The Happy Warrior
Page 8
Carried down a gangplank here.
Well they’ve done their best for England,
And they’ve done their best for home,
For the girls they left behind them
And the pals across the foam;
And may Australia not forget them
When they are invalided back,
Nor leave them, poor and jobless,
For the dole queue or the track.
Anon
* * *
The Emperor: 1945
Oh, fearful he who plays the game
Of treachery and strife,
With free men’s license now to count
The cost of human life!
’Tis not the Khan’s armada
That presses to the shore,
But vengeance, dark, within these ships
That stand outside the door.
Oh wasted Kamikaze!
Divine warriors from the sky!
You fell like cherry blossoms
And like cherry blossoms … died.
Now a sun god shrinks from black defeat,
And an Emperor quakes as his empire shrinks;
No majesty, no honour, no mystery now,
Just the muffled drum of a lone heartbeat.
Grahame Fooks
PM7560
Grahame Fooks served on HMAS Quickmatch from 1944 - 1946 and, as part of Task Force 57 on ‘Operation Iceberg,’ had first hand experience of Kamikaze attacks on the fleet.
* * *
Quickmatch
The oily water laps her sides
In the blackness of the night;
Asleep, her breathing can be felt
And she’s restless for the light
“Let go forward! Let go aft!”
She shudders at the cry,
Slips out to sea with an eager look,
For it’s where her pleasures lie.
She dips her bow in salute to the waves
And they become as one,
While the bos’n’s pipe is lost in the wind
And her shrouds sing a song to the sun.
Grahame Fooks
PM 7560
* * *
The Tale of Tobruk
We got in a ship and sailed out to the sea
And each of us then were in spirits of glee,
For ’twas farewell to Egypt and old King Farouk;
We were bound for the beautiful town of Tobruk.
A night and a day we sailed over the waves
Then arrived in Tobruk with its harbour of graves.
There were ships all around us, but sad to relate
They were all under water — a terrible state.
We gazed and we thought as our eyes met that sight
Of all the good ships in that terrible plight.
There were British and Jerries and Ities galore;
Oh! the price that we pay when we’re going to war!
Now we sighted this town which before us did lie
And most of us then heaved a mighty big sigh,
For this was our home right down to the sea
And none of us knew for how long it would be.
We walked through the streets ’twas a pitiful sight,
Each shop in a turmoil, just a ragman’s delight;
Devastation lay around us where the bombs had come down —
Man’s folly had wrecked this once beautiful town.
As the weeks passed to months and the weather grew hot,
Each mother’s son groused at his terrible lot,
With fags unobtainable and no hope of beer
We all cursed the man who had sent us out here.
We worked with a will and enjoyed all the fun,
For the Ities turned tail and started to run,
But we worked just as hard, we couldn’t relax,
For our troops reached Bengazi and stopped in their tracks.
They had fought a long way their strength was depleted,
When they met Jerry’s army our boys soon retreated
For Jerry was strong and fresh in the fray,
We were vastly outnumbered that tragical day.
You’ve all heard the story of the thin long red line —
Our boy’s rearguard action was equally fine;
But the tenth day of April, the bugle was sounded,
Alas and alack — Tobruk was surrounded!
We couldn’t surrender, our morale was still high
When suddenly there came a roar in the sky;
They machine gunned us and bombed us and shelled us as well,
To be in Tobruk was like living in hell.
We all now look forward to that glorious day
When once more on a ship we shall sail out the bay,
And as we glide out we shall take a last look
At the wreck that was once the proud town of Tobruk.
Sgt John Patrick Hampton
9th Aust. Div. Salvage Section
(AWM PR 00759)
* * *
The Raid Song
Here they come, their bombs to rain
Lurid lingo’s merely vain
So we’ll sing this old refrain:
“The rotten bastard’s here again.”
When the sirens weirdly wail
Even heroes, they turn pale,
Phar Lap who we never fail
Funk homeward setting sail
In the drowsy heat of noon
Or beneath the silver moon,
When we hear the dreaded tune
It’s under cover bloody soon;
In the night we rise from bed
When we hear them overhead
If no pants on, let it be said
We’ve each a tin hat on our head;
Loafers drop their tired roles
It’s a tune when no one ‘poles’
Rabbits, rats or bloody moles —
We can beat them to their holes
When ack-ack starts to roar
Downwards bombs they start to pour
Deeper still we try to bore
No one ever shouts “Encore!”
Hear the flaming crash of guns,
Bombs are dropping by the tons,
Duck your head, now here she comes —
‘Blast’, the Dagoes or the Huns
But they fall like April rain
Soon the ‘All Clear’, sounds again
So once again the old refrain:
“The rotten bastard’s gone again!”
Sgt LK Bailey
4 M Batt.
(AWM PR 00526)
* * *
Action
The twenty five pounders flash & roar,
Their defiance they tell to the Hun,
The mortar bombs whistle, as upwards they roar
And the fun has only begun.
Yes, the fun has only begun lads,
Just wait till the break of day
For then we shall see at the end of the spree,
The enemy running away.
The ‘Vickers’ guns chatter in bursts loud & long
And the gunners chuckle with glee,
While the Brens & Tommy guns sing their songs
Where the bullets are flying free.
The shrapnel is bursting right overhead
With a rush of flying steel
And the air is filled with the droning lead,
Its breath on your cheeks you feel.
The Lee-Enfield rifles flare & crash
And the line is a line of fire
While the enemy sends his bullets bash
As our men advance to the wire.
Our boys go up to his wire by loads
That fence so cruel & strong
But the boys are bright this deathly night,
On each one’s lips is a song.
And now its the Engineers turn to shine;
They crawl forward with bated breath
While away on the right explodes a mine
And som
eone meets his death.
Now the ‘Bangalores’ blow with a deafening crash
And the wire goes sky high,
And the charge is reckless & sometimes rash
As the boys from the South go by.
The Bayonets flash in the moonlight clear
As they storm the sangars built
By the Dago & Fritz in the months they’ve been here,
And the steel goes home to the hilt.
Yes, the steel goes home to the hilt my lads,
And many close their eyes
In death in the field where they would not yield,
They will never see sunrise.
The fighting is fierce & deadly & hot
The bayonets are dripping red,
And the air is heavy with shell & shot
While the ground is strewn with dead
But the battle is over the victory ours
The enemy is in full flight
And we look back with pride & the last few hours
As the eastern sky turns bright.
Though many a comrade has fallen tonight
And our hearts for their loved ones bleed,
We know that they fell in a glorious fight
In the hour of their country’s need.
In the hour of their country’s need, my lads,
No braver you’ll find here;
Through the world will run those deeds they done,
Those comrades tried & dear.
As the rising sun mounts into the blue
And the shadows swiftly fly,
The stretcher bearers come two by two
As they bring the wounded by.
While the men go back to their well earned rest
Proud of the victory won,
And the land for which they gave of their best
Will bless each Mother’s son.
N. C. Lord
NA.25906
(AWM PR 00526)
* * *
The ‘Isle of Doom’
Here I sit on the Isle of Crete
Bludging on my blistered feet,
Little wonder I’ve got the blues
With my feet encased in big canoes
In khaki shorts instead of slacks
Living like a tribe of blacks
Except that blacks don’t sit & brood
And wait throughout the day for food.
’Twas just a month ago — not more —
We sailed to Greece to win the war
We marched and groaned beneath our load
While bombers bombed us off the road.
They chased us here, they chased us there,
The bastards chased us everywhere
And while they dropped their loads of death
We cursed the bloody RAF.
The RAF was there in force
— They left a few at home of course —
We saw the entire force one day
When a Spitfire spat the other way.
Then we heard the wireless news
When portly Winston, gave his views
He said the RAF’s in Greece
Fighting hard to give us peace.
And then we scratched our heads & thought
This sounds distinctly like a “rort”,
For if in Greece the Air Force be
Where the bloody hell are we?
And then at last we met the Hun
At odds of thirty-three to one
And though he made it bloody hot
We gave the bastard all we got.
The bullets whizzed, the big guns roared
We howled for ships, to get aboard,
At last they came and on we got
And hurried from that cursed spot.
Then they landed us in Crete
And marched us off our bloody feet;
The food was light the water crook,
I got fed up and slung my hook.
Returned that night full of wine
And next day copped a fiver fine
My paybook was behind to hell
So when pay was called I said, “Oh hell!’
They wont pay me I’m sure of that!”
But when they did, I smelt a rat.
But when next day the rations came
I realized their wily game,
For sooner than sit down and die
We spent our ‘dough’ on food supply
So now it looks like even betting
A man will soon become a Cretan,
And spend his days in black & gloom
On Adolf Hitler’s ‘Isle of Doom’.
Anon
(AWM PR 00526)
* * *
AIF Brigade
Cherished sons and bloody crooks,
Oxford Dons with learned looks,
Farmer boys and city rooks,
Clever clerks and greasy cooks,
Boundary riders, station owners,
Out of work and fate bemoaners,
Pianists and poor tromboners,
Butchers, bakers, float-a-loaners,
Bagmen, bludgers and school teachers,
Civil servants, sons of preachers,
Navvies, touts and social leaches,
Everything from bush to beaches,
Con-men, cabbies, counter jumpers,
Men who used to pick up dumpers,
Paper peddlers, petrol pumpers,
Policemen, painters, wild wharf lumpers,
Pugilists and poker players,
Pensive poets, pious prayers,
Boarders who were not good stayers,
Bookies who were not good payers:
We joined the bloody AIF,
To every warning we were deaf;
We started off a motley crew
Like ingredients of Irish stew.
We consisted of the best and worst,
Sometimes prayed, mostly cursed,
From every walk of life became
Soldiers, treated all the same.
In training learned to give and take
For every bloody body’s sake,
Shared our joys and shared our fears,
Shared our girls and shared our beers.
We staggered down the city street,
We fought and spewed and lost our feet,
Taunted ‘Chocos’, wrecked cafes,
Made a name that stank always.
We trained and learned the art of war,
Often weary and footsore,
Our former lives began to fade
As into soldiers we were made.
Soon we came to embarkation,
‘Soldiers’ in our estimation,
A title that is only earned
By lessons but in action learned.
We crammed aboard the sweaty ship
And sweated right throughout the trip,
Soldiers crammed from stem to stern,
Hardly room to twist or turn.
We misbehaved ourselves in Perth,
Most hospitable city on earth,
Played merry hell in Old Capetown,
Likewise Durban, also Freetown.
We kissed the girls in Blighty,
And mixed with high society,
Got gloriously drunk without much dough,
They insisted on paying — we let them go.
Egypt heard our hearty voice,
And didn’t seem to quite rejoice;
A land of dirty wogs and stinks
Of pyramids and sour sphinx,
In cabarets we drank and danced,
In Sister Street sometimes romanced;
Read their books of foul perversion,
Saw the can-can with aversion
In Libya we met the Wop,
Quickly got him on the hop,
Soon we took complete control,
Had the “Itie” up the pole.
We captured lorries, stores and guns,
Of all equipment there was tons;
Guzzled wine, ate vermicelli,
&nb
sp; Regardless of the poor old belly.
But German leaders took the reins
Reorganised the wop remains,
With new equipment, guns and tanks,
Threatened to engage our flanks.
As most had gone to Greece or Crete,
We had make a quick retreat,
And barely kept ahead a lap,
In the great Benghazi Handicap.
We made our stand in old Tobruk,
To stop the Hun by hook or crook,
For months we fought with visage grim —
Chances then looked pretty slim,
We lived with fleas in filthy holes;
The sand entered our very souls
Shelled and shot at, daily stukered,
No wonder we were nearly euchred.
Rumour said we’d be relieved,
But most of us just disbelieved;
We thought that by the world forgot,
Our bones would in the desert rot.
How it happened no one knew,
But at last our dreams came true;
We limped out of our lousy holes,
Relieved by several thousand Poles.
Long hours by the sea we waited,
Anxiously with breathing bated,
Expectant ears alert to hear,
The drone of Herman coming near.
Our ships stole in across the bay
Where battered hulks in dozens lay;
We jumped aboard, were on our way —
No place for shipping to delay.
Back to Egypt — Amariya,
And buckshee bottles of Aussie beer,
So sudden breaking of the drought
Nearly made us all pass out.
In Palestine we met the wogs,
Dressed in their expectant togs;
Allah will be born in pants
And every Arab has a chance,
Flies fed round their filthy eyes,
Most of them were German spies;
They’d steal the milk from out your tea,
Then coolly bite for buckshee.
The dusky little Arab bints,
With their seductive autumn tints,
Were devilish hard to quite convince
And very seldom took our hints.
Their beer was barely drinkable,
Their spirits quite unthinkable,
But some who wouldn’t knock it back
Went crazy drinking cognac.
We roamed around Jerusalem,
The begging wogs abusin’ ’em,
Spent money on pretty Jewesses,
Barely bought a few caresses