The Happy Warrior (30 page)

There's a hole or two about it, which I've hinted at before,

But it kept the sun at Mena off my dainty little head,

It has heard my prayers for guidance, and other things I've said,

It has stood me for a pillow when I laid me down to sleep,

When the earth was mostly water and the mud was four feet deep;

And I think perhaps this reason makes us like them as we do,

They're what blokes pick us out by, and they breathe of home and you,

Oh, home that makes me love you, and my heart goes pit-a-pat,

How you'll greet me, when you meet me, in my old brown hat.

Anon

(AWM PR 91 104)

The Old Tin Hat

Smart in spats is Tommy Atkins

His suit of khaki dressed,

On the Strand or Piccadilly

He can swank it with the rest.

But when out on shell-swept Flanders

Where bullets ping and spat

You will find each fighting soldier

Wears an old tin hat.

In the days of courtly gallants

When fair chivalry held sway,

Stately knights to win fair ladies

Oft would meet in open fray.

But in trench, shell-hole or dugout

Where nowadays our men lie flat,

You will find each gallant hero

Wears an old tin hat.

Fighting Mac arrayed in kilties

And tam-o'-shanter cap

To the sound of swirling bagpipes

Would fight with vim and snap.

But in these days of ‘whizz-bangs',

Five-point-nine and things like that,

You will find each Jock and Sandy

Wears an old tin hat.

From the land of wattle blossom

Waratah and Kangaroo,

Bill and Jim with rousing cooee

Come sailing across the blue.

He is no parade ground soldier

And not half a diplomat,

But he looks a dinkum Digger

In his old tin hat.

Uncle Sam has lots of soldiers

(And gee whizz they are some guys)

To the strains of
‘Yankee Doodle'

They have marched where victory lies,

With Old Glory o'er them flying

Britain's foes they now combat,

And every Yankee soldier

Wears an old tin hat.

When the roll is called up yonder

And the soldier says goodbye,

Leaving good old
‘Terra Firma'

For the mansion in the skies,

When he meets old St Peter

Who is waiting on the mat

He may say when asked the password —

Why! My old tin hat!

Anon

(AWM PR 00526)

The Song of the Gremlins

When you're seven miles up in the heavens

It's a hell of a lonely spot

And it's fifteen degrees below zero

Which isn't so very hot,

It's then you see the Gremlins

Green, gamboge and gold,

Male, female and neuter,

Gremlins both young and old;

White ones will waggle your wing-tips,

Male ones will muddle your maps,

Green ones will guzzle your glycol,

And females will flutter your flaps,

They'll bind you and they'll break you and they'll batter

And break through your aileron wires,

And as you orbit to pancake

Stick hot toasting forks in your tyres.

Chaplain D. Trathen

(AWM PR 00218)

Thanks for the Memory

(With apologies to the writer of the song of that name) 

Thanks for the memory

Of Wallgrove's canvas camp,

of days in mud and damp,

And sneaking in at two to find some cow has pinched your lamp.

How lovely it was.

Thanks for the memory

Of Ingleburn and huts,

the Unit now has guts,

When every spare hour found us picking up matches and butts.

I thank you so much.

Many a march in the moonlight,

Crawling to Camp about midnight,

An MO's parade, p'raps a blue-light,

A night in town, without a brown,

So thanks for the memory

When Bathurst was in reach,

a night with some sweet peach,

Then twenty in a taxi but still charged a deener each.

I thank you so much.

Thanks for memory,

Of two-up games on board,

till ‘Black-Out' whistles roared,

Of getting drunk on two bob, if two bob we could afford.

How lovely it was.

Thanks for the memory

Of lovely tropic moons,

of bully-beef and prunes,

And strolling round the prom deck in our tropic pantaloons.

I thank you so much.

Then after two weeks water

And thoughts of a cow-cocky's daughter,

I shouldered my gear like a porter

And tramped with my load

A mile upon the road,

And thanks for the memory

Of breakfast on the train,

a route march in the rain —

But now the trip's a memory and we're back at work again

So thank you, so much.

‘Pic'

(AWM PR 00074)

Untitled

(To the tune:- Road to Gundagai) 

There's a tent in the grass

That you'll always have to pass

Along the road to the 116,

Where the RPs are looking,

To see what there is cooking

Around the AAMWS Lines.

They'd like to catch us creeping

Up through the field,

But we know our onions

And keep well concealed,

So RP if you do ever catch up with me,

I'll give you the DFC.

There were times when you dozed

And we crept right past your nose,

So early in the morn,

After driving in staff cars

And riding in Jeeps,

Boy, if you'd seen us,

How you would weep,

'Cause you'd failed to report

All the things that you ought,

Along the road to the 116.

Now RP don't you see

That it's best that we go free

To wander as we please.

You'll never catch us,

Try as you may,

For we've been old soldiers

For more than a day

So go back to your bed.

And pull in your bloomin' head,

Along the road to the 116!

(P.S. The RP said when he caught us he would write the final verse. 
It was never written!)

Written by nurses at 116 AGH Cairns

(AWM PR 88 019)

The VAD's ‘If'

If you can work all day without your make up,

Your snappy hair-do hidden 'neath your veil;

If you can serve up umpteen dozen dinners

Then wait on Matron without turning pale;

If you can wash the everlasting dishes

And then turn round and wash the trolley too.

And when your mess jobs are all finished

Polish up your hut until it shines like new;

If you can track down elusive orderlies,

And make them help you, when they'd rather shirk;

If you can run on countless errands for the Sister,

And still be up to date with all your work;

If you can make the orange drinks and egg-flips,

About the diets knowing all there is to tell,

And get the MO's morning tea, and heat the poultice.

And maybe sponge a man or two as well;

If you can take a ‘ticking off' from Matron

And realize she doesn't mean it — much!

If you can bear to see your rec leave vanish,

When you thought you had it safely in your clutch;

If you can take the trials and tribulations,

The good times and the bad, all in your stride;

If you can do all this and keep good tempered,

Then you're not a bloomin' VAD

But a saint who hasn't died!

From Ward 5, 2/12th AGH Warwick

Anon

(AWM PR 88 019)

Only Wait Until You're Married

My appearance before you may seem rather strange,

I've just come over here by way of exchange

With words of advice and good council to tell,

Likewise a warning and caution as well.

I laugh when I hear young blokes talk of their girl

With eyes bright as diamonds and teeth white as pearls,

Who think they are bliss with smiling so free

But just wait till you're married and then you'll see.

Chorus: It's only wait till you're married my boys,

It's only wait till you're married my boys,

You single young men who go out on the spree

Just wait till you're married, and then you'll see.

There is my wife's mother and mine can't hit it at all,

Whenever they meet there is a terrible ball,

It's my daughter a duke or earl might of won

Had she never met that young rascal your son.

Then the old one replies as a mother should do

They would get on alright if it were not for you,

Hard words come to blows and it ends in a fight

And the jolly old pair are locked up for the night.

Your joy is no more ended you rise in the morning

The nurse brings you word that the first boy is born;

But your mouth it suddenly has a decline

When your family increases from six to nine.

Now young ladies I hope you won't think me unkind,

If you think it's so bliss to have three on each knee –

Just wait until you are married and then you will see.

C. T. Mealing

14 October 1900

(AWM PR 00752)

The Engineers' Eclipse

or ‘The Downfall of the Duke'

Australia's Corps of Engineers

Throughout the world have known no peers,

Brave men of brawn and skill

They've proved their worth in desert sands,

In Greece's snows, and with bare hands

They conquered Syrian hill.

The scene has changed and now they're seen

In slimy swamp and jungle green

On Bougainvillean shore;

They've mastered bog and muddy ridge

With jeep, bulldozer road and bridge

A great and gallant Corps!

But came the long awaited day

Our Duke of Gloucester came to stay

A week with us at base

Then with their true magician's touch

The Engineers — from nothing much —

Soon housed his Royal Grace.

A regal bungalow abode

With mod cons a la jungle mode

No purist would rebuke,

Our Engineers gave of their best

To bless with peaceful perfect rest

His Grace, the Royal Duke.

And since all dukes and kings so high

Are cursed with bowels like you and I

The urgent need was seen

To build apart, alone, unsung,

Where modest vine and creeper hung,

The Duke's own bush latrine.

The Royal stomach gripped with pain

From dip and flip of wind-tossed plane

Soon made its message known,

And so behold his Royal Grace

With bulging eye and purpling face

Upon his jungle throne.

But, sad the tale, those Engineers

Had dabbled in excessive beers

The day they built this nest,

And dazed with much black-market grog

They failed to put each plank and log

To regulation test.

And so, as Gloucester strained amain,

Those timbers, undermined with rain,

Gave way with gleeful rush;

The Duke performed a backward bow

And to the startled ducal brow

Was dealt a Royal Flush.

The Brigadier looked swords of death,

The CRE drew frightened breath,

The Sapper Sergeant cried;

The Duke called for his private plane,

Flew off in constipated pain,

John Curtin groaned and died.

Which only goes to prove that though

Our Engineers beat rain and snow,

Beat sand and mountain pass,

No Engineer's plebeian brain

Could ever hope to gauge the strain

And the weight of the Royal —.

‘Black Bob'

Lt. A. L. O'Neill (?)

Bougainville

(AWM MSS 1328)

Good Old Number Nine

If your head is aching and your bones are sore,

And a cough tears your chest like a cross-cut saw.

P'raps it's bronchitis, consumption or gout,

Lumbago, neuritis — you're ill without doubt.

It may be the stomach, liver or flu,

The kidneys, digestion, heart trouble too;

A chill or a cold may have you in grip,

A touch of asthma or just the plain ‘pip'.

A corn or a bunion may give you much pain,

It may be neuralgia or toothache again;

Rheumatics, anaemia or peritonitis,

Or only just common or garden tireditis.

Whatever your complaint, pray don't lose your head,

He cannot cure that, or a limb you have shed,

But it you have one of the aforementioned ills

The MO will cure you with Number Nine pills.

Anon

A Soldier's Dream

He grabs me by my slender neck,

I could not call or scream,

He dragged me to his darkened tent

Where he could not be seen.

He took me from my flimsy wrap

And gazed upon my form,

I was so scared, so cold, so damp,

And he so delightfully warm.

His fevered lips he pressed on mine,

I gave him every drop,

He took from me my very soul,

I could not make him stop.

He made me what I am today,

That's why you find me here:

A broken bottle thrown away,

That once was full of beer.

Anon