The Happy Warrior (25 page)

And sailed across the blue,

I also left three sisters,

There was a girlfriend too.

Every night in slumber

I meet them all again —

How I curse when 'wakened

By steady pouring rain!

In the early hours

When my eyes are closed in sleep,

I hear their voices speaking

From across the ocean deep.

In my mind we're happy,

Our hearts are free from pain,

There is no room for Hitler

For it is peace again.

Each day I long for nightfall,

When I will dream once more

Of my friends and family,

Whom we are fighting for.

If my life was halted

Then turned back a year or more,

My choice would not be altered —

I'd still he here I'm sure.

Raymond John Colenso

(AWM PR 00689)

Homecoming

The chaps all line the forward deck,

Their eyes are shining bright,

Hearts are light and happy

For we'll be home tonight.

We've sighted Sydney Harbour

And the beaches and the shore,

The troops are all returning

From victory and from war.

Once more we'll be united

With the folks we left behind,

The faces they remember

With heavy marks are lined.

No longer are we carefree,

We're not the lads they knew;

We changed from youth to manhood,

Our minds have altered too.

Sights we shall remember

Until our dying day

Have made us sober-minded

And taught us how to pray.

Perhaps our loved ones' welcome

Will help us to regain

The carefree hearts we left behind

Before the Nazi reign.

The ship is in the Harbour,

The wharves are now in view,

Despite their smiling faces

Tears keep coming through;

For now they're very happy,

From far across the foam,

The men they love so dearly

From war are coming home.

The ship has dropped the anchor,

We'll now be getting off

And mingling with our kinsfolk

Waiting on the wharf.

The faces I have treasured

I now can plainly see,

Uplifted hands are waving

For they have sighted me.

Now stop your shoving, Digger,

There's no need for a crush!

Many times we hurried

But now you needn't rush.

What is that you're saying?

Oh, yes! I can hear,

I was merely absent

From those whom I love dear.

In dreams I often travel

To the land I know so well;

In sleep I find much comfort

Despite the shot and shell.

Pleasant dreams, old cobber,

On watch I'll take my turn;

'Though while awake we quell it,

Our hearts for home do yearn.

Raymond John Colenso

(AWM PR 00689)

Thoughtless Phrase

Have you never felt the danger of your child's small, trusting face,

That unshakeable belief that in your words they place?

The momentary mayhem of a madman's blood-red haze

Is nothing to the damage of a careless, thoughtless phrase.

For flesh and bone can heal themselves, to good as was before,

But a wound to heart or spirit is forever fresh and raw.

Capt Don Buckby

My Boy

My boy lays there before me on a pillow fast asleep,

His brow is clear and perfect, his rest is sweet and deep.

No tears of disappointment have left their bitter trace,

No lines of fear or worry yet mar his lovely face.

I sit and think, as fathers do, what kind of man will he be?

Brave, loyal, straight and honest — not at all like me.

I pray he's not a coward, a murderer or thief,

Just a good man with the courage to pursue his own belief.

Enjoy these days my Son, they fly faster than you know,

And then upon life's cruel streets will be your turn to go.

And I cannot walk them for you though I would that that could be,

No, I'll watch you from the distance that must be enough for me.

Watch, as Fortune weaves her fickle spell and alternates 'tween joy and hell,

And forces strength to compromise, and takes her price to make you wise.

But I shall be not far behind you should you stumble, slip or fall,

I will ever be close by you — all you have to do is call.

Capt. Don Buckby

Christmas.

Written in 1945 at Moratai N E.I. and sent to his children.

The boys and the girls are all happy today,

Because they know Christmas is not far away.

The Jackasses laugh and the other birds sing,

Knowing that Santa has something to bring

To you and to me, if we've been very good,

And helped our dear mother as much as we could,

Who works very hard, without any fuss,

To make Christmas pleasant and joyous for us.

Pte. Jim Baker

My Love for You

There is no hour that passes by

But some sweet thought of you

Shines like a lamp of love on high

To light my whole life through.

The day is long but at its end

My prayers for you I say

That God will guard and bring me back

To ever with you stay.

A.W. Curran

(AWM 3 DRL 3527)

If

If these thoughts have never crossed your mind then let them do so now,

That this world would be a better place, if only we knew how:

How to look beyond the strictures of self, and self alone,

How to take a stand against a wrong, not cowardly condone;

How to foster in our children a feeling of their worth,

How to teach them that there's more to life than pursuit of wealth and mirth:

How to teach them of the diffrence 'tween the body and the soul,

And that both need to be nurtured to make a person whole;

How to not impose upon their childhood to make them grow too fast,

But to offer them the wisdom of the errors of your past.

Capt. Don Buckby

The Lure

From the emerald heights of Atherton to the brown of Townsvilles's plain,

The lure of Northern Queensland calls me back to her again.

I clutch my coat close 'round me 'gainst the southern winter's chill

As the vision comes to haunt me, of the sun off Castle Hill.

Jostling cheek by jowl, through the raucous urban sprawl,

I crave that sweet serenity, a placid cane field tall.

As thoughts of brilliant coral reefs are drenched in winter rain,

Ah yes! the lure of Northern Queensland calls me back to her again!

Capt. Don Buckby

November Jacaranda

If there's one sight to glad the heart of expatriate Queenslanders

It's the brilliant purple blooming of November jacarandas,

For to whatever far-flung corner of this nation they may roam

This annual explosion reminds them of their home.

In sleepy, dusty hamlets, bustling cities, towns and farms,

Their gnarled and darkened limbs dispense their bell like charms

And though they're not confined to the land above the Tweed,

Its humidity and sunshine seems to make a bigger breed.

As we make our steady progress down the twisting track of life

The small things of our childhood prove a refuge from its strife,

A sight, a smell or sound can recall a better time

When life was still all mystery, no trouble, strife or crime.

Jacarandas are the herald of the end of winter's reach,

A symbol of the coming of long days upon the beach,

A relaxation from the stresses of the frantic daily race —

They're reminders of the days of a kinder, gentler pace.

And when finally I find my way back north where I belong,

When the pull of home and family at last becomes too strong,

I'll take my ease upon some sun drenched back verandah

And drink in the purple glory of November jacaranda.

Capt. Don Buckby

Twilight

Twilight falls upon the City of the Hills,

Moist heat gives way to evening cool,

Bright colours melt to muted shades

As light upon the tropic foliage fades.

Light points twinkle on the sides of hills,

Child voices cease, only carnage remains:

Bikes in driveways, toy soldiers left to stand

On guard, night is come to Brisbane's backyard.

She has not changed, dear city of my youth,

Still lush and green, languid and serene

She seems unkempt ‘gainst the ordered south,

Yet cares not, full knowing of their envy.

Yes, I love her still! She calls me,

E'en after all these years away,

One beckon of her tanned brown arm

And I would leave all, to bring us Home.

Capt. Don Buckby

Australia

Australia, land of sunshine and rain,

The country of our birth which we hold dear,

Ne'er shall you feel the tyrants yoke or chain,

For you will fight, and fighting know not fear.

Anon

Give a Thought

Have you ever wondered what they think

In Blighty, day by day?

Have you ever wondered if they say a prayer

For you, while you're away?

Let me reassure you,

They give us all a thought

To those who have not yet returned

Who went away and fought.

Do you ever give a thought to those

Amidst their strife and cares?

Do you think to say each night

Just one or two small prayers?

You will find that life goes better

When everything seems blue

If you give a thought to those who wait

So patiently for you.

A.W. Curran (?)

(AWM 3 DRL 3527)

Before it is too late

If you have a grey-haired Mother

In the old home far away

Sit down and write the letter

You put off day by day;

Don't wait until her tired steps

Reach Heaven's pearly gate,

But show her that you think of her —

Before it is too late.

If you have a tender message

Or a loving word to say,

Don't delay and forget it

But whisper it today.

Who knows what bitter memories

May haunt you if you wait?

So make that loved one happy —

Before it is too late.

We live but in the present

The future is unknown,

Tomorrow is another day

Today is all we own.

The choice that fortune lends us

May vanish if you wait,

So spend those life-long treasures —

Before it is too late.

Those tender words unspoken,

That letter never sent,

The long forgotten message,

The wealth of love unspent;

These things will ease the burden

From a heart about to break,

So play the game and be a man —

Before it is too late.

A.W. Curran

(AWM 3 DRL 3527)

Thy Wife

She is sitting by the fireside

The kiddies are at play,

She's thinking of their Daddy

So many miles away.

When will she get a letter?

When will she see his face?

When will he be among them

In his accustomed place?

His chair is in the corner,

His pipes are in the rack,

She looks towards his pictures

And prays “God please send him back!”

The kiddies may grow rowdy,

But she won't wear a frown;

Her man just said keep smiling

And she won't let him down.

And so for love of Daddy,

Who's miles across the foam,

She joins in with the kiddies,

To make it ‘home sweet home'.

One day he will be there with them

Then life will be serene;

She's only just a soldier's wife

But every inch a queen.

Private Charles Antill

(AWM PR 00036)

Millgrove

There is a town I am thinking of always,

A town where the tall trees grow.

Where the Yarra flows peacefully onward

Beneath the shadow of Mount Little Joe.

It's a town where the evening shadows

Cover the valley in a deep purple glow,

A town where one train comes in daily

And life remains tranquil and slow.

Dear old Millgrove, I have left you —

Although I left you not for fun,

But to keep you quiet and peaceful,

With a well oiled ack-ack gun

So that you will never hear the big guns

Bark their defiance at the Nipponese,

So that you'll never be lit up by fires

That start when they drop incendiaries.

That's why I'm here in a disease-laden land,

A land of dust and mosquitoes and flies,

Where troops march along the shell-torn roads

And fighter planes zoom in the skies,

Where the drone of the bomber planes mingle

With the whine of each high-powered shell

And falling bombs make your spine tingle

When they scream like the inmates of hell.

Yes Millgrove, one day I'll be returning

And when I step off your once-daily train,

I will want to see home fires burning

And hear birds singing freedom's refrain;

I want to see tall gums tinged golden