The Happy Warrior
Page 32
But it’s the mix of all we stand for that helps a mate pull through.
New Aussies come to settle and master soon our tongue,
They learn of pride and sacrifice, the things I learned when young,
Of Anzacs and later generations who emulate their style,
And they’ll be as proud as I am when they’ve been here a while.
Some curse our politicians, ‘coppers’, ‘abos’, ‘wogs’, and ‘slopes’,
That’s simply our tagging game but it makes us sound like dopes;
We’re classless they will tell you, so you’re all just one of us,
It’s hard for visitors to comprehend and some wonder why the fuss.
If we are to be Australian, we are to be as one,
Not divided by the things that our forebears might have done;
There are heroes in our graveyards and I’m sure they’d find it strange,
That we’ve not passed our history on as generations change.
There’s oft debate about who owns this rugged plain,
We’ve overlooked the fact that Terra Australis is God’s domain;
Indigenes rage and claim to tracts we’ve come to love:
It’s not the land that’s ‘lucky’ it is those who acknowledge the Master up above.
The things that do the damage to the image we portray,
— When there are moments I feel ashamed to even say ‘g’day’ —
Are kids on drugs and alcohol-related crime, past bitterness and hate,
I don’t care who you are, or where you’re from, but if you learn to overcome,
I’ll consider you a mate.
The year 2000 will see the world arrive at our front door,
They’ll come to see the beauty of our rugged distant shore,
We’ll show again our courage, our manners and our flag,
Our athletes will strive as others have before and if the cheers inspire them,
they’ve got it in the bag.
If you call yourself ‘Australian’ then you’re the proudest on this earth,
It’s not a title that comes easy — you have to show your worth;
It means a fight, occasionally a tear, and you’ll have to show your strength,
The old have paid their due and the young will too, at length.
Let us stand together, mixed races yet one band,
The nations of the world are coming to see our land,
They’ll want to know why we rarely experience failure,
It is because we are part of this land we call Australia.
Bill Phillips
1997
* * *
“Gee, I Love this Country!”
As I sat in the mall on a bright and sunny day amunching my ‘Big Mac’,
This little bloke came and sat on the bench beside me confiding that he’d
been to see the ‘Quack’,
“Didn’t cost me a cracker! Now where in the world could you beat that?” he asked.
I guessed that he was unemployed and agreed that he lived in a battlers’ paradise
as we sat and basked.
We talked about the white and sandy beaches and the warm and rolling surf,
And he confessed that he’d never seen the sea until he’d left his patch of turf,
He’d been a drover, a farmer ’til the drought it drove him east
In search of something better than the harshness of the bush ’n’ thought
“I might become a Priest!”
Not to be outdone I told of my story in reverse: a city bloke come to see the bush,
I’d felt the pain of joblessness and told of a battle with a different kind of push,
He said he’d thought all city blokes were toffs ’n’ out of depth in a coastal plain,
But I seemed to him a decent type ’n’ not a snob at all ’n’ he’d felt a little pain.
We chatted on and talked of travel ’n’ places that we’d seen,
To see if there was some common ground and experiences of places that we’d been,
Our conversation rolled thru’ Alice, Darwin, the Isa and over to Albany,
There were bits of Longreach, Prosperpine, Hobart Town, Moree and it was kinda uncanny.
He’d been to ’most all the places that I had visited and we found a common bond.
We were one it seemed, two Aussies asitting on a bench,
linked by a devotion to the land of which we were fond;
We talked of our employment, homes and family and the price of this and that.
’N’ raised a collective eyebrow of the inquisitive passers by who stared as we had our little chat.
We had travelled far and travelled wide and I’m sure our paths had crossed.
As we traversed this brown yet glorious land oft’ stark and betimes storm tossed.
’Twas agreed that the ‘stay-at-homes’ cannot love that which they have not seen,
For we have grown to love the diversity of climate, people and the stories that we glean.
I ’spose that I should mention, he was black, myself a shade of white.
But we sat with arms around the others shoulder and laughed ’til it was almost night,
For we had the commonality of oneness with this most wonderful of lands.
And as we parted my friend exclaimed “Gee, I love this country!” and on this we shook hands.
My friend was a bush and townie man ’n’ I hailed from the bustling city,
Yet we set aside the prejudices that are common — more’s the pity —
And we’d shared a day that neither will forget and we found no need for reconciliation,
For such things are for the separated so we hauled down the barriers caused by years of separation.
I guess, as years roll on, I’ll remember that day upon a bench —
Tho’ I forgot to ask why he’d been to see the ‘Quack’, for parting had been a wrench;
But I’ll remember always the common bond that had been developed,
And our common exclamation of “Gee I love this country!” It was more than I had hoped.
If I can but urge you, reader, whether of residency old or new,
In this land that God has given us, to get on out and see if our love is true.
And you’ll increase your knowledge and your pride as our predecessors have done,
’Til you feel as one with earth and man and ’til all your bias is gone.
Yes indeed — this is a splendid land and truly, I love this land!
Bill Phillips
1999
* * *
My Friends who Stayed at Home
I’m pulling off my colours and slinging my web away
I’m going back to Cairo to draw my bloody pay,
I’m fed up with being a soldier, so help me Christ I am
Chewing mouldy biscuits & bloody bread & jam.
I’m fed up with fighting Germans out on my bloody own
When I think of good old Aussie & my mates who stayed at home
I’ll bet he’s walking up the street with his chest puffed out with Pride
And skiting to his cobbers how he saved his bloody hide.
And when I said to Mother “I’ve volunteered to fight”
She said “God bless you son & bring you back alright”.
They called me a chocolate soldier a five-bob tourist too
They said “You’ll never see the front or even get a view”.
They said “You’ll have a picnic across the ocean foam”
And they weren’t game to face it my mates who stayed at home.
They’re not bad shots either when on the rabbit track
But there ain’t no bloody danger — the rabbits can’t shoot back.
And here’s me in the trenches where I’ve got to hide my head
For fear some German bastard will fill it up with lead,
They shine before the barmaids full of brag and skiting
And at the
old street corner is where they do their fighting.
A billiard cue is their rifle, a bar their firing zone
For there ain’t no bullets for my friends — the ones who stayed at home.
So I’ll pick up me old Lee Enfield & buckle me web about
For I’m only a bloody private but I’m going to see it out
And, if I stop a bullet, I’ll die without a groan
And my cobbers will put the kybosh
On the bastards who stay at home.
Ronald William Flew
8 December 1941
(AWM PR 00526)
* * *
The Freedom of the Press
There ’ave been some funny stories
Said my cobber ‘Bob the Bot’
(By those chaps they call reporters,
I could shoot the bloody lot)
Of soldiers they met in Malaya
And places they have been,
Tales of parties and big dinners
That no soldier’s ever seen.
“They can write some pretty tall ones,”
He continued with a grin,
“Fourteen courses for a dinner
With liqueurs, beer and gin.
There’s no doubt they are liars
And ’ave reached the ’ighest grade
They should drop their jobs reportin’
For born lawyers they was made.”
Now we come from o’er the water
From the land we calls our ’ome
And their writin’s made me angry
So I scribbled out this poem;
If by chance I ever meet one
’E’ll stop shootin’ off his gob:
I could teach him such a lesson
If he’d take my flamin’ job.
Take me place on roll call,
Also try our bully beef,
With those concrete mixer biscuits
’E would find his rarest treat;
Marchin’ full rigged all the mornin’
E’ would miss the old car seat,
Whilst the wearing of my bluchers
Gave him blisters on his feet.
Give him just a quart of water
To do him all the day
For washin’, shavin’, drinkin’,
And five & six for pay;
With guard duties of a night-time
And when day breaks, old son,
Take ’im on maneouver
And give him the biggest gun.
Take ’im out into the jungle
Make ’im keep up in the line
Where ’e’ll likely get his nose skinned
Just from tripping over vines,
With perhaps a touch of ’eat rash
Or a good attack of ’ives
It would make that smug reporter
Realise that ’e’s alive.
And when he’s learned that lesson
’E may write the wrong ’e’s done
Explain that training in Malaya
Leaves little time for fun;
When he’s back, a correspondent,
Though he doesn’t need a gag,
You should read a different story
In that old Australian rag.
Yes there’s been some funny stories
Thus concluded ‘Bob the Bot’,
They’ve often made me head ache
And I’ve wished that I was shot,
For I’d rather have a skin full
Of that good old Aussie grog
Than reading of mug reporters
Shootin’ off their bloody gob.
Anon
* * *
The Folly of War
The cannons roar, the bullets whine,
The soldiers’ dreaded fate,
The reason why, not clear to see
Thoughts of logic, far too late.
Where hide the ones who make the war,
Who fashion all the rules,
Not for them the battlefield
This honour — left to fools.
Yet fools we are, we men of arms,
Who hold our honour high,
While those who make this world of war
Care not that soldiers die.
Vested power to politicians
Who, for greed, would sell their soul,
But never they in gunshot sound
For them, no bells do toll.
Never yet in history’s time
Were problems solved by force,
Still Man must pay the devil’s price
The biblical rider, on a pale horse.
Where men of science boldly tread
No man has been before,
Yet humanity prospers not a whit
When it comes to the folly of war.
James D. Young
* * *
Soldier’s Farewell
I’ve saddled up and dropped me hooch,
I’m going to take the gap,
my Tour of Duty’s over mates,
and I won’t be coming back.
I’m done with diggin’ shell scrapes
and laying out barbed wire,
I’m sick of setting Claymore Mines
and coming under fire.
So, no more Fire Support Base
and no more foot patrols,
and no more eating ration packs
and sleepin’ in muddy holes.
I’ve fired my last machine gun
and ambushed my last track,
I’m sick of all the Army Brass
and I sure ain’t coming back.
I’ll hand my bayonet to the clerk
— he ain’t seen one before —
and clean my rifle one more time
and return it to the store.
So, no more spit and polish
and make sure I get paid
and sign me from the Regiment —
today’s my last parade.
Mike Subritzky
* * *
Midnight Movie
To Jimmy B from Huntly - I hope you find Peace, mate.
A quiet night in the barracks,
around midnight he starts it again,
he’s yelling about some damned ambush,
and calling some Viet woman’s name.
He always yells out he’s sorry,
so sorry for all of the pain,
but every night around midnight —
he kills her all over again.
His life’s in a kind of a freeze frame,
he can’t move on from the war,
and every night just after twelve
he’s back in the Nam once more.
Back with the old ‘Victor’ Company,
back in that same Free-Fire-Zone,
and no bastard told those young Kiwi Grunts
they patrolled near a wood cutters home.
When the Lead Scout signals it’s Charlie,
the Platoon melts quietly away,
the ‘Immediate Ambush’ sign’s given,
and the Safety Catch slips onto ‘play’.
There’s five in the group in pyjamas,
as black as a midnight in May,
and the Killing Ground moves into picture
then the Gun Group opens the way.
Black figures are falling around him,
now he’s up on his feet running through,
and they’re sweeping the ground where they dropped them
as he ‘double taps’ a screaming torso.
At the Re-Org his fingers are trembling,
the Platoon Sergeant gives him a smoke,
then it’s back to the bodies to check them —
and his round hit a woman in the throat.
There are blood trails leading behind them
and entrails are spilled on the track,
but the woman who screamed once is silent,
two rounds exit right through her back.
The jungle seems silent and empty
as they
dig down and bury the mess,
then it’s check ammunition and weapons
and don’t dwell on the past, just forget.
Another night in the barracks
and Jimmy is yelling again,
it’s that same old Vietnam movie
that’s spinning around in his brain.
He always yells out he’s sorry,
so sorry for all of the pain,
but every night around midnight —
he kills her all over again.
Mike Subritzky
Cassino Barracks 1974
* * *
Digger’s Rest
I worked at the local hospital.
The old Diggers were different to other patients.
There was one old bloke lost both legs to nicotine.
He learned to smoke in the war.
He would raise the flag every morning and
sit in his wheelchair all day in the sun.
Always a smile and a story.
Feel the cannon blasts, and hear the bugles call!
Rally to the flag, charge the salient wall!
No, none of that stuff,
just stories of old mates in far off times,
only yesterday to his cataract eyes
staring into the distance as he told of
stealing vegemite from the store at Changi;
The Japs thought it was boot polish.
He laughed.
Even though you expect them to die,
it’s always a shock when they go.
I went to his funeral.
They played the Last Post over his soldier’s grave.
It was very sad for me.
It brought back memories of old Diggers.
Uncles who survived Changi and The Rail —
if anyone can say they truly survived,
there in the Repat.
And the old aunts who continued to visit their men
for the rest of their lives.
Peter Tremain
* * *
Just a Simple Soldier
He was getting old and paunchy and his hair was falling fast,
And he sat around the Legion, telling stories of the past,
Of a war that he had fought in and the deeds that he had done:
In his exploits with his buddies, they were heroes, every one.
And ’tho sometimes, to his neighbours, his tales became a joke,
All his buddies listened, for they knew whereof he spoke.