I visited the island
On my three days’ leave,
The way I found the English
It really makes me grieve.
Perhaps they’ll love their prestige
And say, “How do you do!”
If the Japs move southward
And we stop them getting through.
The way they act at present
If they owned a jeweler’s shop
And an Aussie was to ask the time
They wouldn’t even stop.
I am not vindictive,
They don’t have to talk;
I’d forgive most anything
But at rudeness I will baulk.
We may be only privates
On a lousy army pay,
But even if they’re millionaires
We’re better men than they.
This poem is not libel;
There’s truth in all I say.
I hope I’ll never have to work
If this is a holiday.
Raymond John Colenso
(AWM PR 00689)
* * *
This Place They Call …?
There’s places that I’ve been in
I didn’t like too well,
Scotland’s far too blooming cold
And Cairo’s hot as hell.
(The Pilsner beer is always warm…)
In each there’s something crook
But each and all are perfect [compared] to
This place they call ...
We reckoned El Agheila
Was none too flash a place
El Abiar and Beda Fomm
Weren’t in the bloody race
At the towns this side of Benghasi
We hadn’t time to look —
But I’ll take my oath they’re better than
This place they call …?
I’ve seen some dust storms back at home
That made the housewives work;
Here there’s enough inside our shirts
To smother all of Bourke.
Two diggers cleaned their dugout
And their blankets out they shook
Two Colonels perished in the dust in
This place they call …?
There’s militant teetotallers
Who abhor all kinds of drink;
There’s wives break good bottles
And pour them down the sink.
This place would suit them to the ground;
We’ve searched in every nook
But booze is rare as hens’ teeth in
This place they call …?
There’s centipedes like pythons
As big as poodle dogs they come
A’ snapping ’round your knees
And scorpions large as AFVs
Come out to have a look;
There’s surely lots of livestock in
This place they call …?
The shelling’s nice and frequent
And they whistle overhead;
You go into your dugout
And find shrapnel in your bed.
And when the stukas dive on us
We never pause to look;
We’re down our holes like rabbits in
This place they call ...?
Sometimes we go in swimming
And float about at ease
In water clear as crystal
And nice clean salty breeze.
When down comes blasted Hermann
And we’ve to sling our hook,
We dive clean to the bottom in
This place they call …?
I really do not think this place
Was meant for me and you;
Let’s return it to the Arab
And he knows what he can do.
We’ll leave this God-forsaken place
Without one backward look
We’ve called it lots of other names
This place they call …?
A. W. Curran (?)
Tobruk 15 September 1941
(AWM 3 DRL 3527)
* * *
Greece
We left the Dago on the run
And moved to Greece to fight the Hun,
Outnumbered there we gave them hell
Not stopping for a breathing spell.
We held the pass at Vi Vi ridge
This line of hills we could not bridge,
Machine gunned, shelled and bombed as well
The Germans could not make us quell.
Our first positions were withdrawn;
The boys were feeling tired and worn
While Jerries lying dead — three deep,
Gave others time to catch some sleep.
Grecian soldiers — not alone –
Fighting for their wives and home,
But treacherous power holding sway
Just waiting for the final day
.
A high official, quite well known,
Would like to see us overthrown;
Underestimating British fervour
His hand was called in this last hour.
But now the damage has been done
And once again we had to run;
An organised retreat was planned
Though every man would rather stand.
No threat of Germans in the rear
Only bombers should we fear;
Villages and roads complain,
Machine-gunned by the diving planes.
Caught like rats on a mountain pass —
How long will this nightmare last?
A.W. Curran (?)
(AWM 3 DRL 3527)
* * *
Somewhere in Malaya
We are somewhere in Malaya, where they very seldom pay yer,
And conjecture and opinion now runs free,
For the troops grow daily thinner on what they’d like for dinner,
But we’re soldiers in Malaya, by the sea.
After working hard for hours we come home to find no showers,
And no matter how the troops protest or plea,
We are told we should know better, just to go and don a sweater
Cause we’re living in Malaya, by the sea.
Drains and ditches breed mosquitoes which are big enough to eat us
And with scorpions like monsters from the sea,
Add to these the snakes and lizards and the lot get in our gizzards —
Wish we’d never seen Malaya, by the sea.
Now according to the papers we are cutting fancy capers
And our life is just eternally a spree,
But to us it’s quite apparent that our bright reporters haven’t
Ever seen Malaya, by the sea.
When we’re done with camps and bivvies and we all go back to civvies
Swapping lies and pitching yarns and feeling free,
Not one second would we wonder, if for all the blood and thunder
We’d go back to Malaya, by the sea.
So in passing, let’s remember, when life’s just a glowing ember,
And our name perhaps a hallowed memory,
Just despite this old ‘hard-bitten’, we will find his deeds are written
In the history of Malaya, by the sea.
Cpl. C. W. Lewis
(AWM PR 00074)
* * *
Full Moon
Robed in a garment of silver splendour,
Fair and clear she walks the sky
And the troubled earth is a world beyond her
Where men may live, may love, may die...
Tonight the gods of love will waken
In a thousand hearts in her silver glow
Heart to heart the world forsaken
They walk the roads that dreamers know.
But death will ride the skies tonight