The Happy Warrior (22 page)

But when it came to battle and bloodshed on this isle,

boong showed that he was white — we learned to love his style.

And with our sick and wounded, no mother could do more

to ease a loved one's suffering than the boongs did on this chore;

From the tangle of the jungle he bore our wounded through

many miles to dressing stations: Boong, we owe to you.

We thank you little brothers; in this tough and bloody fight

We're proud to have you with us — you've taught us ‘black' is ‘white'!

Bill Curnow

Red Shield Angels

The Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels
is a poem you well know,

It will always be remembered no matter where you go;

But there's other blinking angels where ever you may be

They're the men who give you comfort — the boys of the ‘Sally' Army.

I remember that great battle on the hills of Shaggy Ridge,

You would hear those welcome voices, “Like a smoke?” or “Have a drink,

Dig?'

The Red Shield is a byword, two words which mean so much

To the boys who are in there fighting: “The angels are with us!”

Even in the midst of battle, e'en 'mongst tremendous din,

You will always see that banner with the words on it, hop in

No matter where the fighting, no matter where you are

You have always got that feeling that the Salvos are not far.

Their work is not just the Army when you turn to them in strife,

They're always there to help you, even back in civvy life.

In the courts where men do battle for freedom for a time,

They know they have a backing, and it doesn't cost a dime.

So I'll close this little poem with all the highest praise

For the men of the Salvo Army, and their deeds in war-torn days.

May God bless and keep them till better days are known

When we all can cry together “Australia, free land, our own!”

Colin Rap

It's Ours

The battle raged unceasing

With bursting bomb and shell

Both dead and wounded lay about

Amid this earthly hell.

Then through the smoke of battle

We saw them standing by —

The Red Cross plain for all to see,

We heaved a heatfelt sigh.

The wounded soon were loaded,

We wished them best of luck,

We blessed the driver and his men

For their courage and their pluck.

Back to the 2nd/9th Field Ambulance

Where willing hands stood by

To mind the wounded, soothe their nerves

And see they did not die.

Day and night these gallant men

Worked on for hours and hours

And when a shell burst near they'd say

“Don't panic boys it's ours!”

No words of praise are high enough

To give these boys a name,

But through it all the 2nd/9th

Stood by and played the game.

Anon

Our Mates, the Yanks

I have a mate or two among the Yanks in good ol' US of A,

‘Mum' and I have visited once or twice and despite a few differences,

We're so much alike that mutual respect

is built into their “Hi!” and our “G'day!”

Our differences relate to ‘lingo' and lifestyle

but we have pulled down most separating fences.

In our oft' offensive tagging we often call them ‘Tanks',

Not because they're mobile, iron-sided and vulnerable,

'tis better than ‘Hey! You!'

And it is kinder than ‘Septics', besides it rhymes with ‘Yanks' —

We like to have them visit so we can stir a pot or two.

The ‘laid back' pace of American sport and the aggressive pace of ours,

Accentuates national attitudes of ‘steady as she goes!'

and an urgency to prove the point,

So side by side we go, as we have through many tours,

And our friendly rivalry has often led to partying that really ‘rocks the joint'.

Whether you stroll the Boulevards of Hollywood

and drive the ‘crazy' freeways of LA,

Or sail 'cross Sydney's Harbour and try to cross the ‘coat-hanger' in peak,

You'll share the traveller's highs and lows of leisure and delay,

And comparing both experiences you'll agree that there's a common streak.

They say that wealth abounds in good ol' US of A and that every man is

rich,

And that we'll have to ‘pull our socks up' if they maintain the pace,

But I've seen the poor in LA and New York

and watched them make their pitch

As they do in Sydney, and other Aussie towns, so it's national wealth per capita

that keeps us in the race.

The Yanks are patriotic, proud and sometimes rather loud,

While Aussies have a gutsy, arrogant and rebellious stance,

Yet we have a similar determination to remove every dark and gloomy cloud,

Yanks and Ockers, together, are a formidable barrier

against potential foes that prance.

Our soldiers train together now for, united,

we've fought and bled when things were really rough,

The Yanks joined in the fray in World Wars I and II

and turned the tide when we were on our knees,

So we helped them out in little ‘dings' in Korea, Vietnam and the Gulf,

I guess that's the price of brotherhood, 
we have to stand together so that all can feel the breeze.

We've taken our place upon the international stage,

and gained quite some respect,

Mother England gave us birth and showed us how and where to stand,

Uncle Sam is our big brother but we need not hold his hand, he expects us to be direct,

We are all one, a strong united family, and the world — it likes our brand.

Now we struggle to cut parental ties with dear old Mother England,

For we feel a need to take the final step to nationhood,

To have a very special flag to unify our pride and represent our land,

The Yanks have ‘old glory', John Bull the Union Jack, and ours will be as good.

As we, again, stand up to face the world, let us give thanks to ‘Mum',

And clinging tightly to our Anzac heritage,

go out with courage to a future shining bright,

And to our bonded mates, the Kiwis', add the beat of the Yankee drum,

We'll march the course of freedom so that liberty, through courage,

might give the world its light.

Bill Phillips

1997

Kiwis

The Kiwi is a little bird and kinda cute the girls do say,

But 'tis the symbol of a nation that lies across the way.

It has inspired New Zealand's people and filled their hearts with pride,

And Aussies, too, are proud of them

for we always stand side by side.

When we became a nation and were asked to stand and fight,

For the freedom of captive people, little Kiwi brother fought with all his might,

And we stood together to challenge all aggressors to throw at us their best,

We bled, we died, we cursed 'til victory it was won

and we stood the mighty test.

In peace they play all sorts of games still challenging the entire world,

And this little bloody Kiwi will ne'er concede defeat no matter what is hurled.

We sometimes knock their ‘All Blacks' flat and belt them at the wicket;

But back they come — they won't lay down —

that cursed little bird ahiding in the thicket.

Rebellious and rugged these oceanic people have shown that they don't give a stuff,

For aggression or pomposity I guess it's in the water, which can get mighty rough.

Aussies and Kiwis proudly earned, together, the title ‘Anzac',

So don't ever pick a ‘blue' for it's not just a title

earned at Gallipoli or on the track.

I must admit I'm puzzled, an insignificant Kiwi would surely inspire the least,

The Poms have a rampant lion (though it's not a native beast),

We've got an old man roo and an emu (neither takes a backward step),

But a little tiny Kiwi — it must be just a joke

but it sure does give ‘em pep.

They've got a long white cloud, and heaps and heaps of sheep,

Then there's snow and bubbling stinking mud and mountains fairly steep,

And there's an accent for which we tease them heaps,

They come and pinch a job or two

and our pollies do the weeps.

If the Kiwi were an emu or little brother cassowary I could understand,

But a cheeky flightless bird that's nocturnal is hardly grand.

I've oft been told to watch my tail but a Kiwi doesn't have one,

The way the Kiwi's fight it's probably been shot away

or he ties it in a bun.

No matter how I rave or puzzle I must admit to admiration,

For there's a rugged proud determination that is akin to the spirit of our Nation,

And they've fought tenaciously for other people's freedoms and did it with a grin,

That takes a lot of spirit and I love ‘em,

it makes me feel a twin.

Hey, Kiwi! May I shout a word of warning as we compete again,

Don't get under our emu's feet for he'll treat you with disdain.

We hope you come in second for we like to win our games,

So we'll do our best to beat you

and we'll shoot you down in flames.

Yes! Across the mighty ocean hidden by the long white cloud,

Is a nation of our brothers of whom we're mighty proud,

And we'll stand together always, whether it be in peace or war,

But why a bloody Kiwi?

It still sticks into my craw.

Bill Phillips

1998

The Sapper

Just an ordinary sapper

Neither debonair or dapper,

A simple kind of bloke it's good to know;

Maybe over fond of liquor

Still there's no doubt he is a stickler

And he'll go where any other man will go.

He may be a cranky blighter

But, fair dinkum he's a fighter,

He's always ready when things are tough;

Every time our mob advances

He is there to take his chances

And he sticks it until the foe has had enough.

To consolidate positions

He is there with demolitions

He just loves to play around with dynamite,

And at night he's on barbed wire

Somewhere out there, under fire,

Ever ready to be mixed up in a fight.

In your peaceful contemplation

When you're praying for the Nation

And you ponder on the dangers that are past,

Don't forget he's worth attention

For the roll of fame will mention

That he did his duty squarely to the last.

Anon

(AWM PR 00526)

Elegy Written in a Country RSL

(With apologies to Thomas Gray) 

A bugle sounds the end of Anzac Day

The limping Diggers head off home for tea,

The General's strut his stuff — he's earned his pay —

And silence hands their memories down to me.

Twilight on the stone sits slow and cold

The last rays of sun provide a crown,

Some galahs make one last sortie bold

Then any noise disturbs and earns a frown.

There's just one Stone about to tell the tale

Of all the local heroes called to war,

And all the mums and lovers wan and pale

When told that they would see their loves no more.

Then later in the bar of the RSL

Old Diggers tell their tales and memories,

Their luck to survive that bitter tortured hell

That took the lives of so many Aussie boys.

It wasn't really all that long ago

That soldiers, sailors, airmen played that scene,

While politicians argued to and fro

And we are left to guess what might have been.

But Diggers who came back recall their mates

Their future dreams and hopes not soft or loose

Their plans complete in detail — e'en the dates —

When once back home and they'd be free to choose.

Remember Jack? would put the world to rights

And put to shame the present politicians

And Bill who took a brush to all the sights

Some paintings were like Boyds, some like Titians.

And Phil was to write about the outback

The reader caused to smile or shed a tear,

And Sam who'd sing a song for all in concert

But now he won't 'cause he was shot that last year.

A new age philosopher was our Mark

To rid the world of pain was Markie's goal,

But he drowned in the sea — down deep and dark –