The Happy Warrior

by Kerry B Collison

  We went to all the holy places,

  Bitten by a dozen races,

  Learned the way to go to heaven,

  Then went down to Kilo Seven.

  To Syria we soldiered on,

  Like lorries in a marathon;

  Women waved from every town,

  One even pulled a garment down.

  While we lingered at El Aine

  Many beakers did we drain,

  Of queer concoctions labeled ‘wine’

  From grapes but recent off the vine.

  At last we landed at Alep,

  The girls were gay and full of pep;

  We trod the streets with airy step,

  Established our distinctive rep.

  In cafes sat and sipped vin blanc,

  And to the music added song;

  A wild and woolly khaki throng,

  We often drank the whole night long.

  All over town you’d hear our call,

  The parody of “Bless ’em all!”

  We lived on chicken, steak and eggs —

  They must have thought we’d hollow legs.

  We mounted any passing gharry,

  Took the reins and didn’t tarry;

  Despite the drivers sad demurs

  Drove around like mad Ben Hurs.

  For miles we wandered underground,

  A great bazaar was all around,

  Even may have gone — who knows?

  To the street of a thousand so-and-sos.

  Our Christmas spirit of good cheer,

  Was arak, rum and Aussie beer,

  Champagne, gin, Vat 69,

  And rare Italian altar wine.

  Dear old ladies played hostess,

  Entertained with great success,

  The best of all was, on the whole,

  Madame Lola — dear old soul!

  They welcomed us to Pension Blighty

  Even though we acted flighty;

  The good clean fun at Pension Badre

  Might well be fit for any padre.

  Such happy homes were very handy,

  They frequently had cherry brandy,

  When other ranks had gone away,

  The officers came in to play.

  When we had nowhere else to go

  We saw a sensuous Wog Show;

  Dancing girls with swaying hips,

  Attentive wogs with parted lips,

  At seventeen degrees below

  The place lay under feet of snow,

  Snowballs whizzed in all directions,

  Made some pretty good connections.

  We saw the ancient citadel,

  Learnt its history and its smell,

  Constructed good defensive works,

  Fraternised with cautious Turks.

  Now the Japs were in the war,

  Would soon be knocking at our door,

  We said goodbye to Madamoiselle;

  Soldiered on to — who could tell?

  Down to Suez, onto the sea,

  Oh, Middle East, farewell to thee,

  You gave us hell sometimes, it’s true,

  But often gave us good times too.

  “Whither?” was the general query,

  Everyone produced a theory:

  Even money Malaya, Burma,

  The odds on home were even firmer.

  Bombay was a port of call,

  A heavy time was had by all,

  But those who visited Grant Road

  Later carried all the load.

  Singapore fell to the Japs,

  Then the Indies quick collapse,

  Java held out for a while,

  But soon succumbed to yellow guile.

  Thus ended weeks of speculation

  On what would be our destination;

  We slowly slipped across the foam

  And knew we headed right for home.

  At thought of home our spirits rose,

  We washed and pressed our service clothes,

  Let ourselves fondly believe,

  We’d soon be going home on leave.

  They sneaked us out to Sandy Creek

  And granted us a lousy week;

  Whose home were in another state,

  Had many, many weeks to wait,

  We traveled on to Tenterfield,

  Our vicious natures quite concealed;

  The people all showed naïve amaze,

  That we behaved in decent ways.

  Another move to Kilcoy,

  Where people really did enjoy

  Seeing that everything was done

  To make our stay a pleasant one.

  The training here was pretty tough,

  In country pretty close and rough;

  Were quite content to go to beddie

  After going out on a ‘Don Freddie’.

  Then we grizzled and grumbled and swore,

  Knew we were on our way once more

  Over the sea to a foreign shore,

  ’Twas harder this time than it was before,

  En route they told us to beware,

  Many evils await to ensnare,

  Told us how we’d get our share,

  Of tropic disease and disaster to spare.

  Then we landed at Papua,

  Our moods got rapidly bluer,

  Each sharpened up his trusty bayonet,

  So the Japs could with ease contain it.

  Presently we fought the Jap

  And showed him how to fight a sarap,

  A fast and furious affray,

  Known as the Battle of Milne Bay

  ’Twas his first defeat in any land,

  We dished it out with lavish hand,

  Hardly any got away,

  The rest of them are here to stay.

  (So our story waits in Milne Bay,

  How much more, no one can say;

  The final verse will mark the day

  When worldwide peace is here to stay.)

  B. T. Woods

  (AWM PR 00359)

  * * *

  Our First Stunt

  It was Saturday night in the boozer,

  When the word was passed around

  That our convoy would leave next morning

  When we heard the bugle sound.

  At four ack emma we were out of bed

  Before the sun arose,

  The breakfast was stew and not so hot

  And the work was on the nose.

  We travelled through the desert

  Known to us now as Sinai,

  And hour after hour

  Saw nothing but sand and sky.

  At last we reached our barracks

  A place called Mersa Matruh,

  Where Cleo and Anthony used to make love

  And the Duke and Duchess too.

  We had a lot of Ities there

  And didn’t like the hicks,

  So we stood around and smoked and yarned

  While those bastards swung the picks.

  Stan Pinson

  (AWM PR00526)

  * * *

  Spring Offensive

  In where the smoke runs black against the snow

  And bullets drum against the rocks he went

  And saw men die with childish wonderment

  Where bayonets glitter in the sudden glow;

  And sleek shells scream and mortars cough below

  There tanks lurch up and shudder to a halt

  Before the superb anger of the guns

  Then flares go up — the rattle of a bolt.

  Rifles stutter and voices curse the Huns

  And then he jerked and toppled to the ground,

  His ears too full of noise, his eyes of light,

  His scattered cartridge clips glint brassy bright

  A Vickers cackles madly from the mound.

  Oh, where the red anemone brims over

  To swarm in brambled riot down a rise,

  There we will lay him, lay your widow’d lover,

  And wipe the poor burnt face and gently cover


  The look of startled wonder in his eyes.

  Let beauty come, let her alone

  Bemoan those broken lips with kisses of her own.

  Sig M. Biggs

  (AWM PR 00526)

  * * *

  Libya

  Oh, Libya! thou land of pests,

  With Nature’s wiles one never rests

  And Jerry shows his nasty ways

  By shelling us for days and days.

  The CQ sends the rations short

  And drinks the rum, we’ve always thought;

  Of our CO I cannot speak —

  We have a new one every week.

  The morn it shines so awfully bright

  The bastard snipes with ease at night

  And makes us jump and swear with fright

  And cry: You bastard, come and fight!

  We live in holes dug in the ground

  Where moles and rats and fleas abound;

  There’s flies and ants and nasty chats

  And bloody beetles as big as bats.

  There’s Messerschmitts and good old Foux

  (We always have a shot at you)

  And Whispering Willie winds his way

  And where he’ll land no one can say;

  And Verey lights go up at night —

  They are a most delightful sight

  And raiding bombers come and go

  To be chased by onions, to and fro.

  There’s booby traps and tangled wire

  To be erected under fire;

  So Libya now rest content

  You’re all the evils ever sent.

  Anon

  (AWM PR 00526)

  * * *

  The Pillbox on the Rise

  Now this land is hot and dusty

  Not worth a bloody hoot,

  It would take a million acres

  To support a bandicoot

  Out towards where the escarpment

  Rears beneath the lower skies

  My mates and I are living

  In a pillbox on the rise.

  Well, it wasn’t built for comfort

  But we stand some heavy knocks

  The ventilation’s not hygienic

  And it smells of sweaty sox.

  At night the sand fleas eat us

  And by day we have the flies,

  A delightful little mansion

  Is this pillbox on the rise.

  We live on army rations —

  Bully beef or beans or stew,

  Some Mungaree and margarine

  And Nelsons’ evil brew.

  To stretch and sleep in comfort

  We would need one twice the size,

  But we’ve got to be contented

  In this pillbox on the rise.

  Oft the Sigs drop in upon us

  When they’re running out their lines,

  They’ve got them stretched about the place

  Like bloody pumpkin vines.

  They sit and smoke and yarn awhile

  And tell the latest lies;

  We have our little gatherings

  At the pillbox on the rise.

  It’s not a fast existence

  But we’ve heard a bomber or so

  And when the ack-ack opens up,

  Come out and see the show.

  Now Smithy’s quite disheartened

  But he’d better dry his eyes —

  He won’t be always waiting

  In a pillbox on a rise.

  But someone’s got to man it

  And I guess we are the mugs

  While we dream of leave in Alex

  And of beer in foaming mugs;

  And if the worst should happen

  We’ve a job quite man size,

  Defending Aussie and Egypt

  In the pillbox on the rise.

  Anon

  (AWM PR 00526)

  * * *

  To the A.A.S.C.

  They have toiled their loads o’er the far flung roads

  And the labour has been their pride

  They have hauled the clip to the waiting ship

  Through the streets to the waterside.

  They have brought the grain from the stubbled plains

  Till the silo siding was full

  Through the days that were long they have loved their song

  Of the engines thrust & pull.

  When the gales wild lash made the branches crash

  Spite of perils old & new,

  Down the winding grade not a whit dismayed

  Came the transport roaring through.

  Through the coastal rains, over black soil plains

  Through flood & dust & flame,

  No matter what the odds, by all the gods,

  They’d get there just the same.

  Now they’ve left the roads, they have no loads

  To the wharf or the outback store

  For the Empire’s call has brought them all

  To the days & the ways of war.

  Now the engine’s song sounds stern & strong

  And its theme is the common will,

  For the foe of old grows overbold

  And we love our freedom still.

  Yet the part they played in the nation’s trade

  Their motto now shall be,

  Equal to the task to all that’s asked

  Of the men of our ASC.

  In the peaceful years they got no cheers

  And they seek none now, it’s true

  But this we know, where wheels can go,

  They’ll get their war freights through.

  They’ll haul each shell to the gates of hell

  To the maw of each hungry gun,

  O’er countless roads they’ll bring their loads

  And the job will be well done.

  Let the spotlight shine on the firing line

  On the guns & the infantry

  But save a cheer for the trusty Rear,

  The men of our AASC.

  Anon

  (AWM PR 00526)

  * * *

  1941

  That year it rained death like apples

  It did not matter at all about the dead

  For what better than death in battle,

  (The sick voice said in the belly

  What death better than death in battle?)

  That year the wicked were strong but remember

  That the time comes when the thing that you strike

  Rouses itself suddenly, very terribly,

  And stands staring with a terribly angry look

  And says, “Why do you strike me brother? I am a man.”

  One man is like another,

  One strength like another strength

  And the wicked shall not prosper for ever,

  When the turns of history

  Bring the innocent —

  To Victory!

  G. W. F.

  (AWM PR 00526)

  * * *

  The Australian Volunteers

  This war is just beginning,

  By a man who has no love

  For the lives of human beings

  And the God we know above.

  So to victory we’re marching,

  The possessors of no fear

  And throughout the world we’re known as:

  The Australian volunteers.

  When we left our wives and mothers

  It was sorrowful, I’ll say,

  And for the pain they supplied

  Someone will have to pay.

  That someone’s Adolf Hitler

  For he’s caused them many tears,

  And revenge will be the bayonets

  Of the Australian Volunteers.

  Our fathers fought in ’fourteen

  When they made their big advance,

  And they wrote their names in history

  As the bravest men in France.

  We’ll follow in their footsteps

  Tho’ it’s after twenty years

  To keep the old tradit
ion

  Of the Australian volunteers.

  When we return to Australia,

  Victorious from the strife,

  There’s many a man we left behind

  Who gave his gallant life

  So freedom may continue

  As it has in former years,

  With the Empire’s gains assisted

  By the Aussie Volunteers

  Anon

  (AWM PR 00526)

  * * *

  Bound’ry Riders of Tobruk

  We’re riding Shank’s pony,

  Round the boundry of Tobruk

  And looking to the traps at night as well;

  We’re rounding up all the boobies

  And we have our share of luck

  And now and then we yard a straying shell.

  We’re used to yarding cattle

  On a brumby mountain bred,

  We can use the whips and spurs in proper style,

  But the boundaries here are different

  And the whips are Brens instead

  And our spurs are made of barbed wire by the mile.

  We see the Jerry rustler

  As he sneaks about at night,

  No doubt he is a trier, is old Fritz,

  But he’s found the Boundary Rider

  Ever ready for a fight

  If he decides to start on a blitz.

  We are gathered from the outposts

  Of Australia over here

  And if we chance to leave slip and rail down,

  It’s just a trap for Jerry,

  So you needn’t have a fear,

  All you blokes that work back near the town.

  Just send us up our rations,

  Keep the ammo well supplied

  And see we get our mail and parcels too;

  We’ll route the Jerry rustler out

  And tan his bloody hide

  Ere we round him up and send him back again.

  Anon

  (AWM PR 00526)

  * * *

  Headlines

  A mighty island fortress,

  The guardian of the east,

  An up-to-date Gibraltar,

  A thousand planes at least.

  “It simply cannot be taken,

  ’Twill stand a siege for years

  We’ll hold the place for ever,

  ’Twill bring our foe to tears.

  Our men are there in thousands,

  Defences are unique.”

  The Japs did not believe it –