The Happy Warrior

by Kerry B Collison

  When there’s thunder in the turbines and the shaft begins to scream

  And you’re called a stupid idiot if you lose a pound of steam.

  So it isn’t any wonder, when his ship arrives in port

  That the sailor only wonders the fact that time is short,

  So he takes whatever’s coming and lets his morals slide

  For you never know tomorrow if you may cross that great divide.

  When you’re dead and soon forgotten and no one tolls a bell

  If you never get to heaven, why not try for hell?

  For at least you know what’s coming and really couldn’t care

  As you are sure to have some cobbers, stoking fires, with you there.

  R. J. Sturdy

  HMAS ARUNTA

  * * *

  Polly

  At nine o’clock, our Nurse signs on,

  To watch us through the whole night long,

  And when we are safely in our beds,

  Lightly up the ward she treads.

  A kind smile here, a helping hand,

  We all agree she beats the band.

  All the night she’s at our call,

  With cups of tea and toast, and all,

  Then at 6 a.m. she’ll grin and say,

  “Good Morning, Boys, it’s a bonzer day!”

  And even though things may look black,

  On all our cares we’ll turn our backs,

  For Nursie Dear has shown the way,

  And so from all the boys we say,

  “Thank you, Polly!”

  Ward 8, 2/12th AGH, Warwick

  Anon

  (AWM PR 88 019)

  * * *

  Smilin’ Thru’

  Though fate has been unkind to us with sickness and in pain,

  It takes the kindness of the nurse to bring us health again;

  Her smiling face so cheerful, with radiance aglow,

  I’ll praise her work unending wherever I may go.

  No words that I can utter with justice half express

  The gratitude I’ll always feel, the depths you cannot guess.

  The kindness and devotion bestowed in Mercy’s cause,

  Deserves the highest praise of all — a round of loud applause!

  No doubt they have their troubles (who hasn’t some these days?)

  But they never show they have them, dispensing kindness many ways.

  There’s one just here as I’m writing, who is always bright and jolly,

  And the first prize I would surely give to one whose name is Polly.

  So Australia is indebted, and the soldier thankful too,

  To the sisters and the nurses, with their motto ‘Smilin’ Thru’.

  Farewell I’ll soon be leaving, you’ve done so much for me,

  For others in their illness and Australia generally.

  A. M. McDermott

  (AWM PR 88 019)

  * * *

  Merciful

  On a pedestal I place her high, so kind, so pure, so sweet,

  Doing her duty nobly well, in her uniform so neat.

  Tending the wounded and the sick without the slightest fear,

  The Red Cross Nurse, she stands alone — we hold her very dear.

  To the noble cause of Mercy. she has dedicated her life,

  With the gentleness of a Mother and the sweetness of a wife.

  Nothing a trouble to her, the bravest thing God made,

  So loving, kind and gentle, but yet so unafraid.

  The soldiers of the battlefield, who know her real true worth,

  They respect her, and they love her like nothing else on earth.

  She has tended them in dire distress, in misery and in pain,

  Saved many from a soldier’s grave, not once, but over again.

  This pen of mine cannot record, all the Mercy I have seen.

  But the Red Cross Nurse is God’s Own work, Humanity’s Queen.

  So I wish her all the very best in God’s care I leave her now,

  Knowing that He who made her, every blessing will endow.

  A. M. McDermott

  (AWM PR 88 019)

  * * *

  A Prayer of Thanks

  The night is dark and dank and drear,

  I toss upon my fevered bed

  And softly comes on soundless feet

  An earthly angel to my head;

  And over my burning brow her hand

  So soft and cool in sweet caress,

  A healing touch that soothes my pain

  With loving care and tenderness.

  God bless ‘The Rose of No Man’s Land’,

  Who guides me through my night of pain,

  And keep her safe throughout the storm

  Till peace dawns bright and clear again.

  Anon

  (AWM PR 00526)

  * * *

  The Last Anzac

  They buried Doug Dibley today,

  a fine old gentleman who died in his sleep,

  at Rotorua on a hot December afternoon.

  No warrior’s death for him on Walker’s Ridge,

  where the poppies fed on the blood and frozen dreams

  of good young men from Wellington.

  A day’s leave and a seven-year-old son at my side,

  we bore witness as six tall infantrymen in service dress

  raised him high from the gun carriage,

  and quietly marched his flag-draped casket to eternal rest

  among the trees and hills of his beloved Ngongotaha.

  Volleys fired and mournful bugles call,

  we shall not see his like again,

  no more grow old as yet no more remain

  with living memory of that time,

  when machine gun and bayonet did their awful work,

  and Anzac boys closed with desperate Turk,

  among the gullies and crumbling ridges

  of a foreign coast that was Gallipoli.

  Remember this day my son,

  remember this hour and this place,

  for here and now they bury this Nation’s last lament,

  to a time of King and Empire.

  And the poppies on the ridges grow,

  and the scrub thorn in the valleys thrive,

  and the memory of young mates who died

  we sod this day with Trooper Dibley.

  Mike Subritzky

  1997

  * * *

  By The Way

  When the fire’s burning bright

  And my pipe’s drawing right,

  When the war’s passed by many a day.

  Once again in my mind

  Many faces I find

  Of the chaps whom I met by the way.

  They were friendly, these blokes,

  With their songs and their jokes,

  And helped when the world was darn grey,

  So I hope that the fates

  Have been kind to these mates,

  Splendid chaps whom I met by the way.

  They’ve lent me a hand

  In dust and in sand,

  In fashion I ne’er can repay,

  And in war’s strife

  When you fear for your life —

  You thank God for these chaps, by the way.

  Thank you mate for your cheer,

  It’s the knowing you’re near

  That helps a man through a bad day,

  For when trouble looms nigh

  You will answer the cry:

  Noble friends whom we met by the way.

  Anon

  * * *

  We thank You

  Thanks, boys, for the peace you helped to keep

  In this fair land that has not known,

  The agonies of ruthless war,

  Save those who for the absent weep.

  Yet, smiling through their tear-stained eyes,

  They thank you, too, for what you bore

  Through weary years, not for the praise

  You hoped to get, but freedom’s clo
udless skies

  That they might be forever more

  The very joy of living ne’er forgot.

  And so with deepest gratitude we say,

  “Good luck, God bless you all, and thanks a lot!”

  Anon

  * * *

  American Tribute to the “Desert Rats”

  The roads are clogged and dusty as the trucks go rolling by

  With loads of weary soldiers with a twinkle in their eye.

  The trucks are coming eastward for to give the boys a rest,

  And I tell you all in Cairo, each one deserves the best.

  There are Sikhs and husky Tommies, and Aussies tall and thin,

  And the Scotties and the Tank Boys with berets and brown skin;

  Still many other soldiers are coming down this way,

  And I ask you all in Egypt, to give them thanks today.

  For not many weeks behind us, old Rommel made a boast

  That he soon would be in Cairo and that his friends would toast.

  But these weary lads before you, with dusty clothes and gun,

  Are the ones that freed all Egypt and kept Rommel on the run.

  So raise your glasses highest and give a mighty cheer,

  For the boys who won the battle and saved what all hold dear!

  Anon American

  * * *

  When “Black” is “White”

  While Australia fears invasion and war knocks at our door,

  the AIF is fighting back not far from Aussie’s shore.

  On the island of New Guinea, where the mountains kiss the sky,

  and the Owen Stanley Ranges take their share of all who die.

  Through a tough, infested jungle on a lonely native track

  our boys are gamely marching on; some know they’ll not come back.

  From Moresby to Kokoda, through mud and splashing rain,

  they cut their way through jungle, your freedom thus to gain.

  So let your prayers be for them, as you pray to God each night,

  to give them strength and courage to win the fight — your fight;

  And whilst you’re praying for them, pray for the native, too,

  those angels without haloes, who’re dying too, for you.

  We met them first at Moresby, then on the jungle track,

  those fuzzy headed angels that we all thought were black.

  We classed him as a nigger, we thought ‘white sense’ held lack,

  this tawny Papuan native, we called him ‘boong’ for black.

  Unrecognised his presence, his company we would shun,

  he seemed far from our equal and his colour caused us fun;

  But when it came to battle and bloodshed on this isle,

  boong showed that he was white — we learned to love his style.

  And with our sick and wounded, no mother could do more

  to ease a loved one’s suffering than the boongs did on this chore;

  From the tangle of the jungle he bore our wounded through

  many miles to dressing stations: Boong, we owe to you.

  We thank you little brothers; in this tough and bloody fight

  We’re proud to have you with us — you’ve taught us ‘black’ is ‘white’!

  Bill Curnow

  * * *

  Red Shield Angels

  The Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels is a poem you well know,

  It will always be remembered no matter where you go;

  But there’s other blinking angels where ever you may be

  They’re the men who give you comfort — the boys of the ‘Sally’ Army.

  I remember that great battle on the hills of Shaggy Ridge,

  You would hear those welcome voices, “Like a smoke?” or “Have a drink,

  Dig?’

  The Red Shield is a byword, two words which mean so much

  To the boys who are in there fighting: “The angels are with us!”

  Even in the midst of battle, e’en ’mongst tremendous din,

  You will always see that banner with the words on it, hop in

  No matter where the fighting, no matter where you are

  You have always got that feeling that the Salvos are not far.

  Their work is not just the Army when you turn to them in strife,

  They’re always there to help you, even back in civvy life.

  In the courts where men do battle for freedom for a time,

  They know they have a backing, and it doesn’t cost a dime.

  So I’ll close this little poem with all the highest praise

  For the men of the Salvo Army, and their deeds in war-torn days.

  May God bless and keep them till better days are known

  When we all can cry together “Australia, free land, our own!”

  Colin Rap

  * * *

  It’s Ours

  The battle raged unceasing

  With bursting bomb and shell

  Both dead and wounded lay about

  Amid this earthly hell.

  Then through the smoke of battle

  We saw them standing by —

  The Red Cross plain for all to see,

  We heaved a heatfelt sigh.

  The wounded soon were loaded,

  We wished them best of luck,

  We blessed the driver and his men

  For their courage and their pluck.

  Back to the 2nd/9th Field Ambulance

  Where willing hands stood by

  To mind the wounded, soothe their nerves

  And see they did not die.

  Day and night these gallant men

  Worked on for hours and hours

  And when a shell burst near they’d say

  “Don’t panic boys it’s ours!”

  No words of praise are high enough

  To give these boys a name,

  But through it all the 2nd/9th

  Stood by and played the game.

  Anon

  * * *

  Our Mates, the Yanks

  I have a mate or two among the Yanks in good ol’ US of A,

  ‘Mum’ and I have visited once or twice and despite a few differences,

  We’re so much alike that mutual respect

  is built into their “Hi!” and our “G’day!”

  Our differences relate to ‘lingo’ and lifestyle

  but we have pulled down most separating fences.

  In our oft’ offensive tagging we often call them ‘Tanks’,

  Not because they’re mobile, iron-sided and vulnerable,

  ’tis better than ‘Hey! You!’

  And it is kinder than ‘Septics’, besides it rhymes with ‘Yanks’ —

  We like to have them visit so we can stir a pot or two.

  The ‘laid back’ pace of American sport and the aggressive pace of ours,

  Accentuates national attitudes of ‘steady as she goes!’

  and an urgency to prove the point,

  So side by side we go, as we have through many tours,

  And our friendly rivalry has often led to partying that really ‘rocks the joint’.

  Whether you stroll the Boulevards of Hollywood

  and drive the ‘crazy’ freeways of LA,

  Or sail ’cross Sydney’s Harbour and try to cross the ‘coat-hanger’ in peak,

  You’ll share the traveller’s highs and lows of leisure and delay,

  And comparing both experiences you’ll agree that there’s a common streak.

  They say that wealth abounds in good ol’ US of A and that every man is

  rich,

  And that we’ll have to ‘pull our socks up’ if they maintain the pace,

  But I’ve seen the poor in LA and New York

  and watched them make their pitch

  As they do in Sydney, and other Aussie towns, so it’s national wealth per capita

  that keeps us in the race.

  The Yanks are patriotic, proud and sometimes rather loud,

  While A
ussies have a gutsy, arrogant and rebellious stance,

  Yet we have a similar determination to remove every dark and gloomy cloud,

  Yanks and Ockers, together, are a formidable barrier

  against potential foes that prance.

  Our soldiers train together now for, united,

  we’ve fought and bled when things were really rough,

  The Yanks joined in the fray in World Wars I and II

  and turned the tide when we were on our knees,

  So we helped them out in little ‘dings’ in Korea, Vietnam and the Gulf,

  I guess that’s the price of brotherhood, we have to stand together so that all can feel the breeze.

  We’ve taken our place upon the international stage,

  and gained quite some respect,

  Mother England gave us birth and showed us how and where to stand,

  Uncle Sam is our big brother but we need not hold his hand, he expects us to be direct,

  We are all one, a strong united family, and the world — it likes our brand.

  Now we struggle to cut parental ties with dear old Mother England,

  For we feel a need to take the final step to nationhood,

  To have a very special flag to unify our pride and represent our land,

  The Yanks have ‘old glory’, John Bull the Union Jack, and ours will be as good.

  As we, again, stand up to face the world, let us give thanks to ‘Mum’,

  And clinging tightly to our Anzac heritage,

  go out with courage to a future shining bright,

  And to our bonded mates, the Kiwis’, add the beat of the Yankee drum,

  We’ll march the course of freedom so that liberty, through courage,

  might give the world its light.

  Bill Phillips

  1997

  * * *

  Kiwis

  The Kiwi is a little bird and kinda cute the girls do say,

  But ’tis the symbol of a nation that lies across the way.

  It has inspired New Zealand’s people and filled their hearts with pride,

  And Aussies, too, are proud of them