The Happy Warrior

by Kerry B Collison

  And his desk-chair up at the barracks shines the backsides of his pants.

  Yes the common frontline soldier has his little hour of fame,

  But his certain end’s a white cross with his number and his name;

  But the bold Cut-lunch Commando knows that when at last he’s dead

  It will be without his boots on, and by God. ’twill be in bed!

  So, my common frontline soldiers, of the story here’s the nub:

  Join the Royal Cut-lunch Commandos... fight the war from pub to pub

  ‘Black Bob’

  Lt. A. L. O’Neill (?)

  Sydney, July 1944

  (AWM MSS 1328)

  * * *

  Bougainville 1945

  We’ve nineteen dead on the Buin Road,

  Ten more on the jungle track,

  And all day long there’s a broken tide

  Of our wounded streaming back.

  We’ve fought all night by the Hongorai

  With never a bite or sup,

  And tomorrow’s back-page news will quote —

  Our soldiers are ‘mopping up’.

  As dawn awakes with a jaded eye,

  Discarding its misty pall,

  White crosses mourn on the Numa Trail

  For fellows who gave their all;

  In Tsimbas ridges, Boraken’s groves,

  They drained to the dregs hell’s cup;

  The blood they gave was a passing thing:

  They merely were ‘mopping up.’

  The screaming silence of ambushed swamp,

  The horror of obscene bog,

  The vicious foe in a filthy league

  With blanketing rain and fog

  Are trifling things, which the critics know

  Should never hold heroes up.

  Good Lord, why this isn’t war at all:

  We are simply ‘mopping up’.

  We make no claim to heroic mould

  But this little boon we ask —

  Those armchair critics please send up here

  To share in our ‘simple task’;

  When they’re on intimate terms with Death

  And have tallied the blood-cost up,

  Maybe they’ll coin a more adequate phrase:

  Than casual ‘mopping up’.

  ‘Black Bob’

  Lt. A. L. O’Neill (?)

  (AWM MSS 1328)

  * * *

  From Us You’ll See No More

  I’ve been looking down on earth again,

  Since Nippon toed the line,

  And though I know your thoughts are gay,

  I’d like to tell you mine.

  I’m just as thrilled as are you all

  To think the stoush is o’er,

  And I’m sure to date there’s no regret —

  From us you’ll see no more.

  The thing I’d like to ask you though,

  For all of us passed on,

  Is that you’ll honour promises

  To those who know we’ve gone.

  We don’t want mourning for your loss —

  There are plenty of our kind —

  But see there is a decent go

  For those we’ve left behind.

  It didn’t matter when I went,

  I left no one to weep,

  But plenty [of] chaps who took the count

  Had wife and kids to keep.

  And it’s for them I think tonight;

  They gave their all — your dad;

  It’s up to you to see they get

  The deal they might have had.

  Young Tim who bought it in Tobruk,

  And Blue at Alamein,

  And Snow was knocked in Syria;

  I see them now again.

  Then Smithy over Shaggy Ridge,

  And Slim in the Wewak show;

  Their thoughts were for their dear ones home

  As their strength was ebbing low.

  T’was Tony on the jungle trail,

  My God! he fought for life;

  “It’s not that I’m afraid to die,”

  He said, “But my kids and wife.”

  I crudely stroked his burning brow,

  Said, “Take it easy sport,”

  As long as I am still on deck

  I’ll see they want for nought.”

  But I met my match in Borneo,

  And the job is still to do,

  Are we to break that promise to him,

  Or can I look to you?

  And this is only one of scores

  Of cases of the sort;

  Can we depend you’ll see to them

  That now the battle’s fought?

  You promised each and all of us,

  On joining in the fray;

  You’d care for us and ours if need

  Be, when we went away.

  We hoped you wouldn’t have to though,

  But there, ‘What is to be.’

  And now with all the war guns stilled

  My friends we look to thee.

  The wars are fought for principles

  And when the battle’s won,

  The job of putting things aright

  Has only just begun.

  The world has failed in bygone years

  To win the fight for peace;

  But if you right that fault this time

  We’ll rest in perfect peace,

  G. A. G.

  * * *

  What Have We Done to Deserve This?

  I wonder whom we’ve got to blame

  For what goes on today,

  Why manpower men are going home

  And five-year chappies stay.

  I could ask Mr Dedman why,

  But that’s no use I guess —

  I know he wouldn’t say that he

  Had caused this awful mess.

  I went to see an Air Force chap

  To book a passage home,

  He said you’ll have to wait a while,

  There’s manpower men to come.

  I wandered down towards the docks

  To find myself a ship;

  They told me only manpower men

  Were going home this trip.

  I slowly wandered back to camp,

  Alone in grim despair,

  Arriving just in time to see

  Some more men leaving there.

  I didn’t have to ask them why,

  I know without a doubt;

  They’d told me several days before

  Some boss would get them out.

  A chap with two years’ service up

  Pulled out the other day,

  He used to drive a taxi cab,

  But soon the bricks he’ll lay.

  Yet one chap here, a QX man,

  Is waiting with the rest

  For six long years he’s soldiered on

  And surely needs a rest.

  There’s one great fear in all our minds:

  The demob crowd back home

  May be discharged ere we can find

  Some way across the foam.

  With no one left to hand us out

  Our ticket marked with ‘D’,

  We’ll have to soldier on through life

  And never will be free.

  Anon

  * * *

  To the Guy Who Pinched My Dame

  It’s while I’m sweating and fighting in this place they call Tobruk

  That I got her message saying, “Getting married, wish me luck”.

  No I didn’t do my onion, war rages just the same,

  But I’d love to pen this message, to the guy who pinched my dame.

  Don’t think I’m blessing you for sitting on the fence,

  For not slapping on the old khaki, for you may have shown some sense;

  But I’m out off in the desert, bought myself a heap of grief,

  And I’m getting gaunt, gut rotted, while waiting for relief.

  But I am here and you are there still that ain’t my moan,

  B
ut you might have pulled a white man’s act, and left my dame alone.

  She was the apple of my eye, talisman, lone star and guiding light,

  But the little head I loved so well, now shares your pillow at night.

  You tell me that you’re not to blame, she’d heard the mating call,

  But she is easy meat, a lonely girl, and you know how women fall.

  I don’t know, maybe you’re smart to dodge slaughter, dirt and strife,

  You laugh at all the mugs out here, who fight to keep you safe.

  I wasn’t there to watch my dame, I thought her worth fighting for.

  Oh! what’s the use, you get the cream, while I am at the war!

  Wish her luck! She’ll need it, when she counts the whys and buts,

  She will find her idol lacking, not in charm — but guts.

  Anon

  * * *

  Growin’ Old

  They say you’re growin’ old when your memory starts to slip,

  And your knees go kinda wonky when up the hill you trip,

  You like to reminisce on things that used to be around,

  Long before the dollar took over from the pound.

  If you mention ‘knobs of blue’, scrubbin’ boards and clothes props up the yard,

  And tell of all the virtues of Jolson, Valentino and things written by the Bard,

  They shake their heads and wonder about the affect of all your years;

  ‘Tis hard to make young folk comprehend when memories turn to tears.

  You dined on rabbit stew ’n vegies when the hunters drifted in,

  And you boiled the tea leaves o’er and o’er and re-rolled bumpers

  before they hit the bin,

  You remember bread and dripping, darning needles and patches in your pants,

  And how you swelled with pride when allowed to dress up for the local dance.

  You mended shoes with cardboard and dined on speckled fruit,

  The mattress was filled with horsehair and bedding was of calico

  topped by the finest jute,

  You went to the ‘flicks’ on Saturday arvo’ to see the features, a cartoon and the rest,

  The price, for kids, was a zack (sixpence) and the heroes — they were the very best.

  I guess growin’ old compares with the modern motor car,

  It travels miles and miles and then begins to show that it’s not up to par,

  Bits wear out and the upholstery starts to sag, so you apply a little polish,

  But it, like you, is growin’ old, yet the journeys that you shared are ones that

  you now cherish.

  If growin’ old means memories, then I’ve got quite a few,

  Of epsom salts, castor oil and camphor to ward off bouts of flu,

  And home-made toys, gramophones and the local township band,

  An’ waiting on the milko, and his horse, with billy can in hand.

  We drove our horse and sulky to church ’n Sunday school for which we dressed up fine,

  For Sundays were often picnic days and for them we did pine,

  Our games were often rough with skinned knees and elbows quite normal,

  An’ those days were days of wonder, a sheer delight for most were quite informal.

  The media say we’re elderly when we reach fifty-five,

  But that’s a lot of nonsense, I’m long past that and very much alive.

  And yet I guess we begin to age the moment we are born —

  It’s not the years that make us old ’tis becoming all forlorn.

  So if you, like me, have accumulated quite some years,

  Cling tight to the memories of ‘the good old days’ e’en tho’ it may mean tears,

  And if growin’ old brings aches and pains that make you want to grumble,

  Give thanks for the grace of God who gave you time — ’tis then you’ll feel

  quite humble.

  Bill Phillips

  1998

  * * *

  The Flag

  As the century turned our colonial states drew up a constitution,

  And we became a federation of States, a Nation, a veritable institution,

  We held a competition, to design ourselves a Flag for all to rally to,

  The glorious Southern Cross was there and a star to represent the States,

  plus the old Red, White and Blue.

  This flag that we adopted, Union Jack and all, made us feel united,

  It gave us national identity and in it we delighted,

  It revealed that we were ‘The Great South Land’, as ‘The Cross’ so proudly showed,

  And ‘The Jack’ told where we came from, its heritage on us bestowed.

  We owe much to mother England for it gave to us our birth,

  The early Pommy settlers, they opened up the land ’n’ made us realise our worth;

  Some were convicts, criminals of note, but their contribution gave us a mighty start;

  The soldiers and free settlers also gave us something toward our great big heart.

  There were many early troubles, with cruelty directed to natives and the convicted,

  It was quite normal, ’twas the way of life, but our growth was not restricted,

  Further colonies were developed and they just grew and grew, yet we were not one nation,

  So founding fathers gathered to give to us a future and international station.

  The British flag of Union revealed that we belonged to an ever growing Empire,

  So that great badge of honour featured high upon our flag, what more could we aspire?

  Our Mother Country was defender of the freedoms that captive nations seek,

  And called upon its fledglings to stand and fight ‘ere they could hardly speak’.

  Tested in China, and against the Boers, the New Australians showed courage never seen before,

  And when the Kaiser threatened, to the Union Flag they rallied, with patriotism galore.

  At Gallipoli they truly showed their mettle as, united under ‘Jack’ and ‘Cross’,

  They gave our Nation pride, plus an ever conquering spirit, and showed them who was boss.

  When on to France the Anzacs marched, the First World War soon was over,

  And not a man who served dishonoured the Federation Flag, if history you discover;

  They were proud to be Australian and to be acknowledged as the best,

  They saw no shame in a ‘Union Jack’ and treated their Aussie Flag as a cut above the rest.

  Between the Wars, when poverty was rampant, Australians rallied around the Flag

  That men had gladly died for and called upon almighty God to help remove this snag,

  And when our Politicians sought to overcome and motivate our spirit,

  It was with Flag, and the Anzac courage, they urged our Nation not to limit.

  Then tyranny, it struck again when Hitler’s men and Tojo, sought to use their might,

  And Anzacs were called again to assist our embattled Motherland even tho’ it meant a fight;

  So we fought again with the flag of Federation flying high atop the mast,

  And under this oft’ bloodied ensign we won a victory that we pray will last.

  One hundred years have almost gone, and we can proudly stand alone,

  Now they respect our voice upon the International stage, for we are not a clone,

  Some say we ought to untie the apron strings and shed the Union Flag,

  I doubt that Mother England would deny our freedom, nor our desire to brag.

  If we decide to fly a different flag representing our maturity and Oz’s new direction,

  Don’t ask that we should feel ashamed and cause an insurrection,

  I’m bloody proud of my Australia mate, as I’m sure you’ll be of yours,

  And as time goes by you’ll learn to honour the ‘old’ Flag, despite its many flaws.

  And if you’ve come from other lands and want to be an Aussie,

  Learn first to spe
ak our language, then our history of honour and Anzac spirit, and then

  you’ll find a possie,

  ’Tis so easy to set aside the efforts of our fathers and say ‘their tales are just a drag’;

  If we are all to be Australian, let’s salute our mighty Flag!

  Bill Phillips

  1997

  * * *

  Aboriginals Were the First to Settle

  Aboriginals were the first to settle

  On this great Aussie land,

  With spears they showed their mettle

  When they tried to make a stand.

  As the English had a modern gun

  When they landed on the shore,

  The Aboriginals had to run

  Not knowing what was in store.

  Their culture and their way of life

  Was far behind the times

  Of the modern English man and wife

  Who annexed the country for home and mines.

  Herbert M. Boys

  * * *

  Our Australia

  Australia has a rugged beauty, its people diversified and proud,

  They call our country ‘lucky’ and say we’re arrogant and loud;

  We’re known to boast and brag and pull a leg or two,

  We’ve got a sense of humour that irritates a few.

  Our History is of dark men who walked the land ’til colonists arrived,

  We’re told of exploration, outlaws and the dark men now deprived,

  Of new towns and opening up the land, of rushes to fields of gold;

  There were settlers with high hopes and governors who were bold.

  We’ve learned to cope with famine, drought and sometimes fire and flood,

  There have been times we’ve had to shed our blood;

  These things have built our character and taught us how to win,

  It has taken sheer determination and a lot of Aussie guts but we did it with a grin.

  Our land is vast and there’s opportunity for those who come,

  They have to leave a place somewhere and never beat a drum,

  We welcome all, regardless of colour, race or creed, who come to be an Aussie,

  Prejudice is catching, so leave it all behind if you want to find a possie.

  When times are tough and others might despair

  An Aussie shows his courage and ensures a ‘go’ that’s fair;

  We’re Euro, Asian, Abo, Pom, Scot and Irish so we’re the perfect brew,