The Happy Warrior

by Kerry B Collison

  The radiant form of a beloved wife,

  Our children without fear, the little lawn,

  And flowers in the quiet, warless dawn?

  Cpl. J.J. McAuliffe

  * * *

  We’ll Capture Tarakan

  (To the tune of Lili Marlene)

  Here comes the Aussies to capture Tarakan,

  It is just the kick-off, we’re heading for Japan.

  It you could see these grim-faced men

  With their mates, the RAN,

  And backed up by the Air Force — We’ll capture Tarakan.

  Kenny has promised the Air Force a Douglas full of beer,

  While the boys who do the landing can’t crack it for a cheer.

  All they will cop from this lousy joint

  Is one long look at the water point.

  But they don’t buck, you know it, they’ll capture Tarakan.

  Resting on Manoora is Fraser and his crew,

  Messing around as usual, he doesn’t know what to do;

  But you can bet that he enjoys

  The rousing cheers from all the boys

  When he sends up the munga, we’ll need in Tarakan.

  Where is Colonel Ainslie? About eight minutes late.

  We can’t stop to worry, ’cause soldiers do not wait;

  We’ve got to climb the razor-back,

  The oil fields there are on our track,

  And straight from there we’re heading — to capture Tarakan.

  The barrage is lifting, we’re just about to land,

  There’s fire from Nippy’s pill-box, he’s trying to starve our hand.

  Company in position, we’re all in line,

  The first wave’s off, we start to shine,

  Then push up, from the beach-head — to capture Tarakan.

  ‘Oboe one’ is over, we’re ready for Number Two.

  Throwback on your gear, Rats, we’re in ‘another blue’;

  Though some of us may go down,

  The rest will carry on without a frown.

  We’re sure to have the memory — of the capture of Tarakan.

  Colby Corrigan.

  2/48 Aust. Inf. Batt.

  * * *

  Dawn Patrol

  The day was breaking, heralding the light of dawn,

  Seeping through the foliage a new day is born;

  And with creeping fingers showed up where one boy lay

  Silent in Death, never again to laugh or play;

  The pride of Australia, the pride of us all,

  This boy had answered willingly his Country’s call.

  All day yesterday they had fought from dawn to dark,

  Not without loss, for it had surely left its mark;

  No sleep, no rest, they had been on picquet all night

  But with day breaking, they still held onto this height;

  Then the word came that a patrol would have to go

  To find out his strength, the positions of the foe.

  These men, gaunt, unshaven, with a glint in their eyes,

  Nothing but their senses could they use for their guides;

  Their automatics slung, their senses all alert,

  Thought first of their loved ones, their loss they knew would hurt;

  And with hearts that throbbed madly, with pulses that raced,

  Only they knew the perils they would have to face.

  Wiping out their thoughts of home and all they love,

  They mingled with the shadows, trusting that God above

  Watched their every movement; their lives they left to Him.

  It was a path of Life and Death, a path so dim,

  Shrouded by the tree tops, and undergrowth so thick,

  To make no false step needed every jungle trick.

  With stealth, and with silence, using every jungle law,

  Stalking and creeping, they knew that every yard more

  Brought them close to Death. But did anyone stop?

  Not they — only the Japs’ bullets could make them drop.

  Then with suddenness the silence was broken,

  A Jap machine gun to their right had spoken.

  Down to ground! Their thoughts were in a chaotic mess.

  Had they been seen? No, it was impossible — but yes;

  For still the machine gun bullets were passing by

  Just three feet over their heads, they were whining high.

  Where was the danger that now impeded their way?

  They puzzled this out as in the bracken they lay.

  Someone then remembered, higher up, to the right,

  A woodpecker had been seen in the waning light,

  And the Jap from his greater height could easily see

  Any movement that could be caused by brushing a tree;

  For the foliage above would then shiver and shake;

  The command went back, “Be careful, for goodness sake!”

  So with head bent low, dodging trees, protruding vines,

  They passed a dead Jap, and on the right were sure signs

  Of tracks and Jap doovers, with the nauseous stench

  That pollutes the air in the region of their trench;

  A muttered curse, with those softly whispered words;

  “Death is too good for you, you mongrel yellow curs!”

  Cautiously forward, yard by yard, with bated breath

  Past those doovers they crept in defiance of death;

  Then the sound of a bolt with that metallic click

  Swung them ’round with a speed undeniably quick,

  Searching for the danger that made its presence felt —

  But on they must go, so in the shadows they melt.

  Looking forwards and sideways they managed to go,

  Keeping to shadows, till within nearly a stone’s throw

  Of Japs digging doovers and jabbering aloud,

  (There’s one thing about them. they make plenty of sound),

  Their job is now completed, they silently withdraw

  To report their success and all the things they saw.

  So with joy and light hearts they wended their way back

  Past those concealed doovers by the side of the track,

  Side-stepping the Jap corpse that was gruesome and stark,

  For this was the last phase, the last reminding mark

  Of the fingers of Death, and the fingers of Fate,

  That had waited to grasp them with relentless hate.

  Love, Life and Joy once more seemed to seep through their veins,

  These feelings they had curbed while the danger had reigned;

  But now they were themselves, laughing again once more,

  Throwing off this cloak, this terrible cloak of war.

  They lay back and reclined, resting their weary minds,

  Looking upward to where their future path would wind.

  G Bowles

  * * *

  The Night Patrol

  It’s zero hour, there’s a hushed command

  As out of the shadows move a band,

  Each man knows of the task ahead

  As he moves to the wire with a stealthy tread.

  There isn’t a sound or glimmer of light,

  Only the stars to guide them right;

  A thousand yards to reach their goal,

  A race ere the rising moon unfolds.

  To hesitate would be too late,

  For the moon-lit rays seal their fate;

  So on through booby traps and mines

  On ’til they reach the enemy’s lines.

  A clattering stone someone spoke,

  A burst of fire from the stillness broke

  As the shadowy forms of a dozen men

  Sprayed hot lead from rifle and Bren.

  Forward they rush, like men insane,

  To take and hold all they can gain.

  They won’t face steel is the Aussies’ boast

  And they find it so when they reach that post.

  There’s a quick ch
eck up, a note or two,

  Then back to their lines for some warmed up stew,

  A dixie of tea or a noggin of rum,

  A smile from their mates for a job well done.

  Then down in the dust of their holes they creep

  Like desert rats, they are soon asleep

  And dream of parties and folks at home,

  Of the girls they have loved — or a mutton bone.

  The sun is up, there’s a harsh command,

  It’s five hundred hours don’t be alarmed!

  Yesterday’s gone. Now call the roll.

  I want twelve men for tonight’s patrol.

  Anon

  * * *

  Isle of Tarakan

  From afar I saw this lovely isle,

  It looked a romantic, exotic pile,

  And I thought I’d like to stay awhile,

  On lovely Tarakan.

  But the longer I live upon its shore,

  My interest decreases more and more

  And I long for the good old days of yore —

  To hell with Tarakan!

  As the rain pours down, my temper sours,

  It’s the dinkum stuff, not April showers,

  And I’m up to my ruddy neck for hours,

  In mud on Tarakan.

  When the clouds roll on and the day is fine,

  With an azure sky and bright sunshine,

  The sweat will cascade from my spine,

  On humid Tarakan.

  But when I walk it makes me boil,

  I’m up to my blinking knees in oil,

  And I can’t thrive on the oily soil,

  On greasy Tarakan.

  I even tried to learn Malay,

  But I find my efforts do not pay,

  The dumb cows dunno what I say,

  On ignorant Tarakan.

  I’ve stood the sight of hill and glade,

  And I’ve heard the sound of the war’s tirade,

  But when the Japs start crashing a mess parade,

  I give you away, Tarakan.

  If I had five hooks on my sleeve,

  I tell you straight, and you must believe,

  That I would neither howl nor grieve,

  On leaving Tarakan.

  Anon

  * * *

  Souvenir Poem

  We are nearing the end of our journey,

  A trip we were eager to take,

  For a chance of a joust in the journey,

  For our own and the Motherland’s sake.

  We know nought of what may be lurking

  Ahead and we care not a damn —

  We’ll just take the chance without shirking

  Any job we’re assigned in the jam.

  So here’s to what may be before us,

  Whatever the cost we will gain,

  The deeds of our Dads will immure us

  To hardship and physical pain.

  And our wives and sweethearts and Mothers,

  In their worry and sorrow and pride,

  Will reverence the memory of ‘others’,

  Who are left on the other side.

  Anon

  * * *

  “Sayeeda”

  When first we landed on these shores

  To do our bit and help the cause,

  In busy street and passing throng

  We heard one word, most all day long,

  “Sayeeda”

  It followed us where’er we went,

  And seemed for every purpose meant,

  “Good day!!”, “Good night!” and “How are you?”

  Upon our tongues it almost grew:

  “Sayeeda”

  Through dust and heat and burning sun,

  Through pelting rains and work and fun,

  At every hour of day and night,

  It came to haunt us like a blight —

  “Sayeeda”

  And when we leave this foreign land,

  With parting shout on every hand,

  This word I’m sure above the noise,

  Will still be heard by all the boys:

  “Sayeeda”

  Anon

  * * *

  To a Wooden Cross

  No thought to win a medal, no chance to gain real fame,

  But just to save your comrades — that’s why we sing your name.

  Your riddled coat stands witness, four buried Huns lie near,

  And here’s to you in Glory, for death you had no fear.

  You stormed alone this gun-pit and alone you fell,

  You taught them all a lesson their nearby graves now tell.

  Your Dear Ones must have knowledge, that you did not die in vain,

  For by such deeds of valour, our troops have won this plain.

  Anon

  * * *

  A Tribute

  Dedicated to those who fell whilst holding the “Hill of Jesus” on 22nd July 1942

  To desert desolation has been given

  A sacred symbol, where brave men have striven,

  In sight of Tel el Eisa stand the crosses

  That speak of greater gains that come through losses.

  And He, whose name on yon hill is inscribed,

  He spake of love, greater than which is none,

  Where man forfeited his life in death lay down.

  By those immutable and universal laws

  That bind humanity as one, and thereby cause

  The clash and strife, when greed and selfishness

  Exclude from view the vaster world, where stress

  On things that make us petty and secluded,

  (By little dreams of paltry gains deluded)

  Is but a relic of a passing phase

  That leads onward to more glorious days.

  By those same universal laws, perchance

  We faced a foe, so eager to enhance

  Advantages won in recent rapid rush

  Eastward, and thereby his opponent crush,

  That dreams of domination of the world

  Might to fulfilment be brought nearer, and unfurled

  O’er Egypt and the East the banner borne

  By host whose loyalty to Fatherland was sworn.

  The sudden bursting forth of morning violence

  That July day in nineteen forty two,

  That twenty-second day! Now pride in silence

  Honors. Sorrows doth our pride subdue

  The boom of gun, the whine and crash of shell.

  The crush of mortars, rifles spitting hell,

  Machine guns pouring death on every crest

  Did brave men face, and facing them could jest.

  Though willing be the flesh of gallant men,

  The strongest, bravest spirit is subdued,

  And overwhelming weight of force and fire

  Batters and blasts, as wounded rise again

  To reach a comrade’s side to render aid

  Or to press on in desert’s heat, where shade

  And water are but things to torment those

  Who think and suffer lying near their foes.

  Oft victory comes to us in some disguise

  That mocked faint hearts, perceived but by the wise

  Who perseveres with courage to endure

  And make the fruits of victory secure.

  Awhile the outcome of the awful night

  Seems doubtful, but with break of morning light

  The verdict o’er the conduct could be given —

  Our enemy once more was backward driven.

  The price? Men in the pride and strength of youth

  Preferring death, with loyalty to truth,

  Is that the price must be, which faint heart chills,

  Accept the hazards of their own free wills;

  No cheap bravadoes but a deep sincerity

  Called them from distant shores and homes and love,

  And Tel el Eisa’s crosses of eternity,

  And forgotten as our deed shall prove.

  Chaplain B. C. Archbold

&n
bsp; 2/48th Aust. Inf. Batt.

  * * *

  The Rats of Tobruk

  “Good morning Rats!” The donkey brayed,

  “Rats at the end of your tether,

  I heard your nerves are somewhat frayed,

  Shall I snap them altogether?”

  And he called to his birds of prey:

  “Swoop low on the British Rats,

  They’re afraid of the light of day,

  They live in caves like bats.”

  So the vultures flocked to the kill

  And they dived on the hospital ships

  And the hospital high on the hill

  And they blew all the wards to bits.

  Full gorged with easy game,

  The vultures flocked once more,

  A hundred plus they came,

  And dived on the shattered shore.

  “Crash!” went the big Ack-Ack.

  “Bang!” went the Bofors guns —

  And the Rats stood back

  And shot lead at the hated Huns.

  Anon

  * * *

  The Wounded from Tobruk

  You come limping down the gangplank,

  Or you’re carried down instead,

  Carried in a blanket with a boot beneath your head,

  And you look all lean and hungry

  Beneath your good old Aussie grin,

  Sick of bully beef and biscuits

  But the sort that won’t give in.

  You’re smiled at by a bearer,

  Who’s muscular and big

  Fishing fags out from his pocket

  With a “Better have one, Dig!”

  And you take it as he lights it,

  And return a wiry grin,

  Making little of your trouble,

  Though there’s no one taken in.

  For they know that you’ve been through it,

  And there’s nothing much to say,

  You’re a base-job or a blighty,

  And they’ll help you on your way,

  For the skies were full of zoomers,

  And the sand bags fairly shook,

  Like the good old Bondi boomers

  When you stopped one at Tobruk.

  And I’m proud that I’m Australian,

  When I look at men like these;

  They’re the men who marched beside me,

  Back in Woodside Camp in threes.

  In the days when life was rosy,

  Full of laughter, love and beer,

  And I never thought I’d see them