The Happy Warrior
Page 28
To save this jungle paradise
From a foe who mars its joy,
And an island far away to south
Where once he was a boy;
To stem the rising Nippon tide
Which tried to reach our shore.
To take from us the beauty
Of the bushland [we] adore.
They fell there, bathed in glory,
Their suits of green stained red,
And now they sleep in peace and still,
A cross above their head.
They’ll never see that victory
For which their lives they gave;
But we shall not forget you,
Our gallant strong and brave.
W. A. Dutton
(AWM MSS1481)
* * *
Vale
Let him be
That dying eagle,
Let the flames devour his nest
Multicoloured, golden, blazing,
Like the sunset in the west.
Let him be,
While his life’s sands are running
Fast unto the end
Beyond the little helping
Of his closest friend;
Pause and once remember
Smiling lips and laughing eyes,
Then turn your back upon him
While he dies.
Pilot Officer T. L. Stewart
(AWM MSS 1250)
* * *
Shed Thou No Tears
Shed thou no tears —
This road they chose, this way of pain was theirs
Who drank the cup of bitterness
And lie in alien soil, hungering for home
From fields wherein the streams of youth ran deep
They heard the far clear call and answered
Out from the quiet places and the gentle folk
They knew and loved, and graciousness
They went and questioned not.
Thorns were their portion and their end a lesser Calvary
…weep not for them
For they have gone beyond the night and found
Quiet havens where the laughing waters run, and rest is given.
They sleep in fields of Aramanth, flow’r crowned,
And all their glory lights the hills of Heaven.
Pte Gladstone George Harvey ‘Harry’ Barratt
(AWM MSS 1297)
* * *
A Grave in the Grass:
Stand to, sentry...
The dreams of the past file by,
While the buried hopes of a Mother
’Neath the kunai grasses lie.
A small wooden cross
And a tin hat mark his bed…
Salute, when you’re passing, soldier,
Where a mother’s dreams lie dead.
Here, where the hand of evil
Has slain the brave and good,
Pause, and pray... for a Mother...
By this little cross of wood.
Bdr Sydney J. Lynch
(AWM MSS 1557)
* * *
Standing By – Tobruk
There’s a row of wooden crosses in a hollow near Tobruk
o’er a row of shallow graves hard there by the town,
And we, their comrades, say a charitable prayer
for those brave lads who never let us down.
When the storm of battle’s over and the guns have ceased to roar
and the gentle breezes blow from in across the sea,
We’ll still hear their cheery voices in the waves along the shore
and take solace in the thought — it had to be.
They heard the ‘Fall In’ sounded and knew that they must go
though on parade they soon would stand again,
Lined up for ‘inspection’ by the heavenly CO,
whose Battalion can’t be filled with mortal men.
There Jerry cannot bomb you or pelt you with HE
and you’re marching with the army of the brave, the proud and free;
We’ll meet you over yonder, till then “Good shooting, mates!
You’ve founded a tradition for the 2/48th!”
‘The Wandering Bard’
* * *
Reward
They lie in Egypt’s sands, Australia’s sons,
That those who love and laugh may live;
They gave unflinching to a hell of gun,
The young fair lives that duty bade them give.
And on a shifting fringe of foreign land
That undulates and rolls towards the sea,
The rows of wooden crosses starkly stand
To mark the holocaust to liberty.
But say not that this hopeless, endless place
That lifeless lies between land and sea
Has taken to its deathly cold embrace
The ashes of a burnt-out destiny.
For from those lonely, windswept, hallowed graves
Will burst the destined flame and light the way
To life and hope for countless million slaves
And set ablaze the sun of freedom’s day.
Anon
* * *
Vale
Oh valiant heart: purest was thy spirit,
Nobly you went, without fear of the cost.
Eager, wherever the bravest would fear it —
We who remain are the ones who have lost.
Yet with us still we believe that you tarry,
One without efforts to vanquish the foe.
Long may the way be and hard, yet we carry
Nerving endeavour, a memory aglow.
And when the guns cease their song of destruction,
Silent the desert and peace comes to men,
We shall remember in sore reconstruction
The brave who went forth, but who came not again.
Anon
* * *
Farewell
A life of busy toil has ended,
Of effort for his country’s good,
A soul that sought to do his duty
Has passed to be at home with God.
Standing on the ocean’s border,
Just where the land and waters stay,
With the weight of war upon him
Came the closing of life’s day.
How we miss the voice that’s silent!
How we miss the form that’s still!
How we know we cannot call him
From his slumber, if we will!
Farewell then, to you our cobber,
Sleeping in your quiet grave.
Eyes grow dim, but hope triumphant
Holds us fast o’er life’s rough way.
Anon
* * *
Timber
They are only a plain piece of timber
But their meaning is stately and grand,
For there’s many a gallant man sleeping
’Neath the little white cross in the sand.
I often have wandered among them
And read from inscriptions they bear
The rank, the name and the number
Of one of my pals resting there.
These Diggers have died for their country —
They gave all they had in the fight
For the safety and peace of their loved ones,
A cause that must surely be right.
And when the last battle is ended
And peace has come over the land,
Let us never forget those white crosses,
In rows, in the hot desert sand.
Anon
* * *
Somewhere
Somewhere a gun lies red with rust
And there ’midst the trampled clay
The bones of a Gunner have turned to dust
That the March winds waft away.
Somewhere a Mother’s eyes are red
As she weeps for her only boy
Who sleeps at peace in his muddy bed
Somewhere by the corduroy.
>
Cpl John (Jack) McHugh
(AWM PR 00750)
* * *
Our Fallen Mates
The battles fought are now history
And now we live in Peace,
The memories of our fallen mates
These sad memories will ne’er cease.
When we stand and face the crosses,
Each bearing one of our mates name
His Rank, Number and Battalion
Who paid the supreme sacrifice with fame.
To the families who have lost loved ones
These words come from the heart;
Their name will be remembered for evermore
For freedom they played their part.
The Boys came from the city and country
And from every walk of life;
They volunteered on a United front
When their Country was in strife.
The Officers and other Ranks march side by side
In the march on Anzac Day,
It proved what Unity will do
In the War it proved that way.
THE BATTLE’S BEEN WON
THEIR DUTY’S BEEN DONE
AND THE WORLD KNOWS OF THEIR DEEDS,
AS WE LAY BACK IN THOUGHT
OF THE GLORY IT BROUGHT
TO HELP THE WORLD TO BE FREE,
AS WE STAND AT THE CROSS
AND THINK OF THE LOSS
OF OUR MATES WE LEFT BEHIND,
WITH THE PASSING OF YEARS
WE STILL SHED OUR TEARS
FOR THE BOYS WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES:
“LEST WE FORGET”.
Syd Buckingham
* * *
Bomana
Blue sky
Green rolling hills
To mountains tranquil, stretch.
White clouds in a wide blue sky.
So quiet
So peaceful
Above the young sleepers
Resting beneath each white cross.
With each new dawn,
Their rising sons greet the rising sun
As the days march to eternity.
But they will march no more.
No more to toil along the muddy track,
No more to wonder where their track will end.
It ended here.
Thousands.
Sleeping peacefully,
Under that clear blue sky.
There, in their earthen beds,
Beneath each white cross,
As I walk the graves
And wonder
Why?
Peter Tremain
* * *
The Hardest Task
‘The Hardest Task’ was penned by a friend who had asked what was the most difficult thing that I had had to do during World War II. I told him that telling a mother of one of my mates, who had died in my arms while on patrol, how he had died had been difficult for me and remains a painful memory. Reuben penned the following poem.
Bill Phillips, 1998.
The hardest task a man could do —
I could think of some and so could you —
But one there was for my friend Bill,
Thrust on him against his will.
On distant shore to serve his King,
Taught to expect anything…
Well, almost anything.
There they saw the battle rage,
Far too much for boys their age,
Guns and mortars and wartime pranks
All took their toll on our boys’ ranks.
Some in shock were very numb,
Others screamed and then struck dumb.
Then it was Bill found this lad,
His time was short, the wound was bad.
The talk was brief and tears, they glistened,
He propped him up and then he listened.
The hardest task was about to come,
His final words ... “Tell Mum.”
Reuben K Fox
1998
* * *
Soldier
Build me no monument, should my turn come.
Please do not weep for me and waste your tears.
Write not my name on honour rolls of fame
To crumble with man’s memories though the years.
Wear no dark clothes, speak in no saddened voice,
Seeking rare virtues which did not exist.
Just let me be, under the cool sweet earth
And sleep in peace where I will not be missed.
I ask one thing that, in still far off days,
Someone who knew me should in their daily round
Suddenly pause, caught by some sight or sound,
Some glance, some phrase, some trick of memory’s ways,
Which brings me to their mind: then I shall wait,
Eager with hope, to hear them say “How great
If he were here.” Then, softly at the end,
All that I ask for, just “He was my friend.”
David McNicol (?)
(AWM PR 00392)
* * *
To Lieutenant Norman Blackburn
This short ode was written in tribute to Lieutenant Norman Blackburn of the 9th Division. He was killed by a Japanese sniper in New Guinea, 2 October 1943.
Oh soldier, brave and strong,
First of proud line to fall
In distant battlefield;
Fair, tall and noble youth,
Pride of mother sweet and three sisters fair;
You went to battle with a cheerful heart.
With straight limb, steady eye
And face towards the foe,
We know you were true to Australia fair,
We know your heart was all aglow.
Let us who come behind
We who gained liberty, freedom, all,
From your great sacrifice,
Let us, our kind, let us
Oh, Norman! remember thee.
Ernest H. Graham.
PR 82 056
* * *
Death of a Peacemaker
In Memory of: A997234 Private Leonard William Manning, DOB 15 August 1975 – KIA 24 July 2000, Bravo Company, 2/1 Battalion RNZIR: UN Forces, East Timor
With the courage of youth
and in the company of his mates,
he moved forward as the lead scout
to form a ring of steel
between the oppressed people
of East Timor and banditry
loyal only to the violence
of the parang,
— and the politics of the machine gun.
At twenty four years of age,
he was under no illusions
as to the dangers he faced
when he placed himself in harms way
and probed silently forward
to keep his fated appointment,
— with death and destiny.
Ambushed and caught in the killing zone,
he was unaccounted for
in the confusion of sustained
and overwhelming heavy fire,
reported as ‘missing’ only later,
— after the ‘Re-Org’.
During the Company sweep,
his mates found him,
dead where he lay
in the heat of an Asian afternoon
weapon missing, ammo missing,
and body disfigured,
— in the age old way.
And so in death,
he journeyed back
that sad and cold
New Zealand winter’s day,
to the lush green fields
of his Waikato home
and the quiet streets,
— of small town Te Kauwhata.
And tributes came,
and tributes glowed
as the politicians spoke,
but the tears that flowed
from his mates that day
as they bore him shoulder high
said more than all the gallant words
— a
s his cortege passed me by.
To the warriors chant
and the Kuia’s cry!
they slow marched through the town
and beat the drum with a solemn tone
as the left boot struck the ground,
they bore the broken body
of Private Manning upon high
to the wailing of the Kuia,
— and the tears as soldiers cried.
His Tour of Duty’s over,
and his body’s laid to rest
he sleeps the sleep
of stolen youth
in the soft sweet soil
of a warrior’s grave,
— and the Rangiriri earth.
Mike Subritzky
(2000)
* * *
The Best Friend I Ever Had
If you will lend me your ears for a moment
There is a story I feel I must tell,
For I’ll never forget that dark morning
We marched into Bardia’s Hell.
For two weeks we’d been living in trenches
While our guns roared by day and by night
As they pounded the Ities’ defences
Which in turn gave us little respite.
Their shrapnel fell thickly around us
They bombed us with murderous intent,
But we stuck to our guns and we waited
For the dawn of the final event.
The dust storms would rise and the darkness
As dark as the midnight would fall
And the soft sweeping sands of the desert
Would bring us under its pall.
The trenches were crawling with vermin
Our rations were terribly light:
Bully beef, biscuits and water
One quart for a day and a night.
With me was a bit of a stripling,
A lad from the sunny ‘North Coast’,
Who spoke of his Mother and Sister
But never of his own deeds did boast.
We shared all together in army life
Our letters our money and all
And each one had certain instructions
If one or the other should fall.