The Happy Warrior

by Kerry B Collison

  It was the evening before the encounter

  As the sun in the desert sank red

  That he took from his pocket a wallet

  I recall clearly the words that he said:

  “Now Johnny, if I fall tomorrow

  And this wallet you still find intact

  Will you send it back home to my sister?”

  And we shook on that last solemn pact.

  By next dawn the shrapnel was flying

  And bullets were falling like rain

  The sun rose on dead men and dying

  Out there on that shell battered plain.

  We stuck side by side with a Bren gun,

  We kept up a deadly tattoo,

  All the sand and the dust choked the action

  And we knew we had but one thing to do.

  We had just reached the head of ‘Death Gully’ —

  That place ain’t a name on its own

  For ’twas there that death reaped a harvest

  From the seed that a nation had sown.

  The shells fell more thickly around us

  As we knelt and dismantled the gun

  While the dust and the smoke from the battle

  In a great cloud that blacked out the sun.

  “Gun ready!” he shouted “Up lad,

  Grab hold of your ammo and run!”

  As he sprang to his feet he fell backwards,

  A dead man on top of his gun.

  In a stupor I knelt down beside him,

  I saw that his battle was through,

  That a hard cruel fate had denied

  The best friend I ever knew.

  I picked up his shrapnel-scarred Bren gun

  With a curse for the foemen ahead,

  I went onward to join in the battle

  While behind me my comrade lay dead.

  I thought of the Mother and Sister

  He had left in his own native land

  And the last solemn promise I made him

  And the firm honest clasp of his hand

  The fight had grown fierce by midday

  Our advance was considerably slowed

  The D Company reached an embankment

  And took cover behind a raised road.

  Our ammo supply was exhausted —

  We’d lost more than half of our men –

  We faced fourteen guns with bare bayonets

  And five magazines for a ‘Bren’.

  Now those cannons are silent and rusted

  They are pointed in shame at the ground

  While the crews of them have all been mustered

  And placed in a prison compound.

  By noon on the third day we ceased firing

  The battle of Bardia was won,

  Then orders were given for retiring —

  The worst was still to be done.

  For lying back there on the desert

  Among scores of our valiant dead

  With the soft desert sands sweeping over him

  Lay the best friend I ever had.

  The sun on the fourth day was sinking

  On a desert now far, far away

  When two men stood silently thinking

  By the grave where our dead comrade lay.

  So gently we laid him forever

  ’Neath his name on a rough wooden cross,

  And we shared with our loved ones so far off

  This sadness and terrible loss.

  The high Army Command heard the story

  And despite all our terrible loss

  They wrapped up our company in glory

  And presented our Captain a cross.

  So we won the first stage of the battle,

  With honours we carried the day,

  We rounded up prisoners like cattle

  And hastily marched them away.

  In a wadi where shells couldn’t find us

  We lay to snatch brief respite

  A battalion moved in behind us

  And the battle raged on through the night.

  And now when the evening is falling

  ‘Retreat’ sounds so sweet and so sad

  My thoughts fly to faraway Bardia

  And the best friend I ever had.

  Anon

  (AWM PR 00526)

  * * *

  March of the 7th Division

  A ribbon of green ’neath an azured sky

  As the men in their jungle suits march by

  But I see them again in the mountainous heights

  In the tawny semi-treacherous light.

  I see them splashed with rain and mud

  Broken bodies and guns and blood

  Ever advancing, gaunt and lean,

  An endless column in jungle green.

  And too I see, as they march along

  In faded green, a ghostly throng;

  I hear the sound of their phantom feet

  Silently pacing the sunlit street.

  For them the cheers and waving flags

  In their darkened valleys and mountain crags

  My heart is filled with pride and pain

  For the deathless band who march again

  And who shall stay their fateful stride,

  Can stay the flood of the flowing tide?

  Their guns are broken, their deeds are done

  But their standard is raised ’neath the southern sun.

  Onward and upward ’tis borne along

  Mine ears are filled with their silent song

  And I look to hear in the years ahead

  The triumphant tramp of our marching dead.

  Cpl Frank Lundie

  2/27 Batt.

  (AWM PR 00619)

  * * *

  HMAS Sydney

  She may not come back in triumph

  Of bunting or of bell,

  With a victor’s pride about her

  As she breasts the harbour swell.

  There will be no bands aplaying,

  No whistle piping clear,

  As she swings aside the pier.

  But at midnight in the silence

  When the very stars are dark

  She may come again to moorings,

  A ghostly phantom barque.

  Though she lie in floods unfathomed,

  We may seem to see once more,

  Her silver shape go shining

  Down the path she trod before.

  Not in fury, not in peril

  Of battle or of crag,

  But with life-breath in her funnel

  And with flutter in her flag;

  And the eyes of her last company

  Seeming bright and valiant yet

  Ah! The iron ship shall moulder

  Ere the hearts at home forget.

  Lance Fallaw

  (AWM PR 87/062)

  * * *

  The Last Farewell

  Some survive on the battle field

  Where others, sadly, die;

  Some had time for a last farewell

  Reaching vainly for the sky.

  And I wonder, how much time will pass,

  How long before I see

  The hills of home, a country lane,

  Or smell an old gum tree.

  Times are tough, the going rough,

  No life for man or beast,

  Cold bully and biscuits hard as nails —

  At times even this a feast.

  The blood and mud, heavy underfoot,

  The vermin a constant curse,

  At least those alive can still complain:

  Could things ever get much worse.

  Then you look at the man, standing by your side

  You hardly know him at all,

  But your life may rest in his two hands

  When you hear the bugle call.

  With shot and shell and bullet whine,

  Side by side we run,

  Knowing not the reason why

  This battle has begun.

  As we go through the bloody slaughter,

  Thi
s man-made image of hell,

  There’s a gasp from the man beside me

  A sad look and a last farewell.

  James D. Young

  * * *

  Remember

  The sinking of H.M.A.S. Canberra, 9 August 1942

  ’Twas on the ninth of August, just after midnight fell,

  The heavy cruiser Canberra was steaming through the swell

  The night was very dark and still,

  Till the alarm bells rent the air —

  The enemy was close at hand

  And things had to be prepared.

  Then suddenly the stillness broke with a terrific bang and roar,

  And a salvo of shells crashed through the plates,

  And some men knew no more.

  The old ship stopped, the lights went out,

  She shook from stem to stern,

  She listed port and lay there still,

  Just off Tulagi shore.

  When dawn broke, the rain was worse,

  The wounded men just lying there, not even rent a curse.

  A stoker spoke before he died,

  “Just tell the wife, I love her dearly,

  And when the baby comes along,

  Don’t forget to call him John.”

  A smile just lingered on his face,

  “Goodbye old man,” he said “Young John will take my place.”

  The word came through to abandon ship

  For she was listing fast,

  And as we pulled away each man looked up with tear-wet eyes

  And gave three hearty cheers;

  And in each heart, I know quite well,

  There was a silent prayer.

  Leading Stoker F. J. ‘Shags’ Turner

  A survivor

  * * *

  The Reluctant Hero

  He was just an ordinary youngster

  From an ordinary part of town,

  When the National Service call up

  Finally tracked him down.

  They put him in a uniform

  And handed him a gun,

  The ungodly metamorphosis

  Of this boy had now begun.

  They trained him in the art of war

  Said the jungle was his friend,

  Then shipped him off to Vietnam

  His training at an end.

  There he found a different world

  Learnt many things he didn’t know,

  How to fight a dirty war

  When you can’t tell friend from foe.

  He learnt a strange new language

  To describe a soul destroying fight,

  Search and destroy, win the hearts and minds:

  Would the politicians ever get it right?

  Silent jungle, clammy heat

  Expectation, but who knows of what,

  Feeling observed by a thousand eyes

  Waiting to fire that first fatal shot.

  A sigh of relief passed down the line

  As the ‘pick-up zone’ came in sight,

  The choppers arrive, exactly as planned —

  It’s back to Nui Dat for the night.

  Now he has time to think of Vung Tau

  And girls in the ubiquitous bar,

  Or better still, a week in Hong Kong,

  On some well earned R and R.

  But what of our conscript, here by chance,

  Looking forward to a spell in reserve?

  Those who legislated this lottery

  Knew they’d never be asked to serve.

  Soon back to war, as all soldiers must

  To execute those malevolent skills,

  To join once more in the dance macabre

  In those distant, Vietnamese hills.

  He didn’t hear the rifle shot

  They say you never do,

  And somewhere in the Long Hai Hills

  A young soldier’s life was through.

  He saw not the flag draped casket

  Nor heard the Last Post call,

  One of many, who didn’t make it

  Those reluctant heroes all.

  James D. Young

  * * *

  Milne Bay

  In an old Australian homestead, with roses round the door,

  A girl received a letter which just came from the war;

  With her Mother’s arms around her, she gave way to sobs and sighs

  And as she read that letter, the tears came to her eyes.

  Why do I weep, why do I pray?

  My love’s asleep, so far away;

  He played his part that April day

  And left my heart in Milne Bay.

  She joined a band of Sisters, underneath the Cross of Red,

  Just to forget a heartache of a lad who now lies dead;

  Many suitors came to woo her but they sadly turned away

  When she told to them the story, of a grave in Milne Bay.

  Anon

  (AWM PR 88 019)

  * * *

  Goodbye, All

  Written by a stretcher-bearer as a tribute to a nineteen year-old country lad he found on the wire at Tobruk.

  “Yes, Dig, I’ve stopped it pretty bad,

  Think I’ve done a wing;

  I’m comfortable... don’t worry lad,

  You’re like a breath of spring.

  “A cigarette... my oath I will ...

  May prove to be the last.

  You Red Cross blokes just take the pill

  Never wait until you’re asked.

  “I think I’m going, Nightingale,

  Just tell me as a friend

  You’ll see and tell her without fail

  She’s with me to the end.”

  I held a hand that tightly closed

  Around the name he pressed

  Into my palm. He dozed,

  He closed his eyes in rest.

  I’ve heard the cheers, that sweet refrain,

  I’ve felt the crowd’s pulse throb,

  I’ve clasped the hand of noble strain

  I’ve shaken with the mob.

  But back o’ handshakes I’ll recall

  His handclasp and his look.

  His bravely whispered “Goodbye, all!”

  That still night in Tobruk.

  Pte J. Kneeshaw, QX14342

  (AWM PR 87/062)

  The AIF is Calling

  From the fields of battle o’er the sea

  The Diggers call to you and me:

  Give us tanks and give us guns

  Give us a chance to beat the Huns.

  We’re on this job, the going’s tough,

  We’re out to call Hitler’s bluff.

  We don’t know the word ‘defeat’

  Although we took a knock at Crete.

  We had to leave some pals behind

  But fate, to them, has been unkind.

  We’re carrying on, we’ll see this through

  That’s if we get some help from you.

  Give us your best, send us the stuff

  Till Hitler cries he’s had enough,

  A sporting chance of one-to-one

  To meet this murderous brutal Hun,

  Brutal both on land and sea,

  Chief oppressor of the free.

  You heard of how we fared in Crete

  Through lack of arms a forced retreat

  Falling back against [the] grain

  While paratroops fell down like rain,

  Gliders, carriers, dropping tanks,

  Smashing our depleted ranks.

  Against such odds our chance was small

  But we fought on, our backs to the wall;

  Stukas made death dealing swoops

  Trying to destroy our troops,

  But man for man and gun for gun

  We’ll clean this earth of brutal Hun

  And when his lust for power has gone

  A peaceful world shall carry on,

  A wiser Britain then shall know

  And be prepared for any foe.

  The lessons
that this war has taught

  Must not be lost for want of thought.

  Let costs of war, with all its strife,

  Be measured first in human life,

  And when our boys from o’er the foam

  With duty done come sailing home

  See to it then that they’re repaid:

  For every sacrifice they made,

  They who kept Australia free,

  Have risked their all for you and me.

  Pte Albert Edward Godwin

  (AWM PR 86 160)

  * * *

  On Army Tradesmen

  A country pollie had a notion, while scraping cow dung off a boot

  To get rid of army tradesmen and save us all some loot,

  “We’ll replace ’em all wiv civvies, youse know how quick they goes,

  Jus’ look ’ow fast they scamper when the knock off siren blows.”

  “So now when grunts and tankies go slogging through the bush

  Why, we’ll send along Fred Nerk to help maintain the push —

  Except of course on weekends (when ’e ’as a two-day rest)

  Or if ’e strikes for ’igher wages, hmm, now won’t that be a pest.

  Or when ’e claims for dirt and danger and for ’ard layin’ too,

  Or flexes off on Fridays or takes a sickie, or a few.”

  (Then our pollie will relent and say “We’ll keep them green instead,”

  While clouds of fat pink piglets go flying overhead).

  Capt. Don Buckby

  * * *

  On Immigration

  We sit in splendid isolation

  Indulge in high pontification

  On a subject vital to our nation:

  The make up of our immigration.

  To question earns a racist tag

  While xenophobes hold high the flag

  Each cause the migrant’s hope to sag;

  He’s on a rock, a lonely shag

  One group says, maintain your roots,

  The next, be Aussies to your boots,

  Either choice not the other suits —

  We can at times be callous brutes.

  There is no answer short and sweet

  No path to guide the new chum’s feet;

  Do you blame him then if he’s discreet

  And does not seek to risk defeat?

  Capt. Don Buckby

  * * *