The Happy Warrior (18 page)

But if one's spirit is not in it

Then all is gone for nothing.

Of course it's hard, the guns and packs,

No matter just how careful

We are to make them light, they just

Get heavier every minute.

The ground we cover in each march,

Up hill and down to valley,

By jungle track and over fields,

Is really most amazing.

I'm not a very striking chap,

Five-foot-three is my limit,

So when a six-foot leads the way

I soon drop back to rearward.

I struggle on, my head bent low,

There are no signposts pointing

The footprints on the dusty earth

Are all the signposts needed,

Until I come at gathering dusk

To where two tracks are crossing,

The prints can go full three ways here,

I must be most discerning.

I made my choice and on I plod,

Though somewhat hesitating,

But then of course I'd talked with God:

'Twas His way I was taking.

Then after having climbed a tree,

As high as I could get,

I saw some lights not far away,

On which my sights I set.

Thus struggling on, I found a track,

'Twas well defined and friendly,

No ‘Wait a Whiles' upon this path,

They'd met the old machete.

When back at camp and DP One,

Work parties now the fashion,

There's talk of going further north,

Which generally is the order.

But soon it will be o'er at last,

Canungra long forgotten,

Then what we'll meet we do not know,

And some not even caring.

Pte.W. J. Baker, NX 139320

Canungra, 1943

Canungra's Way.

Tramp, tramp, tramp, morning noon and night,

Over mountain, hill and valley,

Through the scrub and fern-lined gully,

Over rocks and sandy patches,

Hands and faces marked with scratches

Trying to make jungle fighters —

That's Canungra's aim.

“Left right left,” ringing in one's ear,

Up at six and off we gallop,

Double quick time down to river

Wash and shave and back for breakfast,

Gulp it down, no time for sitting,

And no chance whate'er of quitting:

That's Canungra's way.

“At-tention!” through it all we go,

Or “Port Arms” rifle inspection,

“Shoulder Arms, we're going marching,”

“Stand at ease” or “just stand easy,”

Everything to be done neatly,

Shoddiness is not the fashion

Up Canungra way.

One, two, three, changing arms by numbers,

Lesson five will be on Bren gun,

Name the parts and reassemble

Making sure that parts are all clear,

Pull the bolt back, press the trigger;

That's the way that things are done here,

Up Canungra way.

“Pay attention here, that man on the right,

You will tell us weight of Owen,

How to hold when it is firing,”

Number four will then dismantle

Telling us a cause of stoppage.”

All of this they try to teach us,

Canungra's own way.

Day by day this is what goes on,

Maybe we will turn out soldiers,

Each a credit to the tutors;

Maybe time will all be wasted,

We, perhaps will ne'er go over,

But for me my choice will never

Be Canungra's way.

Pte Jim Baker, NX 139320

Canungra, 1943

Accidents

Statistics prove that accidents with military trucks

Are getting far too numerous, they're mounting up and up

So that they're causing grave concern to us and police force too,

And really men, I'm sure you'll say, it's just the same with you.

We're proud of GT116 and all it means to us,

We're proud of you who do their job without a lot of fuss,

Each truck and man within this camp is needed every one,

The job you're doing reg'ly helps knock out Jap and Hun.

You say, “I only drive a truck around suburban camps,

Or carting timber, stone, or muck — that won't Jap ardour damp!”

My boy, we're each and every one just one tooth on a gear,

Yet one tooth being broken off may prolong war a year.

When trucks o'erturn, the fire brigade and police must burn up juice

To see the truck does not catch fire, be ruined for other use,

And workshops men must leave their jobs, perhaps important too,

To take out towing truck and gear to bring your wrecked ‘bus' through.

A man or woman may get hurt, who work in factory,

Employed in making shells or tanks for our boys overseas.

So you can see that accidents, it matters not how small

They be, the fact remains that they affect us, one and all.

So if we all will do our best

To drive more carefully,

We'll have ‘No Accident Month' I'm sure

And happy we will be.

Pte Jim Baker.

NX139320

116 Aust. Gen. Trans. Coy.

Marrickville NSW. 31 August 1942

Victory of the Sands

Now the 1st Brigade quoth the old story

How they marched from Tel-El-Habar

Of the four thousand men who started

And the two hundred who got there.

But the 16th Brigade claims the laurels

In the terrible Grecian campaign

How we marched ninety miles over mountains

Non-stop through the snow and the rain.

But the pages of history don't mention

One march that we'll never forget

'Twas a march through the Sinai desert

Brought about by an officer's bet.

Now a course was laid down at places

There were clocks to check on our paces

And home was the camp football ground.

Number 8 ran the distance in fine style

Captain Coslet sat down with a grin

Told his boys that they now had the bag tied

And the laurels were safely within.

But he reckoned without Johnny Blarney

And his team who would follow him through,

Though they weren't very brilliant at drilling

They had what it takes to get through.

They started off smoothly and happy

With Fogarty setting the pace

The prize was a skinful of Aussie —

Little wonder they made it a race.

But the sand up ‘Tomb' hill was cruel

And we lagged as we climbed that long slope,

Ronnie William kept heaping on fuel

And his cheery voice brought us new hope.

We passed ‘61' with two seconds to spare,

Our leaders had gained second wind,

Joe Shaw and Tom Dixon were gasping for air

With Doug Stewart dropping behind.

Jack Blarney sang Old Tipperary

Young Webber sang Mother McKee

George Stephenson's old puffing billy

Was a fair imitation of me.

Young Shorty said goodbye to dinner

As the winning post came into view

And I thought of Tom Rigg and Pat Edmonds

And the trouble they took with the stew.

George Wickham came out in his scanties

Capt Baird cheered us on with his hat,

We raced in with a two-minute margin

And every man flopped on the mat.

Now if men want to bet in their mess room

Let them bet on the day it will rain,

Desert marching is exclusive to camels

And I'm damned if I'll try it again.

Anon

(AWM PR 00526)

A Digger

Carry the claymores

Carry your pack

Carry the radio —

All on your back

Carry your rations

Carry your tent

Carry your clothing —

Sorry you went

Up hill and down hill

Over the ridge

Sleep in the Ulu —

Make your own bridge.

Walk-talking softly

Listen and sign

Eat what you carry —

Watch for a mine.

Give us a break sir

Stop for awhile

Have you ever seen

A CSM smile?

But you change...

Polish up your boots

Polish up your belt

Silver star and brasso —

It's the best you've ever felt.

Fall in at BHQ

Check your hat's on straight

March off in the evening

To guard the old camp gate.

Margaret Gibbons

We Were the 46th

We were the 46th.

We went to a war that was worlds away,

Why did you go you say?

We went for king,

We went for country,

But most of all we went for our pride in ourselves.

We're all gone now,

We are no more,

But in the photos and text within, we are reborn,

We live again.

I can see Rollie Touzel,

The Country Boy from Cudgewa,

I can see Alf Willison,

The City Man from Melbourne,

The blue collar and professional alike.

I'm with them now,

With the mates we left behind.

No more are we in the stark madness of Pozieres,

The mud, ice, and the death at Flers,

Or the unbroken wire of Bullecourt,

Where I held a shattered mate's hand as his young life ebbed away,

I looked him in the eye and told him he'd be just fine,

I lied.

This was the nightmare I lived,

'Till my own life had ended its day.

I was one of those who came home,

To my family, my children;

They were all precious to me,

But they couldn't understand the difference within,

The pain, the anguish,

The scars of my time could never be healed as those that are physical.

Look at the photo,

Can you tell who I am?

I'm everyone,

A member of the 46th,

An anonymous infantry soldier,

The salt of the earth,

As much as we were from different walks of life

And different parts of the land, we were as one, we were a family:

we were the 46th!

Ian Polanski

On the Breaking up of 116 AGT. Company, Marrickville

(With apologies to Banjo Paterson) 

There was movement in the unit, for the word had passed around

That the 116 GT was moving out,

And the rumours spread like wildfire, from the cookhouse to the ‘shop'

'Til no-one really knew just what was what.

The Sections all were grounded, not a truck was allowed out,

The transport office quiet like the grave,

But ‘Workshops' kept on working, true, with very little zest,

Each man concerned with thoughts his skin to save.

“We're going all to Burma,” was the first thing that we heard,

Then each one came his little tale to tell.

“I heard this from the Major,” or, “Up in the orderly room,”

But the truth is, no one is allowed to tell.

The men stood 'round in batches, each one speaking, quiet like,

Like mourners speaking of a friend just gone,

And so it was in figure, for the unit really had

Ceased to exist in name, though not in form.

The Workshops trucks were ready for their journey further north,

With all the inside nicely fitted up,

By Sgt Oby and young Dave, with Monty looking on,

And S. M. Griffo dodging in and out.

The ‘Moresby limp' was evident amongst quite a number there,

Myself and Bill Grey both had it bad.

Old Stanley Noakes was suffering from ‘Central Aussie cramp',

While others tried to make out they were glad.

Old George Nerney did not care at all where he was sent,

As long as it was somewhere near a pub,

While Alfie Weymark sure would die away from smallgoods shop

Because he couldn't stomach Army grub.

The ‘Pommy Lout' was shoutin' out and making lots of fun,

Well, so were all the rest of us, for that,

Each one concerned with covering his feelings from the rest

And hoping that the move was not to come.

Our Storeman ‘Drumstick Baker' managed to get very ill,

And to the hospital was straightway sent,

But fitter ‘Billy Gibson' had to stand a lot of things,

Wondering where his last two bob had gone and went.

One consolation was that we had not much work to do,

A very rare thing for us,

It gave us time to get our foreign orders all cleaned up,

With no one spotting us to make a fuss.

Old Jake got out to Salvage just in time, the lucky cow,

Although I don't suppose we'll need him where

We're going, cos it never rains out in that dry old desert land,