The Happy Warrior

by Kerry B Collison

It’s message loud like thunder,

  Which simply read “It’s time again chaps

  To meet your mates from Warramunga.”

  We were met at the door by Lefty and Bill,

  While just inside were Smouge Smith and Ray Gill;

  And Lloyd Wicks with Georgeson, our Eight Mess talker,

  Were being ear-bashed by ‘Vicrail’, Doug Walker.

  We had a great night, which was intended,

  As usual, were sad when it all just ended.

  And when the beer went off there was great sorrow:

  “Don’t forget Chaps, we march tomorrow!”

  Next morning we rose early, which was no mean feat;

  As usual, Jimmy Georgeson produced a real treat.

  But somehow breakfast wasn’t the same this year

  As ‘Skipper’ (Jimmy’s little dog) was no longer here.

  We mustered about ten in Swanston street

  And listened to the bands and marching feet

  Of the Army, as they’d gone first this year;

  As for us, it was wait and give forth a loud cheer.

  Came eleven o’clock it was our turn to go,

  And the order was given to “Lash up and stow”;

  Of course it was shouted by the one with the chest,

  Gunner T. Mal McDonald, who stands out from the rest.

  Then off we moved in perfect file,

  As this has always been our style,

  To march to the music and keep the beat:

  ’Tis funny how some have two left feet.

  Don Walker at our head was again to be seen

  Decked out in ‘number ones’ as he always has been.

  The sun was bright — how our medals did shine

  As Warramunga ‘steamed’ up the steps of the Shrine.

  We mustered well into the twenties this year —

  A number that’s not bad to boast —

  And after the march, to the base for a beer,

  For the Airforce have long been our host.

  With money in the centre to buy lots of ‘jugs’

  It gave time to look at old familiar ‘mugs’.

  Yes, the Stokers were there and of course, quite loud,

  We found ‘Joe’ Jelleff and old ‘Bluey’ Stroud.

  With a glass in his hand and, as usual, so merry,

  Is the one and only by name of ‘Chris’ Cherry;

  Find with him, devouring a sandwich of steak,

  Of course, you have guessed it, was Geoffrey Quinnfrake.

  So, after we’d eaten and drunk all in sight

  And were starting to look a bit of a fright,

  ‘Twas home we decided we’d all best appear.

  Then, we departed: “See ya next year?”

  Tim Lawrance

  18 September 1981

  (Ex Stoker, HMAS Warramunga 1943–46)

  * * *

  Soldiers on Anzac Day

  Old Soldiers marching in a line, ranks one behind another,

  Remembering dead comrades, each one they still call Brother,

  And women march the footsteps as their Sisters fought and died,

  Some children marching hand in hand ask why their Grandpa cried.

  Young Soldiers follow in their path continuing tradition,

  Respect for those who went before and would follow to perdition.

  Maintaining all the customs and the stories left behind

  For future generations of Soldiers then to find.

  Battlefields and deeds of war, all thoughts of yesteryear,

  Gallipoli to Vietnam at last have led them here

  With all the conflicts in between where Soldiers died in service,

  So honour’s left and soul’s respect for Veteran and for Novice.

  Dead Soldiers returned to Australia in their Comrades thoughts, so sad,

  Remembering their sacrifice and friendships’ pride they had,

  And those who only gave their limbs, their blood or sanity,

  They gave without regretting and they gave it willingly.

  But as they look from heaven on the fields they battled for,

  They see a thankless people, polis rotten to the core:

  Deceitful greedy businessmen and criminals are rife,

  Is this what they all fought for? Is this worth human life?

  They answered conscience call that their country shouted loud,

  They gave their best, they gave their all and did Australia proud.

  The cost was never counted — not the wounds and not the pain

  But the question of Dead Soldiers: “Did we really die in vain?”

  WO2 Paul Barrett

  * * *

  My Pilgrimage

  Seven thousand Aussie lads lie dead on a distant shore,

  They died to give us nationhood but nobody seems to care anymore,

  I’ve wept for them at the place they bled, on a hill by Anzac Cove,

  Where the Anzac legend of courage and nerve left nothing else to prove.

  I draped our flag upon the grave of a cheeky boy of sixteen years,

  Who, with his mates, was landed at Gallipoli to fight for peace, not cheers?

  And as I gazed across the rows of many a common soldier’s grave,

  I reflected and displayed my pride in these who paid the price of being brave.

  With map in hand, and Turkish guide, I walked the Anzac battlefields and wondered ‘How the Hell?’

  And read the plaques on monuments that their foes have placed where they fell,

  For our Anzacs had earned respect for both fighting prowess and compassion,

  They would not yield, and bloody battles fought, yet with foe would share their ration.

  I served with mates a generation later and sought to emulate their style,

  The nationhood and Anzac courage bequeathed to us was undergoing trial,

  We fought as hard and paid the price that all soldiers do regret,

  And thousands more young Aussie blokes now lie in places we must not forget.

  They were heroes then, at Gallipoli and along the Kokoda Trail,

  And all the places where they fought are forgotten as our memories fail,

  I made my pilgrimage to their graves for they gave us value not found in banks,

  They gave the greatest gift to folk like me and you, so we owe them a prayer of thanks.

  I’ve prayed that our sons will not be called again, to resist a tyrant’s greed,

  For the price we pay is a price too much to bear, despite a soldier’s valiant deed

  And many a wife and mother has to endure the loss of a loved one who was called,

  A soldier knows what must be done, yet knowing leaves him not enthralled.

  As I stood among the rows of graves in Bomana, near ‘The Track’,

  Then later at Simpson’s Plot by the Dardanelles, I thought I heard a crack,

  I heard again the sound of shot and shell and knew how they had felt,

  I had come to pay respect to these whom I do honour, so in silent prayer I knelt.

  Australia owes so much to these men who died to give us life,

  We must learn about their deeds, thanking God that we did not face their strife.

  My pilgrimage was personal, for I lost a mate or two, and I feel the sacredness of their rest,

  They pointed me to Christ, who also gave His life that we too could share the best.

  If you by chance do visit Turkish shores, go pay your tribute to those who gave Australia pride,

  Or do the same in New Guinea or Bougainville; it’s not too tough, you’ll take it in your stride,

  Why not a moments silence on Flanders Fields or Tobruk, as you pass through,

  Give meaning to your holiday; let the spirit of old Anzacs brighten up the crew.

  And if you think that wars are a waste of lives and you are dead against them,

  So were they my friend, but it was our way of life they valued so the tide they had to stem,

/>   I had to go and visit, my pilgrimage to make, as I did some years ago to a hill called Calvary;

  They have not shared the peace we have, yet what they gave

  the world I wish to tell, ‘twas their lives to set us free.

  Bill Phillips

  1997

  * * *

  Their Service — Our Heritage

  From Colonial Heritage they came, enduring hardship and adversity,

  Which bred in them disdain of authority so they resorted to humour and mockery,

  Life too short to tolerate pomposity, they rather thought common purpose the greater need;

  This rugged band showed initiative, tenacity and a fierce determination to succeed.

  A unifying spirit grew that dismissed the burdens of their station,

  Drawing them together to become a vibrant, virile nation;

  These federation youngsters did not hesitate when called to go and stem the flow,

  When Kaiser Bill and Ilk sought to conquer Europe and deliver a fatal blow.

  From city, town and country shed they came to meet the challenge of the fray,

  It might cost an arm, a leg, a life, but what true blue Aussie lad would let this stand in his way?

  The spirit of their heritage was quite unique and had a special quality,

  ‘Twas an energy powerful enough to inspire them to overcome this emergency.

  They soon were trained and shipped to fields of battle and many a mother cried,

  For upon Gallipoli and other foreign shores they fought and bled ’n’ died,

  Their selflessness and mateship, courage and determination, meeting every challenge and never giving in

  Ensured captive nations’ freedom, for they had not gone to fight, they had gone to win.

  These federation youngsters bravely fought to bring our Nation recognition and pride;

  Their heartbreaking sacrifice changed the course of history for they had stemmed the tide,

  Now friend and foe salute them, ponder their compassion and fine qualities,

  Which we now proudly share for their spirit has lifted Australia to the skies.

  A generation later were called to emulate their deeds,

  And won a mighty victory with the indomitable spirit that every Aussie heeds;

  So we see in times of bush fire, flood and tragic moments their spirit live again,

  And when Olympic challenges face us we’ll remember ‘Their Service — Our Heritage’ and victory attain.

  Bill Phillips

  1999

  * * *

  The Sacred Dead

  I stand with head both bowed and bare

  To honour the sacred dead,

  Gone, yet never to return,

  Matters not what words are said.

  The path of honour and virtue,

  Once trod by the brave and the bold,

  Young men who followed the colours,

  Young men who will never grow old.

  Let bugles blow and flags half mast

  In exultation of their glory,

  Those valiant souls we left behind

  Let history tell their story.

  Behind closed eyes a picture grows

  As troops march home from war,

  Spoilt by the countless empty places

  Which were filled by men before.

  May their sacrifice be not forgotten

  Let their aureoled presence shine bright,

  Each individual, a national hero

  Who lost their last great right.

  James D. Young

  * * *

  Anzacs

  What mean these great white ships at sea, ploughing their eastward tack,

  Bearing their precious human freight, bringing the spent men back?

  They mean that Australia has been there, they mean she has played the game,

  And her wonderful sons have won their share of everlasting fame.

  Battered, and worn, and war-scarred, those who had left their land,

  Strong in their glowing manhood, by England to take their stand;

  Those who had sailed, when the war cloud burst, out on a distant foam

  To the tune of “Australia will be there!” Thus are they coming home!

  What mean these absent numbers, the gaps in the stricken line?

  You will find the graves which tell you, on the trail by Lonesome Pine,

  On the slopes of Aki Baba, on Koja, Chemen’s brow:

  They died the death of heroes, as Australia’s sons know how.

  Eager for battle they leapt ashore at the cove where their name was won,

  They stormed the cliffs of Sari Bair, where the death trap gullies run;

  In the lead-rent scrub by Krithia, on the banks of the Kereves Dere,

  High on the shell-swept ridges – Australia has been there!

  There is silence on the beaches now, the battle-din has fled

  From the gullies, cliffs, and ridges where they charged up, fought and bled.

  There’s a little cove that’s sacred – north of Gaba Tepe Hill —

  To the glory of the men who died, and a name that never will!

  And now on the fields of Flanders, ’tis eternised once more:

  At Pozieres, Armentieres, Messines, Bapaume, and Bullecourt,

  At Polygon Wood, and Broodseinde, by the frozen Somme and Aisne

  In the snow-clad front-line trenches — Australia is there again.

  There are great white vessels sailing, and they bear the joy and pain,

  And the glory of Australia’s sons who have not bled in vain;

  Tho’ crippled, helpless, maimed for life, tho’ more than death their loss,

  There is more than life in the glory of the burden of their cross.

  Greater than jewel-decked Emperor, greater than ermined King,

  Clad in their faded suits of blue, the men that the white ships bring:

  What tho’ their crown a bandage, stretcher or cot their throne,

  Splints or a crutch their sceptre, the Anzac name is their own!

  EMC.

  Durban, 1917

  (AWM PR 00743)

  * * *

  Why Wear a Poppy?

  “Please wear a poppy,” the lady said

  And held one forth, but I shook my head.

  Then I stopped and watched as she offered them there

  And her face was old and lined with care,

  But beneath the scars the years had made

  There remained a smile that refused to fade.

  A boy came whistling down the street,

  Bouncing along on carefree feet;

  His smile was full of joy and fun

  “Lady,” said he,”May I have one?”

  When she pinned it on he turned to say,

  “Why do we wear a poppy today?”

  The lady smiled in her wistful way

  And answered, “This is Remembrance Day.

  And the poppy there, is the symbol for

  The gallant men who died in war,

  And because they did, you and I are free

  That’s why we wear a poppy you see.”

  “I had a boy about your age

  With golden hair and big blue eyes,

  He loved to play and jump and shout

  Free as a bird he would race about,

  As the years went by he learned and grew

  And became a man — as you will, too.

  “He was fine and strong with a boyish smile

  But he seemed with us such a little while

  When war broke out, and he went away —

  I still remember his face that day.

  When he smiled at me and said goodbye,

  I’ll be back soon, Mum, so please don’t cry!”

  “But the war went on and he had to stay,

  And all I could do was wait and pray.

  His letters told of the awful fight —

  I can still see it, in my dreams a night,

  With the ta
nks and guns and cruel barbed wire

  And the mines and the bullets, the bombs and fire.

  “Till at last, at last, the war was won —

  And that’s why we wear a poppy son.”

  The small boy turned as if to go

  Then said, “Thanks lady, I’m glad to know,

  That sure did sound like an awful fight,

  But your son — did he come home all right?”

  A tear rolled down each faded cheek,

  She shook her head, but she didn’t speak

  I slunk away in a sort of shame

  And if you were me, you’d do the same.

  For our thanks, in giving, is oft delayed

  Though our freedom was bought, and thousands paid,

  So when we see a poppy worn,

  Let us reflect on the burden borne

  By those who give their very all

  When asked to answer their country’s call

  That we at home in peace might live,

  Then wear a poppy. remember — and give.

  Anon

  A Soldier — His Prayer

  A scrap of paper fluttered into the hands of an Eighth Army soldier sheltering in a slit trench during the battle of Agheila in the Western Desert. On the paper were written some verses. The author has never been traced. Perhaps, in his own words, he fell ‘Triumphed in the Dust’ of the Western Desert. The verses have been preserved in ‘Poems from the Desert’ by Members of the Eighth Army (Harrap).

  Stay with me, God. The night is dark,

  The night is cold: My little spark

  Of courage dies. The night is long;

  Be with me, God, and make me strong.

  I love a game; I love a fight,

  I hate the dark; I love the light,

  I love my child; I love my wife,

  I am no coward. I love life.

  Life with its change of mood and shade.

  I want to live. I’m not afraid,

  But me and mine are hard to part;

  Oh, unknown God, lift up my heart.

  You stilled the waters at Dunkirk,

  You saved your servants.

  All your work is wonderful, dear God.

  You strode before us down that dreadful road.

  We were alone, and hope had fled;

  We loved our country and our dead,

  And could not shame them; so we stayed

  The course, and were not much afraid.