The Happy Warrior (40 page)

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.

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,