The Happy Warrior

by Kerry B Collison

  for we always stand side by side.

  When we became a nation and were asked to stand and fight,

  For the freedom of captive people, little Kiwi brother fought with all his might,

  And we stood together to challenge all aggressors to throw at us their best,

  We bled, we died, we cursed ’til victory it was won

  and we stood the mighty test.

  In peace they play all sorts of games still challenging the entire world,

  And this little bloody Kiwi will ne’er concede defeat no matter what is hurled.

  We sometimes knock their ‘All Blacks’ flat and belt them at the wicket;

  But back they come — they won’t lay down —

  that cursed little bird ahiding in the thicket.

  Rebellious and rugged these oceanic people have shown that they don’t give a stuff,

  For aggression or pomposity I guess it’s in the water, which can get mighty rough.

  Aussies and Kiwis proudly earned, together, the title ‘Anzac’,

  So don’t ever pick a ‘blue’ for it’s not just a title

  earned at Gallipoli or on the track.

  I must admit I’m puzzled, an insignificant Kiwi would surely inspire the least,

  The Poms have a rampant lion (though it’s not a native beast),

  We’ve got an old man roo and an emu (neither takes a backward step),

  But a little tiny Kiwi — it must be just a joke

  but it sure does give ‘em pep.

  They’ve got a long white cloud, and heaps and heaps of sheep,

  Then there’s snow and bubbling stinking mud and mountains fairly steep,

  And there’s an accent for which we tease them heaps,

  They come and pinch a job or two

  and our pollies do the weeps.

  If the Kiwi were an emu or little brother cassowary I could understand,

  But a cheeky flightless bird that’s nocturnal is hardly grand.

  I’ve oft been told to watch my tail but a Kiwi doesn’t have one,

  The way the Kiwi’s fight it’s probably been shot away

  or he ties it in a bun.

  No matter how I rave or puzzle I must admit to admiration,

  For there’s a rugged proud determination that is akin to the spirit of our Nation,

  And they’ve fought tenaciously for other people’s freedoms and did it with a grin,

  That takes a lot of spirit and I love ‘em,

  it makes me feel a twin.

  Hey, Kiwi! May I shout a word of warning as we compete again,

  Don’t get under our emu’s feet for he’ll treat you with disdain.

  We hope you come in second for we like to win our games,

  So we’ll do our best to beat you

  and we’ll shoot you down in flames.

  Yes! Across the mighty ocean hidden by the long white cloud,

  Is a nation of our brothers of whom we’re mighty proud,

  And we’ll stand together always, whether it be in peace or war,

  But why a bloody Kiwi?

  It still sticks into my craw.

  Bill Phillips

  1998

  * * *

  The Sapper

  Just an ordinary sapper

  Neither debonair or dapper,

  A simple kind of bloke it’s good to know;

  Maybe over fond of liquor

  Still there’s no doubt he is a stickler

  And he’ll go where any other man will go.

  He may be a cranky blighter

  But, fair dinkum he’s a fighter,

  He’s always ready when things are tough;

  Every time our mob advances

  He is there to take his chances

  And he sticks it until the foe has had enough.

  To consolidate positions

  He is there with demolitions

  He just loves to play around with dynamite,

  And at night he’s on barbed wire

  Somewhere out there, under fire,

  Ever ready to be mixed up in a fight.

  In your peaceful contemplation

  When you’re praying for the Nation

  And you ponder on the dangers that are past,

  Don’t forget he’s worth attention

  For the roll of fame will mention

  That he did his duty squarely to the last.

  Anon

  (AWM PR 00526)

  Elegy Written in a Country RSL

  (With apologies to Thomas Gray)

  A bugle sounds the end of Anzac Day

  The limping Diggers head off home for tea,

  The General’s strut his stuff — he’s earned his pay —

  And silence hands their memories down to me.

  Twilight on the stone sits slow and cold

  The last rays of sun provide a crown,

  Some galahs make one last sortie bold

  Then any noise disturbs and earns a frown.

  There’s just one Stone about to tell the tale

  Of all the local heroes called to war,

  And all the mums and lovers wan and pale

  When told that they would see their loves no more.

  Then later in the bar of the RSL

  Old Diggers tell their tales and memories,

  Their luck to survive that bitter tortured hell

  That took the lives of so many Aussie boys.

  It wasn’t really all that long ago

  That soldiers, sailors, airmen played that scene,

  While politicians argued to and fro

  And we are left to guess what might have been.

  But Diggers who came back recall their mates

  Their future dreams and hopes not soft or loose

  Their plans complete in detail — e’en the dates —

  When once back home and they’d be free to choose.

  Remember Jack? would put the world to rights

  And put to shame the present politicians

  And Bill who took a brush to all the sights

  Some paintings were like Boyds, some like Titians.

  And Phil was to write about the outback

  The reader caused to smile or shed a tear,

  And Sam who’d sing a song for all in concert

  But now he won’t ’cause he was shot that last year.

  A new age philosopher was our Mark

  To rid the world of pain was Markie’s goal,

  But he drowned in the sea — down deep and dark –

  And his death is sure to leave a gaping hole.

  So, sad to say, they will not have their day,

  They gave their lives that we could now have ours

  Yet we both squander life and waste the day

  Too busy by far to even smell the flowers.

  They had a vision for this land of ours

  Once shared by all the people of our land,

  Forgotten in our busy business hours

  Or buried under mounds of trivial sand.

  The Epitaph

  If you stop by to read this now and then

  And ponder on the ones it’s placed here for,

  Then when you’ve finished say a loud ‘Amen’

  And gently smile and grieve for us no more.

  The future, no longer ours, but now it’s yours

  Bequeathed to you — it is our parting gift;

  Don’t look with envy to some distant shores

  But make a blessing that will give our souls a lift.

  Make of this land the ‘heaven on earth’ we dreamed

  Let not our pains and deaths have been in vain

  Bring to life those dreams and all they seemed

  And in that future — there we’ll meet again.

  WO2 Paul Barrett

  * * *

  Toad’s Party

  You were mentioned at the table, as they passed around the Port,

  They were talking of Terendek and Vietnam

  They had known
you in the 60s — At Serikin, where the rats

  Lived beside and all around you at The Fort.

  Where the rations came by plane and star pickets fell like rain

  And beer was hot — But Indos must be caught.

  You all wandered in the Ulu

  With your rations on your back.

  Crossed the border, and were miles away from home

  When young Andre caused a panic,

  So you raced back up the track,

  But Terendak wasn’t far across the foam.

  When you came home to Australia you kept practising your skills

  At Tin Can Bay and Ingham — lots of fun!

  Then you climbed aboard the Sydney and across the China Sea,

  you sailed to stop the Commos on the run.

  And you felt the bullets flying, while Alex lobbed grenades

  And the fight was often over in a flash.

  Then you gathered up your gear, sometimes trembling with a tear.

  And you wondered why you did it — not for cash

  Back home in ’68 you were moving at a rate

  To Townsville and High Range –

  The Strand and Louth’s. And you lived the local life,

  And you found yourself a wife.

  But you did it all again!

  with a different group of men

  With Len and John and Pat in 71.

  At the Horseshoe and Vung Tau you were there to show them how,

  To do the job — and still — to stop the Commo Run.

  And we talked till after midnight as we sat among the plates.

  And we wondered where you went and what you’ve done.

  Since the time you shared together — with the friends you’ll have forever —

  You were mentioned at the table

  By your Mates.

  Margaret Gibbons

  * * *

  Great Day!

  I see him at reunions and he smiles and says “Hello!”

  Then he sits and talks with mates who do the same.

  And I wonder what they’re thinking as they sometimes gaze away

  To quieter, darker corners from the game.

  Are they thinking of the paddy fields, or tall denuded trees,

  Or grass so high and hot you cannot see?

  Perhaps tears, or lonely longing for family and friends:

  Self pity — that’s something you won’t see.

  It’s time to go till next year, he pauses at the door.

  “Goodbye!” he’ll say and quickly looks away.

  The tiny tear that twinkles in his eye, he tries to hide,

  And his parting word is usually “Great Day!”

  Margaret Gibbons

  * * *

  In October

  I see soldiers when they’re marching

  I see soldiers when they walk

  I see soldiers when they’re laughing

  I see soldiers when they talk.

  And I like to stand and watch you

  when we gather on the Tweed,

  And perhaps just more than anything

  this may be what you need.

  Just to get your thoughts in order

  just to stop and think awhile

  To find a friend you have forgotten

  helps you walk another mile.

  So come back again to Twin Towns

  talk and laugh and meet a friend,

  For that weekend in October

  means our memories don’t end.

  Margaret Gibbons

  * * *

  After the March

  Unpeopled streets, swept clear

  As by a flood;

  Here lies confetti — gay,

  But mixed with mud.

  Bright streamers strew the ground

  In tangled heaps

  Like weed cast on the sand

  When the sea weeps.

  And in an office door

  Stand, here and there,

  Small tearful groups of girls

  Just stand and stare

  Into a future suddenly made bare.

  Marjorie Larcombe

  * * *

  Remember the Green Parrot?

  Telok Anson, Tanjung, Tokong -

  Ipoh, Nasi Goreng,

  Aussie Hostel, Golden Sands —

  Nothing ever boring.

  Drinking in the Hong Kong Bar,

  Lasah, Lumut, Naafi,

  Koyli, Jocks and Ghurke too —

  Sometimes even Taffy.

  Up the sharp-end

  In the Ulu, Sandy Croft and curry.

  Merle could feed a hundred men —

  No one’s in a hurry.

  Makan, Tiffin, Pappodams,

  Whiteaways and Minden,

  Tiger beer and Lucky Strikes —

  Oh boy, but you were thin then!

  Charlie Brock’s old monkey,

  A trip to Alor Star,

  Gambling at the Garrison,

  Haggling in Bazaar.

  Chin Peng on the run again,

  Taiping, Hong Kong Bank,

  Forward scout for Claude this week —

  Who can we all thank?

  Endless hours of tramping jungle,

  Aching backs and tired feet,

  Snatch some sleep at Tanjung Bungah,

  Fit in some time in Chulia Street.

  Your back still aches on Anzac Day,

  Your sight is getting dim,

  But your eyes search all the ranks

  Looking for that special ‘Him’.

  The one you used to laugh with,

  The one who was your mate,

  You haven’t seen him lately —

  And you hope it’s not too late.

  Margaret Gibbons

  * * *

  Colours

  We stood at the Ho that first summer’s morn,

  Hearts bursting with pride, tears welling inside,

  Thoughts of back home and how far we’d come,

  The pipe it was shrill in the crisp air still.

  We stood tall that morn and first saw her rise,

  Our Ensign she’s white, inspiring, bold and bright,

  There’s been so many others have stood here before,

  And watched glory rise, up into southern skies.

  It’s the start of her day hoisted up slow...

  All hands salute... let’s give her a show,

  On her way up, the red white and blue,

  That chord in our hearts will always ring true.

  As she reaches the top, the silence is great,

  Australia’s White Ensign — she’ll do me mate!

  LSMT Scott Bayley

  * * *

  The Sea!

  The sea! That vast, majestic plain

  Of foam-flecked wave and windswept rain,

  And howling gales that bend the brain

  And fill brave men with dread.

  The sea! That sparkling crystal pool

  Bedecked with phosphorescent jewel,

  Where dolphins play the merry fool

  And Neptune makes his bed.

  The sea! That final resting place

  For sailing men of every race,

  Where seaweed shrouds are commonplace

  Among the grateful dead.

  No grave for me, nor crypt, nor tomb,

  Nor roaring furnace in curtained room,

  But Nature’s cool and watery womb

  Is where I’ll lay my head.

  Ron Baker

  * * *

  Remember

  Remember, Australia, now peace bells have rung

  And Victory’s song have been joyfully sung,

  Remember the blood that was shed for this land;

  Forget not the courage so noble and grand.

  Remember, Australia, when birds sweetly sing

  And nature’s soft blossoms are glories of spring,

  As trees gently sway in the light laughing breeze;

  Remember the battle to keep gems like
these.

  Remember, Australia, those brave men who fell,

  Whose lives ebbed away in a valley of hell.

  Remember their children, and others loved dear

  And give them a future to face without fear.

  Remember, Australia, the brave who return,

  The wounded, the war-torn, you must never spurn;

  Remember these men, and discharge your debt well,

  Secure and in comfort, be sure they all dwell.

  Remember, remember, forever, these sons

  Who flung back the foe with a thunder of guns!

  As free soil you tread, and on beauty you gaze,

  Remember, Australia, remember always!

  Cpl S. George Van Staveren

  September, 1945

  (AWM MSS 1560)

  * * *

  Return from the Unknown

  On the planting of trees near Rockingham RSL dedicated to fallen Rockingham Soldiers.

  He was young and loved the earth’s green places,

  Sea in the sun, gardens under rain,

  Old trees, long roads, the loveliness of children’s faces,

  Orchards in blossom, wind on rippling grass,

  Dappled skies and all wild things.

  Then came a war from half a world away,

  And he who saw the world through happy eyes,

  Gave up his heritage of quiet play.

  He bade farewell to family

  And went forward into the unknown.

  So plant a tree that it might grow,

  Strong and straight with muscled bough,

  A tree to say to passers by:

  Don’t shed a tear and please don’t cry,

  For once again Rockingham’s my home

  And midst these trees I’m not alone...

  Lt. Col. Jack Gregg, RA Inf

  Rockingham, 16 0ctober 1999

  * * *

  Bataans’ Plaque

  Ulverstone is the place they met

  on the north Tasmanian coast

  Just to show and not forget

  the deeds of Bataan with a toast

  A plaque was laid in the park

  for all who came to see,

  It was lit up in the dark

  and showed what used to be.

  A destroyer of the tribal class

  which served in war and peace