The Happy Warrior (21 page)

Those girls with grit are needed just as much as men with guns.

Sgt S. Clark. RAA

(AWM PR 84 286)

To “Bobby Tobruk” “The Dog”

He was only a stump-tailed poodle

He had no pedigree,

He was born in a Libyan dust storm

Near an “Itie” RAP.

He'd do his share at line guard

And share of piquet as well,

And never a crime had Bobby

And never an AML.

He saw his share of fighting

And fought like a soldier too

For we taught him concealment and cover

In the barracks of Mersa Matruh.

He barked on the plains of Olympus

And fought in the thick of the van

The boys of C Company loved him

And voted young Bobby a man.

For Bobby was born to battle

Though with none of a battler's luck,

And he who dodged dive bombers

Had to die ‘neath an Arab truck.

So we gave him a soldier's funeral —

It was all that we could do —

For Bobby Tobruk was a cobber of ours

And helped us see it through.

Anon

(AWM PR 00526)

Black Anzac

They have forgotten him, need him no more,

He who fought for his land in nearly every war;

Tribal fights before his country was taken by Captain Cook,

Then went overseas to fight at Gallipolli and Tobruk.

World War One two black Anzacs were there,

France, Europe's desert, New Guinea's jungle, did his share

Korea, Malaya, Vietnam again black soldier enlisted —

Fight for democracy was his duty he insisted.

Back home went his own way not looking for praise,

Like when he was a warrior in the forgotten tribal days;

Down on the Gold Coast a monument in the Bora Ring,

Recognition at last his praises they are starting to sing.

This black soldier who never marches on Anzac Day

Living in his Gunya doesn't have much to say,

Thinks of his friends who fought, some returned some died,

If only one day they could march together by his side.

His medals he keeps hidden away from prying eyes;

No one knows, no one sees the tears in his old black eyes —

He's been outcast just left by himself to die,

Recognition at last black Anzac hold your head high.

Every year at Gold Coast's Yegurnbah Bora Ring site

Black Anzac in uniform and medals a magnificent sight

The rock with Aboriginal tribal totems paintings inset

The Kon-iburnerri people's inscription of lest we forget.

Anon

(AWM PR 91 163)

To a Comrade

In this time of dreary waiting

Many happy hours were spent

Sharing all our fun together

Taking jokes as they were meant.

Now our joyful days are over

Fate decrees that we must part

But the memory of our friendship

Gives us all a cheerful heart.

So where'er your travels take you,

And whatever friends you make,

You'll know you've lots of comrades

And a friendship none can break.

W. P. Toffin

(AWM 3 DRL 3527)

The Sailor

It isn't in the papers, so you do not always know

Where to find him, so just address your letters ‘care of GPO'

Today he isn't where tomorrow he may be,

For yesterday he's somewhere and the day before at sea.

You can see him in a bar room, and groggy on his feet,

You can see him slowly stagger up the middle of the street,

You can see him with his missus and baby in his arms,

You can see him with a sheila or a girl of doubtful charms.

You can see him when he's cockeyed drunk and out upon a spree

But you never seem to realise the time he's been at sea,

Where he's keeping middle watches for days and days on end;

It isn't any wonder that it drives him round the bend.

When the great Pacific rollers come crashing o'er the bows

And the ship shakes and shudders, then slowly forward plows,

When there's thunder in the turbines and the shaft begins to scream

And you're called a stupid idiot if you lose a pound of steam.

So it isn't any wonder, when his ship arrives in port

That the sailor only wonders the fact that time is short,

So he takes whatever's coming and lets his morals slide

For you never know tomorrow if you may cross that great divide.

When you're dead and soon forgotten and no one tolls a bell

If you never get to heaven, why not try for hell?

For at least you know what's coming and really couldn't care

As you are sure to have some cobbers, stoking fires, with you there.

R. J. Sturdy

HMAS ARUNTA

Polly

At nine o'clock, our Nurse signs on,

To watch us through the whole night long,

And when we are safely in our beds,

Lightly up the ward she treads.

A kind smile here, a helping hand,

We all agree she beats the band.

All the night she's at our call,

With cups of tea and toast, and all,

Then at 6 a.m. she'll grin and say,

“Good Morning, Boys, it's a bonzer day!”

And even though things may look black,

On all our cares we'll turn our backs,

For Nursie Dear has shown the way,

And so from all the boys we say,

“Thank you, Polly!”

Ward 8, 2/12th AGH, Warwick

Anon

(AWM PR 88 019)

Smilin' Thru'

Though fate has been unkind to us with sickness and in pain,

It takes the kindness of the nurse to bring us health again;

Her smiling face so cheerful, with radiance aglow,

I'll praise her work unending wherever I may go.

No words that I can utter with justice half express

The gratitude I'll always feel, the depths you cannot guess.

The kindness and devotion bestowed in Mercy's cause,

Deserves the highest praise of all — a round of loud applause!

No doubt they have their troubles (who hasn't some these days?)

But they never show they have them, dispensing kindness many ways.

There's one just here as I'm writing, who is always bright and jolly,

And the first prize I would surely give to one whose name is Polly.

So Australia is indebted, and the soldier thankful too,

To the sisters and the nurses, with their motto ‘Smilin' Thru'.

Farewell I'll soon be leaving, you've done so much for me,

For others in their illness and Australia generally.

A. M. McDermott

(AWM PR 88 019)

Merciful

On a pedestal I place her high, so kind, so pure, so sweet,

Doing her duty nobly well, in her uniform so neat.

Tending the wounded and the sick without the slightest fear,

The Red Cross Nurse, she stands alone — we hold her very dear.

To the noble cause of Mercy. she has dedicated her life,

With the gentleness of a Mother and the sweetness of a wife.

Nothing a trouble to her, the bravest thing God made,

So loving, kind and gentle, but yet so unafraid.

The soldiers of the battlefield, who know her real true worth,

They respect her, and they love her like nothing else on earth.

She has tended them in dire distress, in misery and in pain,

Saved many from a soldier's grave, not once, but over again.

This pen of mine cannot record, all the Mercy I have seen.

But the Red Cross Nurse is God's Own work, Humanity's Queen.

So I wish her all the very best in God's care I leave her now,

Knowing that He who made her, every blessing will endow.

A. M. McDermott

(AWM PR 88 019)

A Prayer of Thanks

The night is dark and dank and drear,

I toss upon my fevered bed

And softly comes on soundless feet

An earthly angel to my head;

And over my burning brow her hand

So soft and cool in sweet caress,

A healing touch that soothes my pain

With loving care and tenderness.

God bless ‘The Rose of No Man's Land',

Who guides me through my night of pain,

And keep her safe throughout the storm

Till peace dawns bright and clear again.

Anon

(AWM PR 00526)

The Last Anzac

They buried Doug Dibley today,

a fine old gentleman who died in his sleep,

at Rotorua on a hot December afternoon.

No warrior's death for him on Walker's Ridge,

where the poppies fed on the blood and frozen dreams

of good young men from Wellington.

A day's leave and a seven-year-old son at my side,

we bore witness as six tall infantrymen in service dress

raised him high from the gun carriage,

and quietly marched his flag-draped casket to eternal rest

among the trees and hills of his beloved Ngongotaha.

Volleys fired and mournful bugles call,

we shall not see his like again,

no more grow old as yet no more remain

with living memory of that time,

when machine gun and bayonet did their awful work,

and Anzac boys closed with desperate Turk,

among the gullies and crumbling ridges

of a foreign coast that was Gallipoli.

Remember this day my son,

remember this hour and this place,

for here and now they bury this Nation's last lament,

to a time of King and Empire.

And the poppies on the ridges grow,

and the scrub thorn in the valleys thrive,

and the memory of young mates who died

we sod this day with Trooper Dibley.

Mike Subritzky

1997

By The Way

When the fire's burning bright

And my pipe's drawing right,

When the war's passed by many a day.

Once again in my mind

Many faces I find

Of the chaps whom I met by the way.

They were friendly, these blokes,

With their songs and their jokes,

And helped when the world was darn grey,

So I hope that the fates

Have been kind to these mates,

Splendid chaps whom I met by the way.

They've lent me a hand

In dust and in sand,

In fashion I ne'er can repay,

And in war's strife

When you fear for your life —

You thank God for these chaps, by the way.

Thank you mate for your cheer,

It's the knowing you're near

That helps a man through a bad day,

For when trouble looms nigh

You will answer the cry:

Noble friends whom we met by the way.

Anon

We thank You

Thanks, boys, for the peace you helped to keep

In this fair land that has not known,

The agonies of ruthless war,

Save those who for the absent weep.

Yet, smiling through their tear-stained eyes,

They thank you, too, for what you bore

Through weary years, not for the praise

You hoped to get, but freedom's cloudless skies

That they might be forever more

The very joy of living ne'er forgot.

And so with deepest gratitude we say,

“Good luck, God bless you all, and thanks a lot!”

Anon

American Tribute to the “Desert Rats”

The roads are clogged and dusty as the trucks go rolling by

With loads of weary soldiers with a twinkle in their eye.

The trucks are coming eastward for to give the boys a rest,

And I tell you all in Cairo, each one deserves the best.

There are Sikhs and husky Tommies, and Aussies tall and thin,

And the Scotties and the Tank Boys with berets and brown skin;

Still many other soldiers are coming down this way,

And I ask you all in Egypt, to give them thanks today.

For not many weeks behind us, old Rommel made a boast

That he soon would be in Cairo and that his friends would toast.

But these weary lads before you, with dusty clothes and gun,

Are the ones that freed all Egypt and kept Rommel on the run.

So raise your glasses highest and give a mighty cheer,

For the boys who won the battle and saved what all hold dear!

Anon American

When “Black” is “White”

While Australia fears invasion and war knocks at our door,

the AIF is fighting back not far from Aussie's shore.

On the island of New Guinea, where the mountains kiss the sky,

and the Owen Stanley Ranges take their share of all who die.

Through a tough, infested jungle on a lonely native track

our boys are gamely marching on; some know they'll not come back.

From Moresby to Kokoda, through mud and splashing rain,

they cut their way through jungle, your freedom thus to gain.

So let your prayers be for them, as you pray to God each night,

to give them strength and courage to win the fight — your fight;

And whilst you're praying for them, pray for the native, too,

those angels without haloes, who're dying too, for you.

We met them first at Moresby, then on the jungle track,

those fuzzy headed angels that we all thought were black.

We classed him as a nigger, we thought ‘white sense' held lack,

this tawny Papuan native, we called him ‘boong' for black.

Unrecognised his presence, his company we would shun,

he seemed far from our equal and his colour caused us fun;