The Happy Warrior

by Kerry B Collison

Bile — you rotten blankard — bile

  But it couldn’t last forever,

  It had been quite a fair ole run —

  She at last began to bubble

  An’ I knew that I had won.

  Fifteen miles or more I’d covered

  I deserved a spot of luck,

  For a bloke wat run as I did

  Can’t be classed as short of pluck.

  But a sudden notion hit me

  An’ I got an awful shock

  An’ I acted for some seconds

  Like a bloke wat’s done ’is block,

  Then I kicked that billy from me

  An’ I groaned in anguish dire —

  I ’ad left that tea and sugar

  Where I’d lit that bloody fire.

  T. V. Tiemey

  (AWM PR 00526)

  * * *

  The Boozers’ Lament

  We’ve fought upon Gallipoli

  And toiled on Egypt’s plain

  We’ve travelled far across the sea

  To face the foe again;

  We’ve faced the perils of the deep

  And faced them with good cheer

  But now they give us cause to weep

  They’ve gone and stopped our beer.

  We wouldn’t mind if they had stopped

  The pickles and the cheese

  They might have cut the marmalade

  Or issued fewer peas,

  But it’s a sin to drink red vin

  Or for a cobber shout

  Which kind of sets me wondering

  If they’ve cut the champagne out.

  They stopped our rum, we didn’t mind

  While we had beer to soak,

  But now they gone and stopped the wine

  It’s getting past a joke.

  Each countenance you see is sad

  Within each eye a tear,

  The greatest injury we’ve had

  Is cutting out our beer.

  For you must shun the flowing bowl

  And turn you from the wine,

  And water drink to cheer your soul

  If it should chance to pine;

  And you must order coffee

  When you toast the folks at home

  And spend your cash on toffee

  Chewing gum and honey comb.

  There’s microbes in the water lads

  So drink it with a will

  And every mother’s son of us

  Will jolly soon be ill.

  And when we’re on the sick parade

  The Doctor he will cry:

  “The lads, I fear, must have their beer

  Else they will surely die!”

  Sgt A.M. Dick (?)

  (AWM PR 00187)

  * * *

  Oh! It’s Nice to be a Soldier.

  Now I’ve joined up with the Army

  It’s a home away from home,

  The meals are really lovely

  And you never hear a moan,

  For it’s about this little rest home

  That this tale I’m going to tell:

  The Sergeant Major, he’s a pet,

  The Captain’s really swell,

  The Corporals are so nice to me,

  And that’s fair dinky-di,

  That when this war is over

  I’ll just break down and cry.

  Chorus

  Oh! It’s nice to be a soldier,

  Soldering will just suit me!

  From first thing in the morning

  Till it’s time to go to bed

  We’re digging holes and sloping arms

  Till we’re silly in the head.

  When the canteen opens

  All the boys begin to play

  And by the time we get to sleep

  It dawns another day.

  But it’s nice to be a Soldier

  Soldiering will just suit me.

  Now every morning on parade

  You cannot hear a sound,

  Especially when the Sergeant Major’s

  Marching up and down.

  There’s a morning in particular

  I was a trifle late,

  The Captain gave me such a look

  And said “You’re in a state.”

  Then after I saluted him

  This was my sad reply,

  “I took a Number Nine last night

  And my God! I nearly died!”

  Now they march us out like lunatics

  They call it on parade,

  No one tells us anything

  And the boys all look dismayed.

  Then off we go to the RAP

  Where we hang round telling yarns,

  Until they squirt a little antidote

  Into our flaming arms.

  Then after this is over

  They take us for a march,

  It’s bad luck for the molly dooke

  He cannot scratch his tail.

  Will Handley

  (AWM PR 85 205)

  * * *

  Bully Beef

  Here I sit and sadly wonder

  Why they sent me Bully Beef

  Why the living, jumping thunder

  I should bear such awful grief?

  Did I ever, in my childhood

  Cause my parents grief and pain?

  Did I ever in a passion try to wreck a railway train?

  Have I been a drunken husband?

  Have I ever beat my wife?

  Did I ever, just for past-time

  Try to take my neighbour’s life?

  If I haven’t, then I tell you

  It is far beyond belief

  Why they sent me greasy, sloppy

  Undeciphered Bully Beef

  Bully Beef, by all that’s mighty

  Streaky, strangly Bully-Beef

  I’d sooner face a thousand Jackos

  Than half a tin of Bully-Beef.

  Ask the cook, what’s for dinner

  And he’ll tell you bully beef

  Breakfast, dinner, tea or supper

  All consists of bully beef.

  bully beef, why blow me, Charlie,

  I would forfeit ten days pay

  If I could lose the sight of bully

  Just for one clear gladsome ray.

  Yet, they send me in a parcel

  Along with greetings, short and brief,

  Lots of nice things, sweet and tasty

  But, among them, bully beef!

  Tpr W. H. Johnstone (?)

  8th ALH, AIF

  (AWM PR 84/049)

  * * *

  Female Invasion

  When the Munga steamed out of Sydney

  On a wintry July afternoon,

  Who would have thought for a moment

  There’d be females invading her soon.

  No one guessed when the Japs gave it best

  What the future held in store;

  The normally sexed were not perplexed

  About a celibate year or more.

  Not so our boys from the Wardroom,

  Our inspiration, to wit,

  A gentlemen can’t keep his end up

  Without getting his regular bit.

  So you should have seen the excitement

  When the news got ’round down there,

  We were taking on women and children:

  ’Twould’ve driven their wives to despair.

  Now a bright boy is Subby Jack Alway,

  Intent on making his bid

  Knew the surest way to a woman’s heart

  Is to make a hit with the kid.

  None can gainsay that this worthy

  Didn’t play his role to a tee,

  ’Twas only a matter of minutes

  And he had a kid on his knees.

  Who knows what went on in his cabin?

  You can please yourselves about that,

  But a bloke with a technique so subtle

  Won’t waste time with a sniveling brat.

  Now we’ve got a bloke name of Robeson,

 
; An Engineer Subby, brand new,

  Who fancies himself as a lover

  We were anxious to see what he’d do.

  In a minute or two from his debut

  The women were calling his bluff,

  And the boys looked anxiously ’bout them

  For a bloke made of sterner stuff.

  They weren’t to wait long for the answer

  For presently hove into view

  A real Casanova, no kidding,

  With a lover’s Varsity Blue.

  This bloke’s a national hero,

  I’ll prove it to you old chap

  Didn’t the Women’s Weekly

  Reproduce his masculine map?

  Noel Abrams (to whom I’m referring)

  Wasn’t beating about the bush,

  He went straight into action

  With a regular gem of a blush.

  This buggered the blokes’ calculations:

  “Who’s going to save the side?”

  They’d put all their dollars on Abrams,

  A good bet, it can’t be denied.

  Meantime the bookies were chuckling,

  They’d selected the pick of the bunch,

  But they didn’t let on to their cobbers

  The guts of their shrewd little hunch.

  This gent may’ve been schooled at

  Eton, Harrow or Oxford, by Jove,

  A regular hit with the ladies

  And not a bad sort of a cove.

  Well there’s no harm in him thinking it, fellers,

  When a bloke likes to get himself in,

  It’s a hell of a pity, admitted,

  And a source of constant chagrin.

  But as long as it isn’t contagious,

  Don’t be a victim, my man,

  Let him talk himself blind if he wishes

  And get himself in when he can.

  He’s got a beautiful accent

  A product of RANC,

  You’ll find it in most straight ringers,

  The hallmark of dignity.

  Ed Dollard’s the gent I’m portraying

  Number one boy in the ship,

  Well equipped both in poise and in stature,

  Not averse to admiring a hip.

  As most of the women were English

  His bearing was made for the job,

  And his form at this critical juncture

  Was watched avidly by the mob.

  He’s in an enviable possie,

  The master of all he surveys,

  It’s impressed all the women, the sucker,

  His power in so many cute ways.

  But despite his advantage as Jimmy

  Our Ed didn’t do so hot,

  But it wasn’t for lack of trying

  He was giving it all he’d got.

  Somehow these straight-ringers reckon

  They’re perso-boys plus, it appears,

  Take Edwards, mother perm product,

  And not very far on in years.

  The blokes hadn’t reckoned with Peter

  On account of his thinning thatch,

  They thought that the women would shun him

  Foresaw no potential match.

  The first thing that came to our notice —

  We could hardly believe our eyes —

  Was a game of ‘Handles’ on X deck

  By jingo, we got a surprise.

  Now I guess you’ve all seen the advert,

  Depicting a bloke with no wool

  Wed to a woman who trapped him

  Just for the money — the fool.

  Admitting that Peter’s no pauper

  Tho’ bloody near bankrupt of hair

  No woman would wed him for money

  He’s no bloody millionaire.

  This got the boys thinking shrewdly

  “What’s Peter Edward’s game?”

  She can’t harry him for his money,

  And his thatch is a crying shame.”

  But, kept under observation,

  The boys discovered at length

  That Pete was the hunted, not hunter —

  The lass was exerting her strength.

  Then came an expert manoeuvre,

  A strategic withdrawal by name,

  The woman abandoned her quarry

  In search of more gullible game.

  You must hand it to Frank Sanguinetti,

  (Not a bad bloke, you’ll find),

  A chap with a couple of youngsters

  And a charming young wife left behind.

  He didn’t fall for the glamour

  Of a wench who’d be outcast in Vic,

  Carried on with his regular business

  And helped any kids who got sick.

  Bishop and Stormy were others

  Whose passions were not aroused,

  Both likely-looking youngsters, too,

  And neither of them espoused.

  Theirs was the call of duty,

  Likewise the Gunner (T),

  “What is the love of a woman

  Compared with the love of the sea?”

  John Coles was another non-starter

  In this Bacchanalian game,

  His thought of his wife and his family

  Hung on to his unbesmirched name.

  Even our Yankee Allies,

  Renowned for their womenly guiles,

  Simply greeted the females with décor

  And a few irreproachable smiles.

  The Doctor had the boys guessing,

  No one could quite make out

  When he welcomed the femmes at the gangway

  Just what it was all about.

  Was it professional manner?

  Or was he going to flout

  The trust with which he’s divested?

  He got the best of the doubt.

  Put a query alongside Bob Wilshire,

  He wasn’t seen much up on deck

  Probably down in his cabin

  With a passionate dame ’round his neck.

  Tough luck for Skipper Nobby:

  Whether he liked it or not,

  The laws of the Navy dictated

  The bridge was to be his spot.

  Rather a handsome blighter,

  Would’ve acquitted himself well

  If given a chance like the others,

  Might’ve trapped an unwary gal.

  So listen, down in the Wardroom,

  Why don’t you take a hint:

  It’s the man that gets the woman —

  Don’t care if you own the mint.

  And though braid may look just ducky,

  It’s superficial just,

  It’s the man in you that gets ’em,

  If get a woman you must.

  Just look around the messdecks,

  And see what I’m talking about,

  You’ll be looking then at he-men,

  Men’s men without a doubt.

  So curb your sexual hunger

  Wake up and do your stuff!

  And never lose your heads boys,

  Over a little bit of fluff.

  ‘Longfellow’

  * * *

  Tobruk Test

  You’ve heard of Bradman, Hammond,

  MacCartney, Woodfull, Hobbs,

  You’ve heard of how MacDougall topped the score

  Now I’d like to tell you

  How we play cricket in Tobruk

  In a way the game was never played before.

  The players are a mixture,

  They come from every rank

  And their dress would not be quite the thing at Lord’s;

  But you don’t need caps and flannels

  And expensive batting gloves

  To get the fullest sport the game affords.

  The wicket’s rather tricky

  For it’s mat on desert sand

  But for us it’s really plenty good enough,

  And what with big bomb craters

  And holes from nine-inch shells,

&nb
sp; The outfield could be well described as rough.

  The boundary’s partly tank trap

  With the balance dannert wire

  And the grandstand’s just a bit of sandy bank,

  While our single sightboard’s furnished

  By a shot-down Jerry plane

  And the scorer’s in a ruined Itie tank

  One drawback is a minefield

  Which is at the desert end

  And critics might find fault with this and that,

  But to us all runs are good ones

  Even if a man should score

  Four leg byes off the top of his tin hat.

  The barracking is very choice,

  The Hill would learn a lot

  If they could listen in to all the cries

  As the Quartermaster Sergeant

  Bowls the Colonel neck and crop

  With a yorker while some dust was in his eyes

  And the time the Signals runner

  Scored the winning hit

  When, as he sprinted round the wire to try and save the four,

  The Battery Sergeant Major

  Fell into a crater deep

  And the batsman ran another seven more.

  If we drive one in the minefield

  We always run it out

  For that is what the local rules defines:

  It’s always good for six at least,

  Some times as high as ten

  While the fieldsman picks his way in through the mines.

  Though we never stop for shell-fire

  We’re not too keen on planes,

  But when the Stukas start to hover round

  You can sometimes get a wicket,

  If you’re game enough to stay

  By bowling as the batsman goes to ground

  So when we’re back in Sydney

  And others start to talk

  Of cricket, why we’ll quell them with a look:

  “You blokes have never seen

  A game of cricket properly played

  The way we used to play it in Tobruk.”

  Anon

  (AWM PR 00359)

  * * *

  Promotion

  “Promotion,” said one cocksure bloke,

  Needs personality

  You tell the CO some good joke,

  And earn three stripes — watch me!”

  He slapped the Colonels back and said,

  “Old Cock, let’s have a drink!”

  No stripes for him, no gold and red —

  Just three weeks in the clink.

  Anon

  (AWM PR 00526)

  * * *

  ANZAC Exchange

  Sarge, I think I’m buggered,

  I’m bitten on me back,

  a bloody snake’s bin crawlin’ thru the grass.