And race the wind on silver wings,
And laugh aloud in mad delight
At all the terror that he brings.
The rain of bombs on men below
The lurid fires beneath the moon
That does not care that may not know
How much she helped to cause that ruin.
Tonight along our eastern shore
Our soldiers wait and watch the sky,
And all the people tense with war
Look up and curse the moon on high.
She rides serene as the night grows late
As the planes return —
And the soldiers wait...
Ft Lt Thomas L Stewart
(AWM MSS 1250)
* * *
Faded Suits of Green
I am standing at my window, I can hear the tramp of feet,
I can hear the soldiers marching down the bush road and the street,
They are coming into vision, now they can be plainly seen,
That swinging line of figures in their faded suits of Green.
Suits that went into the dye pots — in a hurry as you know,
For the Jap was at our door step, a crafty cruel foe —
No time for fuss or finish, very little lay between
Those screaming hordes of Nippon, and those faded suits of Green.
The dye came out in patches of pale yellow, green and brown,
They were fashioned for the jungle, not for touring round the town
They were not meant for dancing, to strut in or to preen,
They were made for men of action, streaky faded suits of Green.
There were men who went to outposts, to the flies and dust and heat,
To monotony and boredom, no offensive, no retreat;
And they missed the path of glory with their mates at Alamein
They were left to guard Australia in their faded suits of Green.
On the battle fields of Papua, on the shores of Milne Bay
On the road to far Kokoda, and down Gona-Bura way,
Through the fever stricken jungles where the Nippon lurked unseen,
Into slime and slush and slaughter, went those faded suits of Green
Pressing onward, ever onward, rivers crossed and pathways strange,
Facing death, defying danger, on the Owen Stanley Range,
Up the cliffs and down the valleys, through the deep and dark ravine,
Torn and tattered, splashed with crimson, glorious faded suits of Green.
Standing, watching at my window, my thoughts wing as before
To the ricefields of Malaya, to the docks of Singapore,
To the prison camps of Nippon where our loved ones, gaunt and lean,
Weary, wait there to be rescued, by those faded suits of Green.
They are coming, captive soldiers, tho’ the way be grim and hard
They will fight on to a finish, inch by inch and yard by yard,
For no suits of shining armour, worn by knights before a Queen,
Ever held such pride and honour as those faded suits of Green.
When the bells of peace are ringing as they did in days of yore,
When the hated sound of war drums shall have ceased for evermore,
When we live in love and laughter and happiness serene,
oh, australia! please remember – those faded suits of green!
Rebecca Morton
(AWM PR 87 062)
* * *
Moratai
I’ve left the Sunny Southern land
And sailed across the sea,
I’ve left behind me all the ones I love;
I’ve landed on a coral isle
Beneath a foreign flag,
But yet the Southern Cross still shines above,
And when the daily job is done
I lay upon my bed,
And gazing upward to the heavens bright,
I think of how those very stars
Shine on my loved one too,
And wonder if she thinks of me tonight.
Pte Jim Baker NX 139320
Moratai NEI, 1944
* * *
The Unwrapped Chocolate Soldier
You saw him in your town a-strolling down the street,
You saw him in his uniform that always looked so neat,
You heard him in the dance hall, with your hand upon his shoulder
Cursing fate and his bad luck — the Unwrapped Chocolate Soldier.
You labelled him a coward, because he did not fight,
You thought he didn’t have the guts to stick up for the right,
You heard him in the bar, and if you felt a little bolder,
You didn’t hesitate to say — another Chocolate Soldier
But how your song is different when war is at your door.
You rarely hear the saying ‘Chocolate Soldier’ any more,
By heaven you’ll thank your Maker, before you are much older,
For the man who kept the Japs away — the Unwrapped Chocolate Soldier.
You don’t know how he cursed the flies, and swore at dirt and heat,
He put away the uniform that always looked so neat,
He wears a pair of ragged shorts, a shirt when it is cooler,
He puts up with pests and flies — the Unwrapped Chocolate Soldier.
He is living in a reeking tent, his rations often short,
He thinks of all the steak and eggs and the beer that once he bought,
But when the bombers fill the skies his rage begins to smoulder,
When he sees his cobbers fall and die — the Unwrapped Chocolate Soldier.
His ack-ack guns and small arms too were shields to your defence,
His body first to take the blow and if you are not too dense;
You’ll take your hat off to the man, before you are much older,
The man you used to spurn and rail — another Chocolate Soldier.
Anon
AAMWS, AIF
(AWM PR 88 019)
* * *
Doing Our Best
There’s talk just now of leaving here,
And going to pastures new,
Of leaving all the work we’ve done
Behind, it just won’t do.
This place is like a home to us,
We’re happy and content,
We’ve built it up to what it is,
The time has been well spent.
We do our work, of course we do,
Yet busy tho’ we be,
We, most of us, have done our bit
Working unitedly.
Of course there are some careless chaps
Who do not care a jot,
Smashing trucks and shunning work –
Efficient they are not.
It may be only want of thought,
Not realising the fact,
That all these bad marks mounting up
Can put us on the track.
Meaning to say, that those in charge
Cannot put up a fight
To keep us here, if we do not
Assist them as we might.
We all must strive to do our job
And give no chance at all
To those who’d try to put us out
And cash in on our job.
We have a very decent lot
Of officers — They’re men,
Who one and all will stand by us,
If we will stand by them.
So let us do our very best
That we may still enjoy
The comfort of this best of camps,
With nothing to annoy
Pte Jim Baker
NX139320
116 Aust.Gen Trans. Coy
Marrickville, NSW, 1947
* * *
Army Days (Daze)
I said I’d join the Army
But they said, “Don’t do it lad,
You’ll find conditions dreadful
And I hear the food is bad.”
But being kind of willful said,
“I’ll just give it a fling”,
To me the Army life appeared
To be the very thing.
But when into the showground
We were herded like the sheep,
And marched around Centennial Park
And Showground roads three deep.
I thought I’d made a big mistake,
The Army life was not
Just what it was cracked up to be,
Not by a jolly lot.
But then they sent me out at last,
To GT 116
And if I had my way at all,
It would be there I’d stick.
The only thing I did not like,
Was getting out of bed
And falling down the stairs the night
The Japs came through the Heads.
The workshop boys are all OK,
They like their fun of course,
But still they work and really are
A credit to the Force.
The drivers — well, we mend their truck
And really ought to know...
But p’raps I’d better not throw muck —
Still, we wish they’d drive more slow!
Pte Jim Baker
NX139320
116 Aust.Gen.Trans.Coy
Marrickville, NSW. 9 September,1942
* * *
“Fight ’em Back!”
When you read in daily papers of another air attack,
Do you think of all the gunners standing by
Pushing mighty stacks of ammo through the bores of every gun,
Giving hell to Tojo’s bombers in the sky
When you hear of Zeros strafing, you can picture gunners laughing
As the Aussies and the Yanks hop to attack?
You can bet your bottom dollar that the yellow rat will holler,
For the ack-ack gunner’s creed is “Fight ’em back!”
Who wants to be a gunner, and live beside the drome?
It’s the target for tonight you cop the lot
And you haven’t time to wonder as the guns are crashing thunder,
What it is that makes a shell case so darned hot!
They’re the ‘Heavies’ and the Bofors and the deadly point-fives too
And they’re manned by Yanks and Aussies who won’t crack;
So at a hundred shells a minute, sure the Japs just won’t be in it,
For the ack-ack gunner’s creed is, “Fight em back!”
Gunner
* * *
Without Glory
Not for us the raging combat when the blind instinctive urge
To kill and kill and kill is ever near,
When the thought of hardships suffered, in a wild ensweeping surge,
Obliterates all normal sense of fear.
Not for us the tense excitement of the coming zero-hour,
The weary thrill of savage victory gained,
The grim glad satisfaction, to have smashed the other’s power,
A milestone to the final win attained.
Not for us the ringing tumult of the people’s wild acclaim
As home-come heroes march through city streets,
Never decorations, medals, battle honours to our name,
No tales of epic awe-inspiring feats.
We are not the stalwart heroes of the hard held battlefront
We are not the lads with iron-seeming spines
We’re an overseas works company up here to bear the brunt
Of humdrum jobs a mile behind the lines.
If it’s ship with ammunition or with food for forward troops,
We are there to swiftly get it safe ashore,
While the bombers speed our tempo with their hell-for-leather sweeps
We are merry little wharfies playing war.
If the bridges need repairing or the roads are shelled to bits,
We fix them so the guns won’t be delayed
Or we lump the ammo forward while the gunner starts his blitz
And try to kid ourselves we’re not afraid.
We’re the Army’s jack-of-all-trades, and its rouseabout to boot,
There is not a job of war we haven’t done;
Though we seldom see real action, and we very seldom shoot —
Just men behind the men behind the guns.
For our labour is our weapon and our symbol is our sweat,
We’re average and unfit might-have-beens;
We’re packhorse, navvy, wharfie, we’re a motley crowd and yet
We are blokes on whom the Army gladly leans.
Without Glory, Praise or Glamour, we plug silently away,
We’re humble men who fill a humble role:
We’re the troops you never think of till one sudden, startled day
You send for us because you’re in a hole.
“Black Bob”
(Lt A. L. O’Neill?)
Solomon Islands, November 1944
(AWM MSS 1328)
* * *
Tribute
Roar of Stuka, whine of shell,
Blast of bomb and mine as well,
Crack of rifle, whine of Spandau,
Opening up the door of hell.
This and more did not deter you
From the path you had to blaze,
Though you saw your comrades falling
Only dimly through the haze.
On you went and ever onward
Through the field of steel and gore,
Right into the new made trenches,
Diggers always to the fore.
Once again in this long struggle,
Amply backed by plane and gun,
You have proved that you are better
Than the frenzied, ruthless Hun.
Now my comrades, I salute you,
For that hard and bitter fight,
For our freedom and our right.
They shall never be forgotten,
They who sleep ’neath desert sand,
Ever may their name be sacred
In our own Australian land.
Anon
* * *
Remember - Centaur 14 May 1943
This is a memorial to those who sleep
Before their time on unknown golden sands,
Locked with the secrets of the eternal deep,
Remote in their last rest from restless hands.
To those who, ’mid the clamours of the battlefield
Brought soothing art which many a wound has gently healed.
This is an act of thanks — to those who saved
The lives of brave men, bravely, under fire,
Who selflessly and sleeplessly have slaved
In night and day. Courage was never higher
Than in these hearts whose very veins ran living love,
Whose minds thought only duty as bombs burst above.
This is an act of thanks — for those who smiled
Where pain had creased the brow, and thinned the lips,
Whose mien was tranquil when the world was wild,
Who cheered the dullness of the Red Cross ships.
To those whose word or laugh made searing pain seem light,
Whose presence made the suffering days seem sunny bright.
A memorial to those who loved not life
E’en unto death, to those who might have stayed
To lead their gallant brethren out of strife,
But that some cruel and treacherous hand betrayed
A memorial which keeps their memory evergreen
And shouts for vengeance of the harsh inhuman scene.
The pale and anguished bosom of the deep
Sighs out its foamy sorrow on the shore,
Is restless for the souls new-laid to sleep,
Nurses whose healing hands will heal no more.
The Centaur’s wood flows broken, useless on the wave,
Cries payment for those lives who nought but mercy gave.
Frank S. Greenop
* * *
Centaur
Skulk to your hole, you yellow-bellied cur,
Apeing the boldness of the lion without the lion’s heart!
No sea seclusion will protect your hide,
No sea can be too wide or yet too deep
But that the vengeance of this outraged land
Can root you out.
Well you may rise to watch the crippled ship
That trusted to your honour — you have none.
Well you may surface and through insolent eyes
Observe the work your perfidy had wrought.
Think you so vile an act will profit you
Or rouse a flame of terror in our souls?
Reprisal! Already I can hear it on your lips.
Already I can hear you tell the world
’Twas done for some fictitious vengeance,
Some deed for which it is not possible
For us to stoop unless we hacked away all decencies.
Skulk to your hole, for your success was failure!
A few there may have been who gave to you
The benefit of doubt at recent times,
Countenancing your treacheries because
There was a possibility of doubt.
Even in the face of such atrocity,
While yet the sea was boiling where the ship
Had drawn her splendid cross beneath the calm,
A woman in a lifeboat sang.
Russell J. Oakes
* * *
New Guinea Exile
This is a land where men have fought and died.
Here in these mountains they have toiled and known
Day after day in mud, on steep cliffside,
Tangled with vines, together or alone,
Such fear as none can know who have not been
In this wild land, this hell of jungle green.
Here is a world apart from that of man;
A world in which the savage even seems
Civil and tame compared with that wild clan,
Whose savage lust, whose mad ferocious dreams
Have driven them and us to its strange shore
To fight — some to remain for evermore.
Will there, in some dim future, dawn a day
When we who led this crazy, unreal life
Waken again to see, in trim array,