The Happy Warrior (20 page)

Those others of her scion.

Seen from above, her clean slim lines

Was target made to miss,

Well worthy to those slanting eyes

Of anticipat'ry ‘Hiss-s-s-s'.

With agile swerve and greyhound speed

Her crew all well prepared,

She welcomed each assailant's deeds

With snarling fangs all bared.

Her bristling weapons aimed on high

Defied their birds of war,

Hurling skyward flak and fire

A deadly reaching claw.

Her probing prow sought out the Jap

Defying all his cannon

To wipe ‘Australia' off the map

And rename it ‘South Nippon!'

She braved each storm and shed each green

Flung from the briny main.

She swam the tropics like a Queen

In calm, or hurricane.

From North to South and back again

Wherever she was sent,

Her handsome hide oft showed the strain

But served with fierce intent.

She carried all who served in her

With confidence and strength —

No comfort, ours, in any berth

Along her spartan length.

She wasn't just some ‘Lady Fair'

Although her lines were such

For she was but a ‘Dog of War'

Without the ‘Midas Touch'.

We love her still, our mem'ries bright,

Her every action marked,

Till we are gone far out of sight

We'll live the love she sparked.

L. (Tarz) Perkins.

Destroyer

A gallant little ship sails the sea today,

Fighting for old Aussie and paving the way

For liberty and freedom

We know will come one day.

Her name is
Warramunga,

A tribal ship by class,

Manned by young Australians,

Who will stand up till the last.

So hats off to the ship and men,

May she ride the sea and foam,

And God guide them back to the ones they love,

Back to home sweet home.

Leading Stoker F. J. ‘Shags' Turner

1943

The Warramunga

The Warramunga is a destroyer

Built at Cockatoo;

When the shakedown trials are finished,

She'll do close on forty-two.

Then whether we sail the Indian

Or the beautiful blue Pacific,

What we've got for Tojo's boys

Is something just terrific

Three twin four-point-sevens

Backed up by twin four-inch,

If the enemy comes within our range

They are sure to feel the pinch.

The A. A. boys are watching,

Waiting for the day

That one of the Japanese bombers

Would fly across our way.

The torpedo men are waiting

For the detector to get a ping

So they can drop a water bomb

And teach those Japs a thing.

We are like the Aboriginal tribe

With a mission to fulfil,

So to keep up their motto

Warramunga ‘hunt to kill.'

A. B ‘Happy' Fellows

1942–3

Never Forget Them

Through day and night our brothers marched

To a long-off desert town,

In a last ditch effort from the Allies

To bring the enemy down.

As they charged against the Turks

Their desperation was hard not to see,

In the trenches and behind the guns

The scared Turks, they did flee.

Although the task seemed impossible

The town they took that day,

Victoriously they raised the flag

Before the sun went down.

All these men are gone now

Their experiences left in the past,

But as long as there are blokes like us

Their memory will always last.

Other units in the Army today

To find their roots they've tried,

Most of them have nothing near

What we've got ‘Cavalry pride'.

So remember what they did,

These men you've never met,

Echo it through the generations

So that no one will ever forget.

L. Cpl. Michael Walburn

The Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels of the Owen Stanley Ranges…

Many a Mother in Australia, when the busy day is done,

Sends a prayer to the Almighty, for the keeping of her son,

Asking that an angel guide him and bring him safely back,

Now we see those prayers are answered on the Owen Stanley Track.

Though they haven't any halo, only holes slashed through the ear

And their faces marked with tattoos and with scratch pins in their hair,

Bringing back the badly wounded, just as steady as a hearse,

Using leaves to keep the rain off, and as gentle as a nurse.

Slow and careful in bad places on the awful mountain track

And the look upon their faces makes us think that Christ was black,

Not a move to hurt the carried, they treat him like a saint;

It's a picture worth recording, that an artist's yet to paint.

Many a lad will see his Mother and the husbands see their wives,

Just because the Fuzzy Wuzzies carried them to save their lives.

From mortar or machine gun fire, or a chance surprise attack,

To safety and the care of doctors at the bottom of the track.

May the Mothers in Australia when they offer up a prayer

Mention these impromptu angels with the fuzzy wuzzy hair.

Sapper Herbert Beros

(AWM PR 88 019)

…And the Answer by an Aussie Mother

We, the mothers of Australia, as we kneel each night in prayer

Will be sure to ask God's blessing for the men with fuzzy hair,

And may the great Creator who made both black and white

Help us to remember how they helped to win the fight.

For surely he has used these men with fuzzy-wuzzy hair

To guard and watch the wounded with tender loving care,

And perhaps when they are tired with blistered aching back

He'll take the yoke upon Himself and help them down the track.

And God will be the Artist and this picture He will paint,

Of a fuzzy wuzzy angel with the halo of a saint,

And his presence will go with them in tropic heat and rain

And he'll help them tend the wounded in sickness and in pain.

So we thank you Fuzzy Wuzzy, for all that you have done,

Not only for Australia, but for every Mother's son;

And we're glad to call you friend although your faces may be black,

For we know that Christ walked with you on the Owen Stanley track.

Anon

(AWM PR 91 061)

Crosses

Private Tommy Gray of the illustrious all-WA 2/16th infantry battalion was killed in the battle for Damour fighting against pro-Nazi elements of the French Foreign Legion in June, 1941. The poem was first published in the AIF News in Palestine in September of that year. One of Tom's mates found it on his body. Tom was an Aboriginal stock-man, a legend and highly regarded in the Pilbara region of WA in the 1930s.

Each life has its crosses,

and a soldier has his share

From a trip across the ocean, to that envied
Croix de Guerre.

There are crosses by the sensor, far too many so it seems,

There are crosses on the letters from the girlfriend of his dreams,

There are crosses worn by heroes who have faced the storm of lead,

There's a cross when he is wounded and a cross when he is dead.

There's a little cross of mercy

that very few may own,

To a soldier it is second

to that of God alone:

It's a cross that's worn by women,

when we see it we believe

That we recognize an angel

by the Red Cross on her sleeve.

Pte Tommy Gray

1941

(AWM MSS 1562)

Praise to the Nurses

(Written whilst a patient in 2/2 Hospital) 

You may talk about the Anzacs over on Gallipoli,

You may talk about the heroes of Tobruk,

You may praise the Royal Navy and the Air Force thrown in too,

I know their gallant deeds would fill a book.

There's the fuzzy wuzzy angels too, who've had a lot of praise,

Of course they deserved it - every one,

The AWAS, and of course the WAAFS, and all the rest of them,

Can each have written to their names, “Well Done!”

But what about the Red Cross nurse? Are they not heroines too?

If ever a band deserved the title they

Have earned it every day they served,

And sometimes without thanks or even smiles to help them on their way.

From dawn of day, 'til dark of night, with never ceasing care,

They tend to all our endless wants and needs,

With smiling face and tender touch and pleasant words of cheer,

Their very presence breathes a note of peace.

Though often feeling worn and tired and sad at heart as well,

They gamely carry on their ceaseless task,

Concerned with others' comfort and their peace of mind as well,

Are they not Heroines? All of them, I ask?

Pte Jim Baker, NX139320

Moratai NEI, 1945

Young Shannon McAliney

It is hard to describe to the uninitiated

The unity and spirit that our Army has created.

For the Army is a family, where to serve is to belong,

Where bonds are everlasting and friendships made are strong.

For us to lose a mate is akin to losing family

And today I lost my brother — young Shannon McAliney.

I heard tonight of Shannon as the CO paced the floor;

It soon became apparent this was ground not trod before,

For all our previous patients had been black not white of skin,

My stomach felt uneasy and my calm was paper-thin.

I watched with trepidation as his stretcher hurried past

Hoping against hope that tonight was not his last;

The mere presence of the CO and the grey haired RSM

Turned me sickly cold, for these were very busy men.

I cannot describe the bitter feeling or the empty hollow pain

When I heard the long count start up, then quieten down again.

Angry and frustrated, my nerves felt tightly strung

At the death of Shannon McAliney, who died so very young.

You know, I never knew young Shannon, couldn't tell him from another,

Yet Shannon McAliney was and is my brother.

Tony Anetts

Barley, Wheat and Rye

I'm just a lonesome land girl, my home is miles away,

I'm away here in the outback and working hard each day.

Ploughing, digging, sowing, to help the food supply,

Growing barley, wheat and rye.

We, of this women's service, raise our voices high:

“Come on girls and join us, give the Land Army a try!”

And when the war is over, you can proudly cry:

“I helped to feed the country with barley, wheat and rye!”

Anon

(AWM PR 84 286)

Australian Women's Land Army

From their homes of peace and comfort, from the city's sparkling lights,

To the bush of toil and hardship with its lone and silent nights

Come the daughters of Australia, set to take whate'er befalls,

Glad to cast aside the ball gown for the patriot's overalls.

And they plough and sow and harrow, and each one pulls her weight,

They get up very early and knock off very late;

They're doing man-sized missions as they've never done before,

Which is no small contribution to the winning of the war.

'Mongst the paddies, pigs and pumpkins, 'midst the cabbages and beet,

In the freezing winds of winter and the summer's scorching heat,

As they battle choking dust clouds and plod through slush and rain,

They are fighting too for Victory and their toil is not in vain.

Suntanned, strong and healthy, they are feminine and dear,

They're the mothers of tomorrow, and Australia need not fear

While she fosters daughters like them, marching boldly with her sons,

To steer the plough triumphantly while her brother mans the guns.

They are fighting a silent battle on the front behind the front,

And their combat — just as vital, though it's girls who bear the brunt.

Smeared with grease and grime of tractors, clad in dirty overalls,

Unsung heroines of warfare, answering to their Nation's calls.

And the watchword on their banner they, in Freedom cause, unfurled

Is, ‘The hand that guides the tractor is the hand that feeds the world!'

The first round of the battle goes to their men who fight,

While those fair and silent workers continue day and night,

On the farms and in the dairies, on the outback station runs,