The Happy Warrior (38 page)

Who keeps our flag unfurled.

A daughter nick-named ‘Whiskers'

By a fond and loving Dad,

Her little heart is breaking

And her eyes are ever sad.

She is old enough to reason,

Just why he went away

And nightly with her mother

For his safe return they pray.

I know he'll never weaken

When the battle's at its height;

It's his family he's protecting,

That's why he's in the fight.

Someday the war will finish

And he'll put away the sword,

That family's reunion

Will be his just reward.

Raymond John Colenso

(AWM PR 00689)

Home Front, 1943

It is quite plain

Our people are fine democrats.

They loudly disdain

The Nazis and the ‘little yellow rats',

And laud the soldiers of this ‘free and mighty nation' —

Our way of life is better, they maintain.

(especially when you can dine on a pretty fair ration.)

Brave Boys, they fight

The battle for Australia's freedom

For us, our wives, for liberty, for right;

So in peace we shall therefore lead them

To the finest fruits of Victory: In them shall they invest

Secure their lives, provide for futures bright.

(From deferred pay they will naturally find the normal business interest.)

Meanwhile beware

Lest they should sweat in vain;

Let any but dare

To curb our ancient liberties: his then the pain

Of financial mights combined to drive him from the market.

For them and theirs, to Free Enterprise we swear.

(And even though the profit margin's down right now, turnover is up and hearty.).

P. F.

Chaplain D. Trathen (?)

(AWM PR 00218)

Advance Australia

Forget about our fighting men

And join me in a cheer,

Who gives a damn for the Navy

If the painters get their beer?

Don't worry about our sailor boys

Who man the corvettes sleek,

Here's to the Home Front

At twenty quid a week.

This is the news to cheer the lads

Whose hours aren't nine to five,

And who don't know in the morning

If, by night, they'll be alive.

If you don't believe me, ask them,

And I wonder what they'll say

As they fight on in the islands

For six-and-six a day.

So when the pubs are open

Down tools and drink your fill:

The news'll make them happy

In the swamps on Bougainville.

T. L. Haselden

(AWM MSS 1204)

Horrors of the Home Front

So you're weary of taxes, my masters?

You're bowed 'neath the burden of debt?

And your delicate palate is pining

For dainties your purse cannot get.

Why, we'll welcome you here in the jungle,

The only taxation we pay

Is our blood and our strength and our manhood —

Come join us my friends and be gay.

We'er not bothered be seeking the solace

Of oysters, fresh eggs and champagne;

See our fattened and fond exultation

When bully beef greets us again

Why suffer the ill-mannered jostling

At Randwick when races are there?

Be with us in our Coral-girt Eden —

We've endless supplies of fresh air.

Why fritter your time and your temper

As black market liquor you seek?

Come and share our Bacchanalian revels —

Two bottles of beer every week.

Why bewail that girlfriend's unfaithful,

That Yankees have shouldered you out?

Take a trip to our tropical island

Where the damsels are never about.

Why complain of the shocking milk shortage,

Let cows and their milkman go hang!

Try a sip of our sterilised water —

You'll love its medicinal tang.

Why disgorge thumping fees to your Doctors

For luxury livers and gout?

Why, it costs us not even a shilling

For treating malaria bouts.

So be free from their strikes and their lockouts,

Be sure like we are of our pay,

With us you'll be certain of working

For twenty-four hours every day.

So to hell with harsh civilisation,

Be damned to your tyrants so vile!

Grab a rifle and share our good fortune

On this our Utopian Isle.

‘Black Bob'

Lt A. L. O'Neill (?)

Bougainville

(AWM MSS 1328)

Ballad of the Base Wallahs

Now the common frontline soldier, he will go where he is told,

But the cute Cut-lunch Commando such harsh treatment can't be sold.

For the common frontline soldier runs the risk of getting shot.

Which the shrewd Cut-lunch Commando knows is foolish tommyrot.

And the common frontline soldier at most things is quite unskilled.

He fights horrid Japs and Nazis, and he ends up getting killed.

But the brave Cut-lunch Commando, if he feels he must get shot,

Boldly breasts the bar in Pitt Street, where he sinks pot after pot.

Now the common frontline soldier, when on duty overseas,

If a little sleep he scrounges he must share it with the fleas;

But the tired Cut-lunch Commando always knows his ‘P's and ‘Q's

Has a feathered bed and playmate to improve his hard-earned snooze.

And the common frontline soldier when he sails to do and dare

Has no financial worries, for the Army pays his fare.

But the poor Cut-lunch Commando as he fights the Barracks War

Has to pay his way (then claims it on his good old ‘TS4').

Now the common frontline soldier in his jungle-green array

Is scarce a tailor's model (though he scares the Japs away);

But the sleek Cut-lunch Commando is Beau Brummel to the life,

With more stripes than any zebra and his pants creased like a knife.

And the common frontline soldier wades through mud and never whines

But although himself he's filthy, sees his rifle barrel shines,

While the great Cut-lunch Commando wades through supper at each dance.

And his desk-chair up at the barracks shines the backsides of his pants.

Yes the common frontline soldier has his little hour of fame,

But his certain end's a white cross with his number and his name;

But the bold Cut-lunch Commando knows that when at last he's dead

It will be without his boots on, and by God. 'twill be in bed!

So, my common frontline soldiers, of the story here's the nub:

Join the Royal Cut-lunch Commandos... fight the war from pub to pub

‘Black Bob'

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

Sydney, July 1944

(AWM MSS 1328)

Bougainville 1945

We've nineteen dead on the Buin Road,

Ten more on the jungle track,

And all day long there's a broken tide

Of our wounded streaming back.

We've fought all night by the Hongorai

With never a bite or sup,

And tomorrow's back-page news will quote —

Our soldiers are ‘mopping up'.

As dawn awakes with a jaded eye,

Discarding its misty pall,

White crosses mourn on the Numa Trail

For fellows who gave their all;

In Tsimbas ridges, Boraken's groves,

They drained to the dregs hell's cup;

The blood they gave was a passing thing:

They merely were ‘mopping up.'

The screaming silence of ambushed swamp,

The horror of obscene bog,

The vicious foe in a filthy league

With blanketing rain and fog

Are trifling things, which the critics know

Should never hold heroes up.

Good Lord, why this isn't war at all:

We are simply ‘mopping up'.

We make no claim to heroic mould

But this little boon we ask —

Those armchair critics please send up here

To share in our ‘simple task';

When they're on intimate terms with Death

And have tallied the blood-cost up,

Maybe they'll coin a more adequate phrase:

Than casual ‘mopping up'.

‘Black Bob'

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

(AWM MSS 1328)

From Us You'll See No More

I've been looking down on earth again,

Since Nippon toed the line,

And though I know your thoughts are gay,

I'd like to tell you mine.

I'm just as thrilled as are you all

To think the stoush is o'er,

And I'm sure to date there's no regret —

From us you'll see no more.

The thing I'd like to ask you though,

For all of us passed on,

Is that you'll honour promises

To those who know we've gone.

We don't want mourning for your loss —

There are plenty of our kind —

But see there is a decent go

For those we've left behind.

It didn't matter when I went,

I left no one to weep,

But plenty [of] chaps who took the count

Had wife and kids to keep.

And it's for them I think tonight;

They gave their all — your dad;

It's up to you to see they get

The deal they might have had.

Young Tim who bought it in Tobruk,

And Blue at Alamein,

And Snow was knocked in Syria;

I see them now again.

Then Smithy over Shaggy Ridge,

And Slim in the Wewak show;

Their thoughts were for their dear ones home

As their strength was ebbing low.

T'was Tony on the jungle trail,

My God! he fought for life;

“It's not that I'm afraid to die,”

He said, “But my kids and wife.”

I crudely stroked his burning brow,

Said, “Take it easy sport,”

As long as I am still on deck

I'll see they want for nought.”

But I met my match in Borneo,

And the job is still to do,

Are we to break that promise to him,

Or can I look to you?

And this is only one of scores

Of cases of the sort;

Can we depend you'll see to them

That now the battle's fought?

You promised each and all of us,

On joining in the fray;

You'd care for us and ours if need

Be, when we went away.

We hoped you wouldn't have to though,

But there, ‘What is to be.'

And now with all the war guns stilled

My friends we look to thee.

The wars are fought for principles

And when the battle's won,

The job of putting things aright

Has only just begun.

The world has failed in bygone years

To win the fight for peace;

But if you right that fault this time

We'll rest in perfect peace,

G. A. G.

What Have We Done to Deserve This?

I wonder whom we've got to blame

For what goes on today,

Why manpower men are going home

And five-year chappies stay.

I could ask Mr Dedman why,

But that's no use I guess —

I know he wouldn't say that he

Had caused this awful mess.

I went to see an Air Force chap

To book a passage home,

He said you'll have to wait a while,

There's manpower men to come.

I wandered down towards the docks

To find myself a ship;

They told me only manpower men

Were going home this trip.

I slowly wandered back to camp,

Alone in grim despair,

Arriving just in time to see

Some more men leaving there.

I didn't have to ask them why,

I know without a doubt;

They'd told me several days before

Some boss would get them out.

A chap with two years' service up

Pulled out the other day,

He used to drive a taxi cab,

But soon the bricks he'll lay.

Yet one chap here, a QX man,

Is waiting with the rest

For six long years he's soldiered on

And surely needs a rest.

There's one great fear in all our minds:

The demob crowd back home

May be discharged ere we can find

Some way across the foam.

With no one left to hand us out

Our ticket marked with ‘D',

We'll have to soldier on through life

And never will be free.

Anon

To the Guy Who Pinched My Dame

It's while I'm sweating and fighting in this place they call Tobruk

That I got her message saying, “Getting married, wish me luck”.

No I didn't do my onion, war rages just the same,

But I'd love to pen this message, to the guy who pinched my dame.

Don't think I'm blessing you for sitting on the fence,

For not slapping on the old khaki, for you may have shown some sense;

But I'm out off in the desert, bought myself a heap of grief,

And I'm getting gaunt, gut rotted, while waiting for relief.

But I am here and you are there still that ain't my moan,

But you might have pulled a white man's act, and left my dame alone.

She was the apple of my eye, talisman, lone star and guiding light,

But the little head I loved so well, now shares your pillow at night.

You tell me that you're not to blame, she'd heard the mating call,

But she is easy meat, a lonely girl, and you know how women fall.

I don't know, maybe you're smart to dodge slaughter, dirt and strife,