The Happy Warrior

by Kerry B Collison

  The warmth you try to keep;

  Last man creeps up to your vehicle

  It’s your turn not to sleep.

  Up watching, cautiously waiting,

  You hope it will come through the night,

  If it does it will mean relief

  And end the unknown fright.

  You know it’s out there somewhere

  Watching with eyes open wide,

  And if it does reveal itself

  It’ll meet the friends by my side.

  Suddenly the darkness rules

  As the moon is blinded by a cloud,

  You’re thinking, “this is the moment!”

  As the insects laugh out aloud.

  Sounds are easily picked up now

  The creaking from nearby willows,

  And through the canopy of the trees

  A relentless, icy wind blows.

  Uncontrolling shivering overpowers you now

  As the wind keeps getting colder,

  There’s still no sign of it yet,

  The night, still it grows older.

  He will come, you know full well

  That he will visit tonight,

  But it’s still lurking in the shadows,

  You pray quietly for the sun’s light.

  Your friends are waiting silently

  To meet it, like it or not,

  When it comes they’ll scream at him

  Their barrels will glow white hot.

  Your shift is nearly over, soon you’ll go

  When your watch says that you can,

  And creeping up to the next vehicle

  You’ll wake the next tired man.

  Back in your bag you’ll sleep warm again

  Until the morning’s feast,

  But before then you’ll rise again

  For the coming of the beast.

  Cpl. M. J. Walburn

  * * *

  Time at the Bay

  Whilst you’ve got your feet up

  I’ll ask you not to disperse,

  Stick around and I’ll intrigue you all

  By reading you rhyming verse.

  A few weeks ago we left Townsville

  For there were Army games to play,

  So down the coast we travelled

  To a place called Shoalwater Bay.

  Now I know some may not like it

  But I think it’s good for a change,

  And anything’s better than bumbling around

  For a couple of weeks at High Range.

  We travelled down on buses

  It’s a poguish way to deploy,

  After a thousand and one truck stops

  We met up with the rest of the boys.

  Churchy, Dyso and Danny,

  Blacky, Willy and Bish,

  They’d only been there for a couple of days

  But a beer and a babe was their wish.

  Immediately we were into it

  And over the Bay we did roam,

  After a couple of days we were settled

  The Bay was our temporary new home.

  Elanora, Landsbury, The Glen

  These would all be places we’d see,

  Raspberry Vale and Mount Alec

  A Polygon and a Lemon Tree.

  We bashed across country as usual

  I don’t know how many trees we mowed,

  And how many times did we drive up and down

  That boring old east-west road?

  Mount Tilpal, The Plains and Razorback

  In these sectors we left our mark,

  They were our AO’s we called them

  Vivaldi, Mozart, Beethoven and Bach.

  The days and nights were hectic

  We didn’t have time to scratch,

  Just when we thought we could all flex out

  We were into a blue-on-blue match.

  Troop rivalry is always a good thing,

  I can’t really tell you who won,

  But I can tell you this one thing is true —

  A lot of callsigns from Two Troop got done.

  After this we went down to Camp Growl

  To fix the cars that were maimed,

  And I don’t know why they call it that

  Maybe by lesbians was it named.

  A live-fire stint came soon after,

  We gave them a mighty good whack,

  But the only trouble about this is

  Figure-eleven targets don’t shoot back.

  We travelled back home on buses again

  We filled all the truck stops till

  (and to the delight of everyone)

  We arrived back home in the Ville.

  I don’t know if it was a success

  But I can tell this to you all,

  Being out scrub for a couple of weeks means

  More money to piss up the wall!

  L/Cpl M. J. Walburn

  * * *

  On Exercises

  (A soldier’s view)

  To think that I have come to this:

  In the bush and off the piss,

  A place of dreary temperance

  Surrounded by incompetence;

  Confusion reigns while havoc rules,

  Methinks we are controlled by fools;

  It makes me fearful of our fate

  (And you thought Woodstock was a rock show, Mate!)

  Capt. Don Buckby

  * * *

  Canungra

  Canungra is a hateful place,

  Of all camps most detested,

  And those who do not pass this way

  Can count themselves most blessed.

  We hate the Sergeant Major’s voice,

  We hate the endless hurry,

  We hate the ceaseless tearing ’round

  And getting in a flurry.

  We hate the bayonet like the deuce,

  We hate the river crossings,

  We hate the march down to the creek,

  Just for to do our washing.

  We hate the raucous clanging sound

  Of cart tyres hung on string,

  Which wake us up at early morn

  E’en long before birds sing.

  But yet there’s something in the place

  That sort of, kind of, holds us —

  It may be in the comradeship

  Of those who are around us.

  It’s not a rest home to be sure,

  Nor yet is it a picnic,

  But though it’s very hard on us

  There’s something makes us stick it.

  The food’s not bad, there is no doubt

  About it, all the credit

  Is to the cooks, the way that they

  Can manage to prepare it.

  Of course there’s not too much to get

  But who has time to eat it?

  We hardly get a taste of it,

  When ‘bang’ — it’s time to beat it!

  I will admit it’s interesting,

  And also educating,

  Each day a change in ‘syllabus’

  Helps make it to our liking.

  The treks we do are really fun

  If one is young and healthy,

  But if one’s spirit is not in it

  Then all is gone for nothing.

  Of course it’s hard, the guns and packs,

  No matter just how careful

  We are to make them light, they just

  Get heavier every minute.

  The ground we cover in each march,

  Up hill and down to valley,

  By jungle track and over fields,

  Is really most amazing.

  I’m not a very striking chap,

  Five-foot-three is my limit,

  So when a six-foot leads the way

  I soon drop back to rearward.

  I struggle on, my head bent low,

  There are no signposts pointing

  The footprints on the dusty earth

  Are all the signposts needed,

  Until I come at gather
ing dusk

  To where two tracks are crossing,

  The prints can go full three ways here,

  I must be most discerning.

  I made my choice and on I plod,

  Though somewhat hesitating,

  But then of course I’d talked with God:

  ’Twas His way I was taking.

  Then after having climbed a tree,

  As high as I could get,

  I saw some lights not far away,

  On which my sights I set.

  Thus struggling on, I found a track,

  ’Twas well defined and friendly,

  No ‘Wait a Whiles’ upon this path,

  They’d met the old machete.

  When back at camp and DP One,

  Work parties now the fashion,

  There’s talk of going further north,

  Which generally is the order.

  But soon it will be o’er at last,

  Canungra long forgotten,

  Then what we’ll meet we do not know,

  And some not even caring.

  Pte.W. J. Baker, NX 139320

  Canungra, 1943

  * * *

  Canungra’s Way.

  Tramp, tramp, tramp, morning noon and night,

  Over mountain, hill and valley,

  Through the scrub and fern-lined gully,

  Over rocks and sandy patches,

  Hands and faces marked with scratches

  Trying to make jungle fighters —

  That’s Canungra’s aim.

  “Left right left,” ringing in one’s ear,

  Up at six and off we gallop,

  Double quick time down to river

  Wash and shave and back for breakfast,

  Gulp it down, no time for sitting,

  And no chance whate’er of quitting:

  That’s Canungra’s way.

  “At-tention!” through it all we go,

  Or “Port Arms” rifle inspection,

  “Shoulder Arms, we’re going marching,”

  “Stand at ease” or “just stand easy,”

  Everything to be done neatly,

  Shoddiness is not the fashion

  Up Canungra way.

  One, two, three, changing arms by numbers,

  Lesson five will be on Bren gun,

  Name the parts and reassemble

  Making sure that parts are all clear,

  Pull the bolt back, press the trigger;

  That’s the way that things are done here,

  Up Canungra way.

  “Pay attention here, that man on the right,

  You will tell us weight of Owen,

  How to hold when it is firing,”

  Number four will then dismantle

  Telling us a cause of stoppage.”

  All of this they try to teach us,

  Canungra’s own way.

  Day by day this is what goes on,

  Maybe we will turn out soldiers,

  Each a credit to the tutors;

  Maybe time will all be wasted,

  We, perhaps will ne’er go over,

  But for me my choice will never

  Be Canungra’s way.

  Pte Jim Baker, NX 139320

  Canungra, 1943

  * * *

  Accidents

  Statistics prove that accidents with military trucks

  Are getting far too numerous, they’re mounting up and up

  So that they’re causing grave concern to us and police force too,

  And really men, I’m sure you’ll say, it’s just the same with you.

  We’re proud of GT116 and all it means to us,

  We’re proud of you who do their job without a lot of fuss,

  Each truck and man within this camp is needed every one,

  The job you’re doing reg’ly helps knock out Jap and Hun.

  You say, “I only drive a truck around suburban camps,

  Or carting timber, stone, or muck — that won’t Jap ardour damp!”

  My boy, we’re each and every one just one tooth on a gear,

  Yet one tooth being broken off may prolong war a year.

  When trucks o’erturn, the fire brigade and police must burn up juice

  To see the truck does not catch fire, be ruined for other use,

  And workshops men must leave their jobs, perhaps important too,

  To take out towing truck and gear to bring your wrecked ‘bus’ through.

  A man or woman may get hurt, who work in factory,

  Employed in making shells or tanks for our boys overseas.

  So you can see that accidents, it matters not how small

  They be, the fact remains that they affect us, one and all.

  So if we all will do our best

  To drive more carefully,

  We’ll have ‘No Accident Month’ I’m sure

  And happy we will be.

  Pte Jim Baker.

  NX139320

  116 Aust. Gen. Trans. Coy.

  Marrickville NSW. 31 August 1942

  * * *

  Victory of the Sands

  Now the 1st Brigade quoth the old story

  How they marched from Tel-El-Habar

  Of the four thousand men who started

  And the two hundred who got there.

  But the 16th Brigade claims the laurels

  In the terrible Grecian campaign

  How we marched ninety miles over mountains

  Non-stop through the snow and the rain.

  But the pages of history don’t mention

  One march that we’ll never forget

  ’Twas a march through the Sinai desert

  Brought about by an officer’s bet.

  Now a course was laid down at places

  There were clocks to check on our paces

  And home was the camp football ground.

  Number 8 ran the distance in fine style

  Captain Coslet sat down with a grin

  Told his boys that they now had the bag tied

  And the laurels were safely within.

  But he reckoned without Johnny Blarney

  And his team who would follow him through,

  Though they weren’t very brilliant at drilling

  They had what it takes to get through.

  They started off smoothly and happy

  With Fogarty setting the pace

  The prize was a skinful of Aussie —

  Little wonder they made it a race.

  But the sand up ‘Tomb’ hill was cruel

  And we lagged as we climbed that long slope,

  Ronnie William kept heaping on fuel

  And his cheery voice brought us new hope.

  We passed ‘61’ with two seconds to spare,

  Our leaders had gained second wind,

  Joe Shaw and Tom Dixon were gasping for air

  With Doug Stewart dropping behind.

  Jack Blarney sang Old Tipperary

  Young Webber sang Mother McKee

  George Stephenson’s old puffing billy

  Was a fair imitation of me.

  Young Shorty said goodbye to dinner

  As the winning post came into view

  And I thought of Tom Rigg and Pat Edmonds

  And the trouble they took with the stew.

  George Wickham came out in his scanties

  Capt Baird cheered us on with his hat,

  We raced in with a two-minute margin

  And every man flopped on the mat.

  Now if men want to bet in their mess room

  Let them bet on the day it will rain,

  Desert marching is exclusive to camels

  And I’m damned if I’ll try it again.

  Anon

  (AWM PR 00526)

  * * *

  A Digger

  Carry the claymores

  Carry your pack

  Carry the radio —

  All on your back

  Carry your rations

  Carry your tent

 
Carry your clothing —

  Sorry you went

  Up hill and down hill

  Over the ridge

  Sleep in the Ulu —

  Make your own bridge.

  Walk-talking softly

  Listen and sign

  Eat what you carry —

  Watch for a mine.

  Give us a break sir

  Stop for awhile

  Have you ever seen

  A CSM smile?

  But you change...

  Polish up your boots

  Polish up your belt

  Silver star and brasso —

  It’s the best you’ve ever felt.

  Fall in at BHQ

  Check your hat’s on straight

  March off in the evening

  To guard the old camp gate.

  Margaret Gibbons

  We Were the 46th

  We were the 46th.

  We went to a war that was worlds away,

  Why did you go you say?

  We went for king,

  We went for country,

  But most of all we went for our pride in ourselves.

  We’re all gone now,

  We are no more,

  But in the photos and text within, we are reborn,

  We live again.

  I can see Rollie Touzel,

  The Country Boy from Cudgewa,

  I can see Alf Willison,

  The City Man from Melbourne,

  The blue collar and professional alike.

  I’m with them now,

  With the mates we left behind.

  No more are we in the stark madness of Pozieres,

  The mud, ice, and the death at Flers,

  Or the unbroken wire of Bullecourt,

  Where I held a shattered mate’s hand as his young life ebbed away,

  I looked him in the eye and told him he’d be just fine,

  I lied.

  This was the nightmare I lived,

  ’Till my own life had ended its day.

  I was one of those who came home,

  To my family, my children;

  They were all precious to me,

  But they couldn’t understand the difference within,

  The pain, the anguish,

  The scars of my time could never be healed as those that are physical.

  Look at the photo,

  Can you tell who I am?

  I’m everyone,

  A member of the 46th,

  An anonymous infantry soldier,

  The salt of the earth,

  As much as we were from different walks of life

  And different parts of the land, we were as one, we were a family:

  we were the 46th!

  Ian Polanski

  * * *