The Happy Warrior (31 page)

Read The Happy Warrior Online

Authors: Kerry B Collison

Tags: #Poetry

The Digger

I've dug holes fair dinkum, and dug them for fun,

I've dug them at night and beneath blazing sun.

I've dug little holes to protect infantry,

And awfully big ones for the blooming OC.

And holes for the Ack Ack, and holes for their shells,

And holes for the hygiene to bury their smells.

And holes around tents in case Stukas are seen,

And farther away for the Section latrine.

And the greatest event of my lifetime will be

When someone is detailed to dig one for me.

Anon

(AWM PR 00526)

The Singin' Diggers

Now, I've bin nuts on poetry since I was just a kid,

The books o' verse I've bought 'ave corst me many a 'ard earned quid.

I've read
The Man from Snowy
an' ol'
Clancy
an' the rest,

An' Kendal, Lawson, Gordon. But of all of 'em the best

In my 'umble estimation (you might ‘ave a different pick)

In a book I read by Dennis, called
The Moods of Ginger Mick
.

For Mick was jest a Digger with a dial 'ard as oak,

An' 'e writes home to 'is cobber — 'oo's the Sentimental Bloke —

An' tells 'im 'ow the Aussies sang on far Gallipoli,

An' socked it into Abdul to the toon of Nancy Lee.

‘e tells 'im 'ow another mob, 'oo looked done-in for fair

When they stopped a damn torpedo, sang
Australia Will Be There

An' bein' jest an Aussie kid, I sorter felt a thrill

To read such tales of glory, in these notes from Mick to Bill.

An' 'struth! I'm proud to think I 'ad a brother over there

'e couldn't sing for putty, but I bet 'e done 'is share

Of serenadin' Johnny Turk, an' later on ol' Fritz,

With snatches from the music 'all an' all the latest 'its.

Time mooches on. Our country now is in another blue,

An' this time I'm amongst the boys, for I'm a Digger, too.

I can see the same ol' spirit in the AIF today

That kept the Anzacs singin' in the thickest of the fray.

They still strike up a chorus, with a disregard for [tune]

As their fathers an' their brothers did on Sari's sandy dune.

Their songs may be more modern, an' they like a bit o' swing,

But when yer come to think of it, it ain't the songs you sing,

It's 'ow yer put yer 'eart in' it an' beef a chorus out.

Wot lets the 'ole creation know the Aussies is about

It keeps yer feelin' perky in a way that music 'as.

They sung in front of Bardia, their spirits soarin' 'igh

We're off to see the Wizard
an'
The Road to Gundagai

They charged across the desert with their voices goin' strong

An' wielded bloody bay'nets to the rhythm of a song.

While the tanks all danced a rhumba, an' the Brens played
Tiger Rag

The Ities thought they'd all gorn mad, an' struck their bloomin' flag.

They chucked it in by thousands an' the boys jest roped 'em up.

An' marched 'em orf to compounds to the toon of
Tippy Tin
,

An' when they'd pass a brass 'at they would slow down to a crawl,

An' serenade the blighter with a bar of
Bless ‘em all
;

While blokes with bandaged 'eads an' arms was trudgin' to Base.,

Singin'
Back to Yarrawonga
with a grin on every face.

From Solum to Benghazi, through the 'eat an' dust an' sand,

Them Aussie voices warbled fit to beat the flamin' band.

Then orf to Greece they shipped 'em jest to keep a date with Fritz,

An' though they copped it solid, in the thickest of the blitz

Yer'd 'ear some buddin' tenor, with 'is top notes all astray,

Sing about some yeller sheila on
The Road to Mandalay
.

An' later on while dodgin' flamin' paratroops in Crete

They could always raise a song when they could 'ardly raise their feet.

In Java an' Malaya, too, on stinkin' jungle trails,

They sang the same ol' songs they'd sung in sunny New South Wales.

The Jap thought they was
troppo
'e could never understand

That singin' was a part of life in that fair southern land,

But 'e 'ad a narsty feelin' tricklin' down 'is yeller back

When 'e 'eard the same songs echo cross the Owen Stanley Track,

Accompanied by 'and-grenades an' Bren an' Tommy guns,

An' rendered by the blokes 'oo'd learnt their job while fightin' 'Uns

An' I'm game to take a bet that in another year or so

They'll be singin'
Waltzing Matilda
through the streets of Tokyo.

Sapper Les Porter

A Funny Lot, the Poms

I went, at first, to Pommyland, to find out about my roots,

To see where mum was born and why my gran wore boots,

I found the place alright, and met a few who knew the family,

And a barber who ‘used to cut their hair' but they sailed in 1911,

he was born in '23.

They said I had an accent, and possibly, I have,

but at least they understand me,

Travelling 'round this ancient isle I found a dozen accents

as I sought my family tree,

I asked a bloke directions an' when he spoke I burst into a giggle,

'Twas like the comedians and I laughed so much I caused myself to wriggle.

I went to visit ‘The Downs' I'd heard so much about and down the hill I went,

I know about topography so 'twas the obvious thing to do,

and I searched 'til I was nearly spent,

Enquiring of a bloke I met, he looked at me amazed,

“Down here's the ‘High street', mate, the high ground is ‘The Downs'.”

I won't tell you what I thought, talk about ‘Down Under',

but it's like that in all the towns.

Have you walked upon an English beach of pebbles and felt the ripples

'round your toes?

It makes you pine for a decent wave

and sunshine where the blustery southerly blows,

Poms sit in deckchairs, just gazing out to sea and saying “Ain't it grand!”

For the sun came out today,

raised umbrellas on a beach is common in this land.

They eat a lot of funny food,

The Poms like offal and boiled eggs rolled up in pork,

There's lots of lard, kippers, an' cold pork pies upon the list,

but you have to use a fork,

There's cheese found in a toothpaste tube and ‘fresh'

but you have to shoo the flies,

I found a baked bean pizza, and custard in a tin,

there's no luxury the Pom himself denies.

The Pom's home is his castle,

there's lots of them around, and they've all got bloody stairs,

I've been to Warwick 'n Edinburgh too, I'm photographing them in pairs,

I'm fitter now, have viewed a lot of history, and I thought it was all mythology;

I looked around for modern bits, and found some, but they present it with apology.

Their vehicles are something to behold, ‘three-legged cars'

and ‘Rollers' are often side by side,

While red buses and London cabs move tourists 'round with pride,

To see Harrods (the Arab Department store), Big Ben,

‘The Palace' and much more,

It's worth a trip to Pommyland to take all this stuff in, tho 'tis a distant shore.

They drive on roads called ‘M' and ‘A' with lots of funny digits,

Their roundabouts are overgrown, cut your visibility, and give you quite the fidgets,

You hurtle round and find a lot of exits,

no time to read the signs, so you have to take a punt,

Most times you lose, so you see a lot of country,

it tests your sense of humour and often makes you grunt.

Yeah! They're a funny lot, the Poms, they lose a game and accept it with a grin,

But I've seen 'em come from way behind when

chips were down and end up with a win,

A funny lot they may be but we respect their grand achievements,

For qualities that they display are examples to all aspiring governments.

They've fine-tuned the ceremonial, which adds colour to their feats,

And with pomp and splendour they captivate the world, 'tis better than with fleets,

A funny lot they may be and at times a bit peculiar,

But a portion of my pride, it comes from there, so it makes me feel particular.

Bill Phillips

1997

Farewelling Ben

There are many great days full of honour and glory

Described in our national music and story,

Days of high courage and nights of endeavour

Their memory is cherished and will be forever;

But the greatest appear insignificant when

We remember the night we said goodbye to Ben.

Hec's on the bar counter, coont-cap on head,

Leading attempts to awaken the dead,

Bunny's eyes sticking out nastily glazed,

Visitors standing round frankly amazed,

Even Joe Courtnay let down his hair when

We had a few drinks saying goodbye to Ben.

Macinnis whose voice is the flapper's delight

Sang several lewd songs and then Silent Night,

Rod Campbell for once got a little bit ripe

Eating asparagus while smoking his pipe,

Even the president lost balance when

He sank sixteen gins while farewelling Ben.

Ron Wade showed a wonderfully wide repetoire

Of songs that could only be sung in a bar,

Shamus McKinlay had only a few

And then went away with something to do,

All the wise virgins sneaked home about ten

Just when we started farewelling Ben.

The wild Colonel Q and his henchman the Scot

Found a jugful of gin and demolished the lot,

Bunny with eyes full of visions all starry

Only smiled when they poured gin on his Safari,

Now none of the three knows what night it was when

We foregathered quietly to say farewell to Ben.

At midnight the G Staff got into its stride,

The gin kept Tom Williams a long time outside

Leaning against a palm risking the nuts

Wondering what had got into his guts

The SD bloke showed his wide knowledge of men

By not staying long saying goodbye to Ben,

The medical men with their knowledge of drugs

Mixed up their drinks and behaved like three thugs

Jim English, Bill Morrow and sanitary cook,

Drank a whole lot of potions which aren't in the book,

It's a blessing that Charles Littlejohn wasn't there then

On that night that his comrades were farewelling Ben.

Donald McKenzie climbed up on a rafter

Protesting that birds eggs were what he was after.

As full as a goog, he didn't last long

But fell on the floor and then burst into song;

He finished up talking to pigs in a pen

Just as we got round to farewelling Ben.

To speak of the others, I have no intention —

The things they did are too crude to mention.

Bas Finlay for instance with never a care

Goose-stepped the bottom right out of a chair,

Still, Murie will issue another one when

He knows it was broken farewelling Ben.

Jack Davis bunked off when a phone call came through

Demanding that Oscar see DA and Q.

The innocent writer was summoned along

To help Oscar prove we'd done nothing wrong

But the DA and Q soon forgave us all when

We told him we'd only been farewelling Ben.

Like sharpening knives with an old rusty file

Was the voice of young Redpath after a while,

Loading the choruses all on one note

Stopping each minute to gargle his throat,

Only Denvil outsang him, the brogue from the glen

Rose o'er the rumpus we kicked up for Ben.

There was drinking and singing and telling of jokes,

Spontaneous humour from all of the blokes,

Acrobatics and dancing and acting the fool,

While the floor of the mess was more like a pool;

Only one thing was missing that lovely night when

We bade him goodbye — there was no sign of Ben

Anon

(AWM PR 00250)

AEME Lament

This is a tale from the DME

And a tale that is passing odd,

It tells of the ways of a wondrous plan,

A method of gauging the toil of man,

And they call it ‘prog' and ‘prod'.

The role of workshops through years of war,

It was found with extreme regret,

Had never been truly understood

That the whole damn scheme was no damn good

And the whole set-up was wet,

The lack of planning was most to blame —

That and the lacking of charts

Which plot the course of man and hours,

Rooting the lot to extravagant powers

And listing ephemeral parts.

In early days at the start of it

The scheme was extremely crude

The work was recorded in primitive ways

Completed and out in a matter of days

And only the Wops were rude.

Later the Corps grew big and strong

And found to its great distress

The efficiency factor expressed as “y”

Of the output, cubed by the root of pi

Was five point two, or less.

Most of the keenest brains were set

To produce a suitable plot

For tracing the downward curve and then

Dividing it all by the number of men

With a constant for the lot.

Now that this hard fought fight is won

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