The Happy Warrior
Page 24
There’s other uses for your dooks apart from shaking hands;
For we served Australian Cocktail (and the Cocktail had a kick)
They were out for dinge, and dicken but they didn’t get a stick,
The papers called us Titans (and it’s crook to hear the same)
But the strange hats we wore, ’twas them that made the name;
But I’m tipping Fritz’s talent, till the setting of the sun,
Will recall our fruity language and the nasty things we done,
When we hooked them on the earhole, and we biffed them on the slat,
Oh, they won’t forget their intro to the my old brown hat.
When a bloke has had a blighty and he’s fit to get about,
And a hint of London sunshine brings the London titters out;
The first thing that he’ll notice, and the second too, perhaps,
Is the way the glad eye hovers on us khaki-clobbered chaps,
For they’ve seen it in the papers (which its name’s not truthful James)
That we’re Galahads and Heroes, and a hundred other names,
And it’s no use disclaiming, for the paper blokes in town,
They’ve made our reputation, and we’ll have to live it down;
A Yorkshire or a Hampshire, or a baggy boy in blue,
They’re good and all to catch a skirt, and most of them have two;
But the thing that snares the optic of the gushing feminine,
It’s not the haughty Guardsman with a picket up his spine,
Or it’s not the budding Captain with his little toothbrush mo,
And I’ve wondered hard and often, you can search me if I know,
If the thing that bowls them gently and that takes them off the bat,
Is the lanky brown Australian in his old brown hat.
The service cap is handy when a chap is going flash
And the helmet’s most convenient when you’re scoffing soup or hash;
But my dinkum shady brimmer, you can take your blooming oath,
Is worth a ton of either, or a paddock full of both;
Its tint may strike you silly, and its outline make you laugh,
It’s not a chic confection or a flaming photograph,
Its hang would send you pippy, and its shape would make you sore;
There’s a hole or two about it, which I’ve hinted at before,
But it kept the sun at Mena off my dainty little head,
It has heard my prayers for guidance, and other things I’ve said,
It has stood me for a pillow when I laid me down to sleep,
When the earth was mostly water and the mud was four feet deep;
And I think perhaps this reason makes us like them as we do,
They’re what blokes pick us out by, and they breathe of home and you,
Oh, home that makes me love you, and my heart goes pit-a-pat,
How you’ll greet me, when you meet me, in my old brown hat.
Anon
(AWM PR 91 104)
* * *
The Old Tin Hat
Smart in spats is Tommy Atkins
His suit of khaki dressed,
On the Strand or Piccadilly
He can swank it with the rest.
But when out on shell-swept Flanders
Where bullets ping and spat
You will find each fighting soldier
Wears an old tin hat.
In the days of courtly gallants
When fair chivalry held sway,
Stately knights to win fair ladies
Oft would meet in open fray.
But in trench, shell-hole or dugout
Where nowadays our men lie flat,
You will find each gallant hero
Wears an old tin hat.
Fighting Mac arrayed in kilties
And tam-o’-shanter cap
To the sound of swirling bagpipes
Would fight with vim and snap.
But in these days of ‘whizz-bangs’,
Five-point-nine and things like that,
You will find each Jock and Sandy
Wears an old tin hat.
From the land of wattle blossom
Waratah and Kangaroo,
Bill and Jim with rousing cooee
Come sailing across the blue.
He is no parade ground soldier
And not half a diplomat,
But he looks a dinkum Digger
In his old tin hat.
Uncle Sam has lots of soldiers
(And gee whizz they are some guys)
To the strains of ‘Yankee Doodle’
They have marched where victory lies,
With Old Glory o’er them flying
Britain’s foes they now combat,
And every Yankee soldier
Wears an old tin hat.
When the roll is called up yonder
And the soldier says goodbye,
Leaving good old ‘Terra Firma’
For the mansion in the skies,
When he meets old St Peter
Who is waiting on the mat
He may say when asked the password —
Why! My old tin hat!
Anon
(AWM PR 00526)
* * *
The Song of the Gremlins
When you’re seven miles up in the heavens
It’s a hell of a lonely spot
And it’s fifteen degrees below zero
Which isn’t so very hot,
It’s then you see the Gremlins
Green, gamboge and gold,
Male, female and neuter,
Gremlins both young and old;
White ones will waggle your wing-tips,
Male ones will muddle your maps,
Green ones will guzzle your glycol,
And females will flutter your flaps,
They’ll bind you and they’ll break you and they’ll batter
And break through your aileron wires,
And as you orbit to pancake
Stick hot toasting forks in your tyres.
Chaplain D. Trathen
(AWM PR 00218)
* * *
Thanks for the Memory
(With apologies to the writer of the song of that name)
Thanks for the memory
Of Wallgrove’s canvas camp,
of days in mud and damp,
And sneaking in at two to find some cow has pinched your lamp.
How lovely it was.
Thanks for the memory
Of Ingleburn and huts,
the Unit now has guts,
When every spare hour found us picking up matches and butts.
I thank you so much.
Many a march in the moonlight,
Crawling to Camp about midnight,
An MO’s parade, p’raps a blue-light,
A night in town, without a brown,
So thanks for the memory
When Bathurst was in reach,
a night with some sweet peach,
Then twenty in a taxi but still charged a deener each.
I thank you so much.
Thanks for memory,
Of two-up games on board,
till ‘Black-Out’ whistles roared,
Of getting drunk on two bob, if two bob we could afford.
How lovely it was.
Thanks for the memory
Of lovely tropic moons,
of bully-beef and prunes,
And strolling round the prom deck in our tropic pantaloons.
I thank you so much.
Then after two weeks water
And thoughts of a cow-cocky’s daughter,
I shouldered my gear like a porter
And tramped with my load
A mile upon the road,
And thanks for the memory
Of breakfast on the train,
a route march in the rain —
But now the trip’s a memory and we’re back at work again
<
br /> So thank you, so much.
‘Pic’
(AWM PR 00074)
* * *
Untitled
(To the tune:- Road to Gundagai)
There’s a tent in the grass
That you’ll always have to pass
Along the road to the 116,
Where the RPs are looking,
To see what there is cooking
Around the AAMWS Lines.
They’d like to catch us creeping
Up through the field,
But we know our onions
And keep well concealed,
So RP if you do ever catch up with me,
I’ll give you the DFC.
There were times when you dozed
And we crept right past your nose,
So early in the morn,
After driving in staff cars
And riding in Jeeps,
Boy, if you’d seen us,
How you would weep,
’Cause you’d failed to report
All the things that you ought,
Along the road to the 116.
Now RP don’t you see
That it’s best that we go free
To wander as we please.
You’ll never catch us,
Try as you may,
For we’ve been old soldiers
For more than a day
So go back to your bed.
And pull in your bloomin’ head,
Along the road to the 116!
(P.S. The RP said when he caught us he would write the final verse. It was never written!)
Written by nurses at 116 AGH Cairns
(AWM PR 88 019)
* * *
The VAD’s ‘If’
If you can work all day without your make up,
Your snappy hair-do hidden ’neath your veil;
If you can serve up umpteen dozen dinners
Then wait on Matron without turning pale;
If you can wash the everlasting dishes
And then turn round and wash the trolley too.
And when your mess jobs are all finished
Polish up your hut until it shines like new;
If you can track down elusive orderlies,
And make them help you, when they’d rather shirk;
If you can run on countless errands for the Sister,
And still be up to date with all your work;
If you can make the orange drinks and egg-flips,
About the diets knowing all there is to tell,
And get the MO’s morning tea, and heat the poultice.
And maybe sponge a man or two as well;
If you can take a ‘ticking off’ from Matron
And realize she doesn’t mean it — much!
If you can bear to see your rec leave vanish,
When you thought you had it safely in your clutch;
If you can take the trials and tribulations,
The good times and the bad, all in your stride;
If you can do all this and keep good tempered,
Then you’re not a bloomin’ VAD
But a saint who hasn’t died!
From Ward 5, 2/12th AGH Warwick
Anon
(AWM PR 88 019)
* * *
Only Wait Until You’re Married
My appearance before you may seem rather strange,
I’ve just come over here by way of exchange
With words of advice and good council to tell,
Likewise a warning and caution as well.
I laugh when I hear young blokes talk of their girl
With eyes bright as diamonds and teeth white as pearls,
Who think they are bliss with smiling so free
But just wait till you’re married and then you’ll see.
Chorus: It’s only wait till you’re married my boys,
It’s only wait till you’re married my boys,
You single young men who go out on the spree
Just wait till you’re married, and then you’ll see.
There is my wife’s mother and mine can’t hit it at all,
Whenever they meet there is a terrible ball,
It’s my daughter a duke or earl might of won
Had she never met that young rascal your son.
Then the old one replies as a mother should do
They would get on alright if it were not for you,
Hard words come to blows and it ends in a fight
And the jolly old pair are locked up for the night.
Your joy is no more ended you rise in the morning
The nurse brings you word that the first boy is born;
But your mouth it suddenly has a decline
When your family increases from six to nine.
Now young ladies I hope you won’t think me unkind,
If you think it’s so bliss to have three on each knee –
Just wait until you are married and then you will see.
C. T. Mealing
14 October 1900
(AWM PR 00752)
* * *
The Engineers’ Eclipse
or ‘The Downfall of the Duke’
Australia’s Corps of Engineers
Throughout the world have known no peers,
Brave men of brawn and skill
They’ve proved their worth in desert sands,
In Greece’s snows, and with bare hands
They conquered Syrian hill.
The scene has changed and now they’re seen
In slimy swamp and jungle green
On Bougainvillean shore;
They’ve mastered bog and muddy ridge
With jeep, bulldozer road and bridge
A great and gallant Corps!
But came the long awaited day
Our Duke of Gloucester came to stay
A week with us at base
Then with their true magician’s touch
The Engineers — from nothing much —
Soon housed his Royal Grace.
A regal bungalow abode
With mod cons a la jungle mode
No purist would rebuke,
Our Engineers gave of their best
To bless with peaceful perfect rest
His Grace, the Royal Duke.
And since all dukes and kings so high
Are cursed with bowels like you and I
The urgent need was seen
To build apart, alone, unsung,
Where modest vine and creeper hung,
The Duke’s own bush latrine.
The Royal stomach gripped with pain
From dip and flip of wind-tossed plane
Soon made its message known,
And so behold his Royal Grace
With bulging eye and purpling face
Upon his jungle throne.
But, sad the tale, those Engineers
Had dabbled in excessive beers
The day they built this nest,
And dazed with much black-market grog
They failed to put each plank and log
To regulation test.
And so, as Gloucester strained amain,
Those timbers, undermined with rain,
Gave way with gleeful rush;
The Duke performed a backward bow
And to the startled ducal brow
Was dealt a Royal Flush.
The Brigadier looked swords of death,
The CRE drew frightened breath,
The Sapper Sergeant cried;
The Duke called for his private plane,
Flew off in constipated pain,
John Curtin groaned and died.
Which only goes to prove that though
Our Engineers beat rain and snow,
Beat sand and mountain pass,
No Engineer’s plebeian brain
Could ever hope to gauge the strain
And the weight of the Royal —.
‘Black Bob’
Lt. A. L. O’N
eill (?)
Bougainville
(AWM MSS 1328)
* * *
Good Old Number Nine
If your head is aching and your bones are sore,
And a cough tears your chest like a cross-cut saw.
P’raps it’s bronchitis, consumption or gout,
Lumbago, neuritis — you’re ill without doubt.
It may be the stomach, liver or flu,
The kidneys, digestion, heart trouble too;
A chill or a cold may have you in grip,
A touch of asthma or just the plain ‘pip’.
A corn or a bunion may give you much pain,
It may be neuralgia or toothache again;
Rheumatics, anaemia or peritonitis,
Or only just common or garden tireditis.
Whatever your complaint, pray don’t lose your head,
He cannot cure that, or a limb you have shed,
But it you have one of the aforementioned ills
The MO will cure you with Number Nine pills.
Anon
* * *
A Soldier’s Dream
He grabs me by my slender neck,
I could not call or scream,
He dragged me to his darkened tent
Where he could not be seen.
He took me from my flimsy wrap
And gazed upon my form,
I was so scared, so cold, so damp,
And he so delightfully warm.
His fevered lips he pressed on mine,
I gave him every drop,
He took from me my very soul,
I could not make him stop.
He made me what I am today,
That’s why you find me here:
A broken bottle thrown away,
That once was full of beer.
Anon
* * *
The Digger
I’ve dug holes fair dinkum, and dug them for fun,
I’ve dug them at night and beneath blazing sun.
I’ve dug little holes to protect infantry,
And awfully big ones for the blooming OC.
And holes for the Ack Ack, and holes for their shells,
And holes for the hygiene to bury their smells.
And holes around tents in case Stukas are seen,
And farther away for the Section latrine.
And the greatest event of my lifetime will be
When someone is detailed to dig one for me.
Anon