The Happy Warrior
Page 13
Dave Harris
UNIIMOG
(AWM PR 00431)
* * *
The Grunt’s Confession
’Twas Grunt, a bright young Infanteer in service of the Queen,
Who found himself in Kurdestan and held in some esteem
By members of the reptile group that goes by name of ‘snakes’
About the time he played a role in letting one escape.
The walk was long and arduous on that, the fateful day,
With Grunt asweating freely as he clambered up the way.
The puffing escort followed and the LO cursed his name,
The Pasdaran all turned around and went the other way.
They made it to the junction and ensured that all was well
Then turned around and recommenced descending from the hill.
But as they passed a small green bush a sentry shouted “Ist!
I’m sure I saw a bloody snake and heard the bastard hiss!”
Said Grunt “We’ve got some snakes at home would make you miss the show”,
And craning forward he said “Let’s see how long these blighters grow!”
But yon Battalion Headquarters had different thoughts in mind,
As all right up to Colonel armed with stones of different size.
As Grunt, still quite oblivious, said “G’day there Joe Blake!”
Old Hissing Sid the Viper came aware of his mistake.
The only way to safety seemed between those bandy legs,
And off he shot toward him like an All Black flying wedge.
Now Grunt, like most young Infanteers, had some synapse delay,
It took him precious seconds as he stood there in the way.
But watching the trajectory, the angles and the lines,
He finally came to realize he was just about to die.
He stood without a motion as he watched his ending come
While most of those behind him all went reaching for their guns
When in that final second of the cataclysmic crash
Young Grunt went fifteen feet straight up and fourteen feet straight back!
He landed midst the firing squad and crashed them to the ground
The whole Battalion Headquarters went running round and round.
And somewhere in the hail of shouts and clash of rifle stocks
Old Hissing Sid the Viper reached the safety of the rocks.
It’s rumoured here in Kurdestan that ever since that day
Not one Australian Grunt been bit by one Iranian snake,
And all the diggers stay dispersed against unseen attack
In case it once more goes straight up and fourteen feet straight back.
Luke Carroll
UNIIMOG
(AWM PR 00431)
* * *
The Letter
(This poem was written by Mike Subritzky, himself a veteran, during a train journey to farewell his son when he was posted on Operations to Bosnia in 1998, to serve with B Battery, Royal Horse Artillery.)
Dear Mr Subritzky, sorry to be a bore,
but we’re sending your son Danny to the Bosnian War.
Yes, we know you did Rhodesia, your cousin Bill did Vietnam,
but we’re running out of soldiers and we need a few good men.
Sure, your uncle Jack the Anzac, was in the Battle of Chunuk Bair,
and Bob Subritzky caught a packet on the Somme.
But we need a few good men, to send to Europe once again,
and we’ll kit them out and send them with a song.
Cousin Fredo got a head wound in the Monte Cassino fight,
and poor old Archi, he went crazy on the wire one stormy night.
Yes, your family’s done its bit, but it doesn’t count for shit,
and when your son gets back, we’ll give the lad a gong.
Now you know the bloody score, it’s just another friggin’ war,
and we’re off in a couple of days, to the blood and smoke and haze.
Of course your boy should be alright, unless the Serbs decide to fight,
because the Moslems in his sector seem OK.
Mike Subritzky, 1998
* * *
Dusk
Now is the healing, quiet hour that fills
This gay, green world with peace and grateful rest,
Where lately over opalescent hills
The blood of slain Day reddened all the west
Now comes at Night’s behest,
A glow that over all the forest spills,
As with the gold of promised daffodils.
Of all hours this is best.
It is the time for thoughts of holy things,
Of half-forgotten friends and one’s own folk.
O’er all, the garden-scented sweetness clings
To mingle with the wood fire’s drifting smoke.
A bull-frog’s startled croak
Sounds from the gully where the last bird sings
His laggard vesper hymm, with folded wings;
And Night spreads forth her cloak.
Keeping their vigil, where the great range yearns,
Like rigid sentries stand the wise old gums.
On blundering wings a night-moth reels and turns
And lumbers on, mingling its drowsy hums
With that far roll of drums,
Where the swift creek goes tumbling midst the ferns.
Now, as the first star in the zenith burns,
The dear, soft darkness comes.
C. J. Dennis
UNIIMOG
(AWM PR 00431)
* * *
Lights of Dili
(Food for thought)
Toward the lights of Dili, what is that you see?
Home, innocence, suffering, injustice.
Do you complain inwardly at the anguish, the pain of absence,
Or empathise with those whose indignity lays beneath shadows,
Whose blood forges a future, breaths life into a new nation?
Are you willing, able to set aside your loss, your anger,
Overcome adversity, appreciate with clarity the role you play?
Or will you close your eyes to humanity, compassion and reason,
While revelling in your own self pity and shame?
Beyond those lights, what is it that you see?
The greatest pain we endure, our ultimate sacrifice,
Is not the political bunglings or the confusion of power,
Nor the uncertainty of each passing day.
It is not another night being unable to taste normality,
Nor the drudgery, monotony or routine of each wakened breath.
The deepest pain to strike our hearts is that of absence,
Absence from our children, our families, our friends.
It is being denied irreplaceable moments in time,
The closeness and passion that family brings,
The stability, cohesion that friendship nurtures.
Whist doing battle with absence, our weapons of choice —
Commitment, loyalty, faith and charity —
Save and separate us from the rest of society.
With a language strange, and abstract perceptions of life
We transcend, conquer, all barriers to soar ultimately successful.
It is our ability to adapt, to confront challenge with determination,
To forge ahead where others would falter.
These traits are what govern our destiny, make us unique;
This moment in time is what fate has decreed
And we will as always, prevail, for it is our nature.
So if doubt, loneliness and anger consume,
Remember what it is that we take for granted,
Freedom, democracy, a right to choice and speech.
Breath a sigh of relief as you contemplate life,
The predicaments of others and the luxury of your birthright.
Appreciate that your sacrifice is merely
inconvenience
When compared to the sacrifice of others less fortunate.
Stand proud knowing you served righteousness, the good of man,
Setting aside your needs, to embrace, to give selflessly,
To those whose only world is one of servitude, aggression and sadness.
And next time you are staring toward that far away isle, ask:
What is it that I see, in those far off Dili lights?
Jim Hodges
* * *
A Tribute to a Kimberley Gidja Soldier
To my nephew, Jeremy Manning
I held back the teardrops from falling
As he walked inside our front room door;
He was over six-foot, every inch a soldier,
And just come back from East Timor.
I had held him in my arms as a baby,
This Kimberley nephew of mine;
We used to share many stories together
And his eyes would brightly shine.
He had said, ‘I wanna be a brave paratrooper,
Although the discipline is hard to take.
I wanna be an example to my people,
As strong as Uluru, not a fake.’
This time he brought two white mates with him
One of them also went to Timor
Under the leadership of Major General Cosgrove,
And boy, you could not ask for more.
For he earned his rank o’er in Vietnam,
And mate, I’ll tell you, it’s no joke.
He instilled dignity and fire in the guts mate,
And one would die for that kind of bloke.
My fine young nephew with a military hair cut
The Timorese kids, they would shout and sing.
He gave them lollies, picked them up in his arms, mate,
They loved him and treated him like a king.
“Have you been in grave danger?” I asked him.
“Yes, it was a danger we did not foresee.
It took place inside of a foxhole.”
This was the story he told to me.
“One day I faced a cocked machine gun.
Death stared at me square in the face.
I said a silent prayer to my Maker,
To protect me and give me some grace.
“I did not show any fear, nor tremble,
I did not move or even cry.
When the moment of tension was over,
I looked up and thanked God in the sky.
“Uncle Ron, can you give me a Bible?
I lost mine back in East Timor.
This is part of a good soldier’s armour
It keeps fear far away from the door.”
His mum came from proud Gidja kinfolks,
His dad Bill, an Irish Aussie at heart.
Their love transcended racial boundaries,
They gave Jeremy, their son, a head start.
I choked in my throat when we said our goodbyes.
He was a Kimberley man through and through.
Yet, he left bridle and saddle, to take up his gun,
A brave soldier and real Aussie mate, it is true.
A great example he is to his own people
His own countrymen thought he was great,
Yes, he is a might fine Australian
And a real dinky die Aussie mate.
So, to all Aboriginal youth in Australia,
You can train in the Navy, Airforce or Army.
May Jeremy Manning’s life be an example
Of helping people in all lands to be free.
Ron Williams
Aboriginal War Historian
* * *
Mighty Lady
A warship never sleeps, never tires, never weeps,
But lives and breathes with the life of the present,
Pulsating with the souls of a distant past.
Her heartbeat, her voice a constant companion,
To those who served before and to those who will again.
She is a mystery, an enigma a challenge,
She is many things to many men;
A tired mistress who requires painful attention,
Demands respect, dictates loyalty, commitment.
To those who serve, her repayment in kind, her thanks,
Is that of drudgery, long days and empty nights,
Loneliness, absence and weary confinement.
Unforgivingly harsh and a true task master,
She is a tired mistress who will give no quarter.
A beautiful lady, who shines through trials and tribulations
Keeper, protector of righteousness,
Of value, moral standard, ideals.
A symbol of nations, a wonder to behold,
One which exemplifies honour, typifies pride.
A chariot, a conduit for faith and hope,
A beautiful lady who encompasses all things noble.
Her life’s blood, sailors, give her magnificence,
Each with their own unique manner, character,
Different creeds, beliefs, ideals and history.
Melded, bonded, thrust together as one,
With a single goal a single purpose and direction,
To ensure that she breathes, achieves,
The greatness that destiny has bestowed upon her.
She has been, and will be, many things to many men,
But for me she stirs consciousness, conflicting memories.
She has been my home, my prison, a sanctuary, a trap,
The source of joy, pain, passion and anguish.
I know I will never escape her profound impact, her hold,
For years with her have moulded perceptions,
Have etched changes within my heart, upon my soul.
A surge of affection will always flow through my veins,
As I reflect upon a brief moment in time,
When my service was dedicated to her life.
The tides of change will never dull or wash away
Those years of bitter-sweet memories.
And my heart will always resonate with mixed emotion
As I look back toward her from destiny’s distant path.
So when she reaps vengeance with feminine wrath,
Or you feel the sting of her unforgiving demeanour,
Remember what it is to sail within her,
What it means, signifies, to be a part of that life blood.
Take pride, take comfort and solace, from the knowledge
It was your commitment, your strength, your passion
Who gave spirit to a mighty lady of the sea.
Jim Hodges
6 October 1999
Air Hours at the Ops Cell
There were air hours at the Ops Cell,
The word soon flashed around,
Let’s stop some road-moved rations,
And air-drop them to the ground
We need a bit of ADE
And space on Caribou
To set this lot of tucker
Adrift from out the blue.
Our OPSO was an air drop man,
Full bottle on that score;
We put the plan into his hand
To make it doubly sure.
All was booked and ready made
When Mate, you wouldn’t credit it,
Again the hand of HQ came
And turned it all to — .
Instead of a few, well planned drops,
’Twas all turned on its head;
“Let’s take the entire ration break
And drop the lot instead.”
The Wombats and the rigging crew
Then did a double take —
To break and pack this mighty stack
A sleepless night would make.
The hours came and slowly went,
The sweat in rivers poured
Until at last, the word was passed
“She’s set to go on board!”
The ink had hardly time to dry
Upon the me
ssage pad
When alteration followed change
And the blasted lot went bad.
Confusion reigned, the air turned blue
The OPSO threw a fit,
But just remember one thing lads,
There’s training value in it.
Capt. Don Buckby
* * *
Duties
There are many minor ailments
That plague a man through life,
To some it is their station
And others ’tis their wife.
And even carefree soldiers
Have a reason to complain,
I mean the many duties
That follow in a chain.
Some of them are easy
But most of them are bad,
They must think I like them,
I find it very sad.
If they’re ever under strength
And need a couple more,
They pounce with pure enjoyment
On five-five-eight-three-four.
It may be company runner
Or picquet in the town;
They may need a glamour guard,
So my name goes down.
Now I’ve touched a tender spot,
It always makes me swear,
And even baldy headed chaps
Try to tear their hair.
When they post the duties
I’m always on the list,
Even though my turn is past
My name is never missed.
I soldier on without complaint
But inwardly I moan:
Of the many duties,
It’s guard that makes me groan.
The hours aren’t excessive,
Just eight in twenty-four,
But when the ordeal’s over
In health I feel quite poor.
I’m always so tired
That I can’t even speak,
If they wouldn’t wake me
I’d slumber for a week.
But when they blow reveille,
I must rise and shine
And prepare for daily training,
For we parade at nine.
Raymond John Colenso
(AWM PR 00689)
* * *
The Coming of the Beast
It’s a lonely winter evening
The air is cold the moon is high,
All the nature is passive now
There’s not a star in the sky.
Tucked away in your bag it’s pleasant there,