The Happy Warrior
Page 33
But we’ll hear his tales no longer, for old Bob has passed away,
And the world’s a little poorer, for a Soldier died today.
No, he won’t be mourned by many, just his children and his wife,
For he lived an ordinary, very quiet sort of life.
He held a job and raised a family, quietly going on his way;
And the world won’t note his passing; ’tho a Soldier died today.
When politicians leave this earth, their bodies lie in state,
While thousands note their passing and proclaim that they were great,
Papers tell of their life stories, from the time that they were young;
But the passing of a soldier goes unnoticed and unsung.
Is the greatest contribution to the welfare of our land
Some jerk who breaks his promise and cons his fellow man?
Or the ordinary fellow, who in times of war and strife,
Goes off to serve his Country and offers up his life?
The politician’s stipend and the style in which he lives
Are sometimes disproportionate to the service he gives,
While the ordinary soldier, who offered up his all
Is paid off with a medal and perhaps a pension, small.
It’s so easy to forget them, for it is so long ago,
That our Bobs and Jims and Johnnys, went to battle; but we know
It was not the politicians, with their compromise and ploys,
Who won for us the freedom that our Country now enjoys.
Should you find yourself in danger, with your enemies at hand,
Would you really want some cop-out, with his ever-waffling stand?
Or would you want a Soldier, who has sworn to defend
His home, his kin, and Country, and would fight until the end?
He was just a common Soldier and his ranks are growing thin,
But his presence should remind us, we may need his like again,
For when countries are in conflict, then we find the Soldier’s part
Is to clean up all the troubles that the politicians start.
If we cannot do him honor while he’s here to hear the praise,
Then at least let’s give him homage at the ending of his days;
Perhaps just a simple headline, in the paper that might say:
our country is in mourning, for a soldier died today.
Anon
* * *
Lest We Forget
Written on the sad occasion of the death of Fred Kelly who, at the age of 101, was not only the remaining Anzac survivor in NSW, but also an inspiration for everything that is good in today’s society. My wish would be that those of us who live in safety and comfort today will do everything in our power to ensure that this freedom is not lost!
REST IN PEACE
A hero left this earth today, so gallant, brave and true
He fought to save our country, he fought for me and you.
He represented selflessness, on that Gallipoli Campaign
‘Lest we forget’, we hope and pray those efforts weren’t in vain.
This is the time to stop and think, to calculate the price
That all folk pay in conflicts, of human sacrifice.
On reflection, those who died, gave all that they could give
But were survivors fortunate, with a tortured life to live?
It seems they serve a sentence too, memories Oh so grim!
Of suffering, squalor, blood and guts, losses of life and limb.
And then there are the stories of bravery and courage and mates,
Sharing in times of adversity their fears, their loves, their hates.
So don’t let these soldiers of valour, fight the good fight for nought;
Let’s play our part, each one of us, to gain the results that they sought.
To stand shoulder to shoulder, together, each one of us aware
That we’re all in the battle together to ‘advance australia fair!’
Val Wallace
30 December 1998
* * *
The Inspiration of Anzac
There’s a day in April that’s sacred
To the memory of HEROES who died,
That we might forever have Anzac,
As a symbol of national pride.
They lay in the hills of Gallipoli,
They sleep by the Aegean Sea,
But their souls march on to the glory
Of an immortality.
No tombs of chiselled masonry
Distinguish them from Foe,
But just a simple wooden cross
With AIF below.
They displayed the highest courage
For which they paid the highest price
And a grateful country speaks with pride
Of their deeds and sacrifice.
They were the flower of our nation
And chosen by standards so high
That only the physically perfect
Were good enough, even to die.
They sauntered down the city streets
With independence and pride,
Because they were volunteer soldiers
And it made them feel different, inside.
They spurned all routine orders,
Were undisciplined and raw,
With a flair for sport and games of chance
And few ideas of war.
They scorned the heat and glare
Of Egypt’s burning sands,
While they cursed the blinding sandstorms
And the filth of Pharoah’s lands.
Through the dust and grime of desert camps
A comradeship was born
That levelled all distinctions
Where the ‘rising suns’ were worn.
They were cobbers, united thru’ thick and thin
And proud of the manhood that blossomed,
A breed of men perfect and destined to be
The bravest things God always meant them to be.
And they proved it with reckless abandon,
As the story of Anzac will tell,
With the men of New Zealand beside them
And a British division as well.
And you’ve not forgotten Lone Pine Ridge,
Or Quinns, or Sari Bair,
And you’ll never cease to wonder
How they got a footing there.
With their ranks all shot to pieces
And their lines but thinly held,
Those Anzacs went down fighting
With a courage unexcelled.
And those who were left gazed around them
With eyes strangely softened and wet,
Searching for cobbers still missing,
To find them with eyes fixed and set.
Oh, God of Battles! sound that trumpet
That summonses men from the fray,
And outlaw this senseless destruction
That crushes out life in this way!
They went there in their thousands
But they didn’t all come back,
For some went on a different road
On a one-way beaten track.
With a smile upon their faces
They’ve gone beyond the clay,
Bequeathing the glorious heritage
OF ANZAC DAY.
Jack C. Black
(AWM PR 83 130)
* * *
The Old Soldier
It’s Tuesday the Third of March Nineteen Hundred and Ninety Eight,
An old soldier died this morning, fifty-three years too late;
And the nurses in the nursing home hated to be near him
’Cause he’d spit and curse and fume, and cause a mighty din
And the doctors were glad to see him go, he was dangerous in their eyes
He’d knocked one out with a single blow, and he was twice his size,
And when he’d snarled at visitors, and spooked the other old folks
They took
away his privileges, his magazines and his smokes.
And they lectured him on manners, and called him a disgrace
When at night he woke from screaming, lathered in sweat, pale faced.
An old soldier died this morning, fifty-three years too late
But the nursing home’s not mourning for the latest turn of fate,
And the doctor chatting to the pretty nurse, has something else in mind,
‘Cause soon he’ll be on the golf course with others of his kind,
And from cross the road the wind will bring the sound of children’s laughter;
And in the trees the birds will sing and will for ever after;
The day goes on and before very long the passing might never have been,
No lasting sorrow nor mournful song, for nasty old men, it seems,
So go and put him in the ground — and mind you bury him deep —
That way we won’t hear the sound, of him screaming in his sleep.
An old soldier died this morning, fifty-three years too late,
With no regrets in going, nor pity in his fate.
But what cruel trick life gave him and who designed the law;
That would slip his mind back in time, and make him relive the war;
Back to the tropical jungles, with sweat and mud and rain,
Back to the yellow terror he visits again and again,
Where the very land around him is trying to kill him as well
With the crocs and snakes and malaria, he lives in living hell.
It’s no wonder he was cranky in his final golden years,
When he heard the screams of the dying in his nightly sleeping ears.
An old soldier died this morning, fifty three years too late.
His mind went back to war in ninety-seven and ninety-eight,
And the sight of the gardener, pruning in bushes on bended knee,
Was to him the enemy sneaking, as plain as plain could be;
And when the Docs came to get him, he caused such trouble and strife
But little did they realise, he was fighting for his life.
And so he suffered daily at the hands of a hidden foe
Hunted and haunted nightly, by fears we’ll never know.
Why now so many years later should he fight all over again
When surely he has already fought, more than most other men?
An old soldier died this morning, fifty-three years too late
He spent three years in Changi, Weary Dunlop was his mate,
And the Burma Rail was built with blood of men that he called mates;
And all of those men and most of his sight was lost behind Changi’s gates
And, though he lived over fifty years past the end of that terrible place,
That a part of him had died there was written on his face;
And fifty years of silence had its own nasty price
Because in one single lifetime he had to live it twice.
Rest in Peace now, old soldier, you have deserved it yet,
And may the rest of us remember Lest We Forget.
Ron Wilson
Anzac Day
I saw a kid marchin’ with medals on his chest.
He marched alongside Diggers, marchin’ six abreast;
He knew it was ANZAC day, he walked along with pride,
He did his best to keep in step with the Diggers by his side.
And when the march was over the kid was rather tired.
A digger said “Whose medals son?” to which the kid replied:
“They belong to my daddy but he did not come back
He died up in New Guinea on a lonely jungle track.”
The kid looked rather sad then a tear came to his eye.
The Digger said “Don’t cry my son, and I will tell you why,
Your daddy marched with us today — all the bloomin way.
We Diggers know that he was there — it’s like that on Anzac Day.”
The kid looked rather puzzled and didn’t understand,
But the Digger went on talking and started to wave his hand.
“For this great land we live in, there’s a price we have to pay,
And for this thing called freedom, the Diggers had to pay.
“For we all love fun and merriment in this country where we live,
The price was that some soldier, his precious life must give.
For you to go to school, my lad, and worship God at will,
Someone had to pay the price so the Diggers paid the bill.
“Your daddy died for us my son — for all things good and true,
I wonder if you can understand the things I’ve said to you?”
The kid looked up at the Digger, just for a little while
And with a changed expression, said, with a lovely smile:
“I know my daddy marched here today, this, our Anzac day,
I know he did, I know he did — all the blooming way!”
Anon
* * *
The Unknown Soldier
James Young’s son, a Major in the RAE, commanded the detachment that had the honour of returning the remains of the ‘Unknown Soldier’ home.
The long quest on foreign soil for an Unknown Soldier ends,
His country wants him home at last, back here among his friends.
With fanfare, pomp and glory the honour guard will stand
As they raise this Unknown Soldier from out this foreign land.
Then proudly will they bear him through the green French countryside,
Long gone the muddy trenches, where he and many died.
He is coming home a hero born aloft on golden wings
To rest in the Nation’s Capital, take his place with lords and kings.
To lie in state, on Aussie soil his holy place of rest,
A symbolic choice from thousands of our youth, our very best.
The honour we bestow on him, this unforgotten man,
Belongs to all his cobbers who fell in a foreign land.
Tho’ many years have passed away since this young soldier died,
His tomb will stand for all to see, a font of national pride.
At last our soldier rests in peace, in simple dignity,
He harkens not to words of praise nor honour does he see.
Lying there so proudly, the country’s flag his pall,
As ghostly footsteps echo across the great King’s Hall.
The Nation’s grateful people show a mark of their respect
To bear their head in silent prayer, sleep well, lest we forget.
Flanked by youthful comrades standing guard until that day,
When he makes the final journey to the tomb wherein he’ll lay.
As a day of national mourning it moves the young as well as old,
Old soldiers sit and ponder absent comrades, brave and bold.
A hushed silence greets his casket as down the avenue it comes,
Borne by the Nation’s leaders, marching slow, to muffled drums.
The bugler blows the Last Post as our Soldier goes to rest,
Where future generations can salute Australia’s best.
James D. Young
* * *
The Last Parade
The blazing sun was high above
The steamy jungle shade,
Soldiers standing side by side
The battalion’s last parade.
Not here the sound of cheering
Though duty has been done,
Suffice it is to hear no more
The rattle of the gun.
Along those dark, damp jungle trails
Where snipers wait and hide,
Where friend and foe look just as one,
Here innocence quickly died.
Not easy is the battle fought,
No beginning, who knows the end?
Ours not to reason why
Just advance, withdraw, defend.
Now others face the hidden foe,
No more to feel the sting of death
See the victory of the grave.
By definition be they veterans,
Those who muster here today,
To hand on a proud tradition
Then just quietly fade away.
To journey home with head held high,
In each heart a promise made,
To honour those who paid the price
And missed the last parade.
James D. Young
* * *
Of the Regiment
You’ll see me march on Anzac Day,
With grey and thinning hair,
And you’ll say “The poor old bugger
I wonder why he’s there?”
I am there because — once I served
Near China on snow-clad barren hills,
And sweltered in the summer heat —
Encountered different ills.
I have lived on crowded troop-ships
Crossed the China Sea by plane.
I have slept in steamy jungles
And been drenched in tropic rain.
I have walked across the pipeline,
Heard the sound of ambush gun.
Listened to the monkeys’ chatter,
Paced a trishaw just for fun.
I have lived in hootchies awful
On the soil of foreign land.
And I’ve sat at night for dinner
With my feet in river sand.
And I watched a young friend die
And kept marching through the day
And I wonder why I did it,
But seldom had a say.
So you see me march on Anzac Day
I’m old, a little bent,
I’m a soldier — proud to be,
A member of the Regiment.
Margaret Gibbons
* * *
The 25th of April
The twenty-fifth of April is always a special day
No matter what some people think, or what some people say.
It’s a day for remembrance, a day for ‘rejoices’,
’Specially when we hear the old familiar voices.
So we get together each Anzac eve
In a place called Caulfield Central,
And for most of us, as it’s our annual ‘run’:
Attendance is essential.
We answered a signal that came by mail