The Happy Warrior (41 page)

Would you really want some cop-out, with his ever-waffling stand?

Or would you want a Soldier, who has sworn to defend

His home, his kin, and Country, and would fight until the end?

He was just a common Soldier and his ranks are growing thin,

But his presence should remind us, we may need his like again,

For when countries are in conflict, then we find the Soldier's part

Is to clean up all the troubles that the politicians start.

If we cannot do him honor while he's here to hear the praise,

Then at least let's give him homage at the ending of his days;

Perhaps just a simple headline, in the paper that might say:

our country is in mourning, for a soldier died today.

Anon

Lest We Forget

Written on the sad occasion of the death of Fred Kelly who, at the age of 101, was not only the remaining Anzac survivor in NSW, but also an inspiration for everything that is good in today's society. My wish would be that those of us who live in safety and comfort today will do everything in our power to ensure that this freedom is not lost!

REST IN PEACE

A hero left this earth today, so gallant, brave and true

He fought to save our country, he fought for me and you.

He represented selflessness, on that Gallipoli Campaign

‘Lest we forget', we hope and pray those efforts weren't in vain.

This is the time to stop and think, to calculate the price

That all folk pay in conflicts, of human sacrifice.

On reflection, those who died, gave all that they could give

But were survivors fortunate, with a tortured life to live?

It seems they serve a sentence too, memories Oh so grim!

Of suffering, squalor, blood and guts, losses of life and limb.

And then there are the stories of bravery and courage and mates,

Sharing in times of adversity their fears, their loves, their hates.

So don't let these soldiers of valour, fight the good fight for nought;

Let's play our part, each one of us, to gain the results that they sought.

To stand shoulder to shoulder, together, each one of us aware

That we're all in the battle together to ‘advance australia fair!'

Val Wallace

30 December 1998

The Inspiration of Anzac

There's a day in April that's sacred

To the memory of HEROES who died,

That we might forever have Anzac,

As a symbol of national pride.

They lay in the hills of Gallipoli,

They sleep by the Aegean Sea,

But their souls march on to the glory

Of an immortality.

No tombs of chiselled masonry

Distinguish them from Foe,

But just a simple wooden cross

With AIF below.

They displayed the highest courage

For which they paid the highest price

And a grateful country speaks with pride

Of their deeds and sacrifice.

They were the flower of our nation

And chosen by standards so high

That only the physically perfect

Were good enough, even to die.

They sauntered down the city streets

With independence and pride,

Because they were volunteer soldiers

And it made them feel different, inside.

They spurned all routine orders,

Were undisciplined and raw,

With a flair for sport and games of chance

And few ideas of war.

They scorned the heat and glare

Of Egypt's burning sands,

While they cursed the blinding sandstorms

And the filth of Pharoah's lands.

Through the dust and grime of desert camps

A comradeship was born

That levelled all distinctions

Where the ‘rising suns' were worn.

They were cobbers, united thru' thick and thin

And proud of the manhood that blossomed,

A breed of men perfect and destined to be

The bravest things God always meant them to be.

And they proved it with reckless abandon,

As the story of Anzac will tell,

With the men of New Zealand beside them

And a British division as well.

And you've not forgotten Lone Pine Ridge,

Or Quinns, or Sari Bair,

And you'll never cease to wonder

How they got a footing there.

With their ranks all shot to pieces

And their lines but thinly held,

Those Anzacs went down fighting

With a courage unexcelled.

And those who were left gazed around them

With eyes strangely softened and wet,

Searching for cobbers still missing,

To find them with eyes fixed and set.

Oh, God of Battles! sound that trumpet

That summonses men from the fray,

And outlaw this senseless destruction

That crushes out life in this way!

They went there in their thousands

But they didn't all come back,

For some went on a different road

On a one-way beaten track.

With a smile upon their faces

They've gone beyond the clay,

Bequeathing the glorious heritage

OF ANZAC DAY.

Jack C. Black

(AWM PR 83 130)

The Old Soldier

It's Tuesday the Third of March Nineteen Hundred and Ninety Eight,

An old soldier died this morning, fifty-three years too late;

And the nurses in the nursing home hated to be near him

'Cause he'd spit and curse and fume, and cause a mighty din

And the doctors were glad to see him go, he was dangerous in their eyes

He'd knocked one out with a single blow, and he was twice his size,

And when he'd snarled at visitors, and spooked the other old folks

They took away his privileges, his magazines and his smokes.

And they lectured him on manners, and called him a disgrace

When at night he woke from screaming, lathered in sweat, pale faced.

An old soldier died this morning, fifty-three years too late

But the nursing home's not mourning for the latest turn of fate,

And the doctor chatting to the pretty nurse, has something else in mind,

‘Cause soon he'll be on the golf course with others of his kind,

And from cross the road the wind will bring the sound of children's laughter;

And in the trees the birds will sing and will for ever after;

The day goes on and before very long the passing might never have been,

No lasting sorrow nor mournful song, for nasty old men, it seems,

So go and put him in the ground — and mind you bury him deep —

That way we won't hear the sound, of him screaming in his sleep.

An old soldier died this morning, fifty-three years too late,

With no regrets in going, nor pity in his fate.

But what cruel trick life gave him and who designed the law;

That would slip his mind back in time, and make him relive the war;

Back to the tropical jungles, with sweat and mud and rain,

Back to the yellow terror he visits again and again,

Where the very land around him is trying to kill him as well

With the crocs and snakes and malaria, he lives in living hell.

It's no wonder he was cranky in his final golden years,

When he heard the screams of the dying in his nightly sleeping ears.

An old soldier died this morning, fifty three years too late.

His mind went back to war in ninety-seven and ninety-eight,

And the sight of the gardener, pruning in bushes on bended knee,

Was to him the enemy sneaking, as plain as plain could be;

And when the Docs came to get him, he caused such trouble and strife

But little did they realise, he was fighting for his life.

And so he suffered daily at the hands of a hidden foe

Hunted and haunted nightly, by fears we'll never know.

Why now so many years later should he fight all over again

When surely he has already fought, more than most other men?

An old soldier died this morning, fifty-three years too late

He spent three years in Changi, Weary Dunlop was his mate,

And the Burma Rail was built with blood of men that he called mates;

And all of those men and most of his sight was lost behind Changi's gates

And, though he lived over fifty years past the end of that terrible place,

That a part of him had died there was written on his face;

And fifty years of silence had its own nasty price

Because in one single lifetime he had to live it twice.

Rest in Peace now, old soldier, you have deserved it yet,

And may the rest of us remember Lest We Forget.

Ron Wilson

Anzac Day

I saw a kid marchin' with medals on his chest.

He marched alongside Diggers, marchin' six abreast;

He knew it was ANZAC day, he walked along with pride,

He did his best to keep in step with the Diggers by his side.

And when the march was over the kid was rather tired.

A digger said “Whose medals son?” to which the kid replied:

“They belong to my daddy but he did not come back

He died up in New Guinea on a lonely jungle track.”

The kid looked rather sad then a tear came to his eye.

The Digger said “Don't cry my son, and I will tell you why,

Your daddy marched with us today — all the bloomin way.

We Diggers know that he was there — it's like that on Anzac Day.”

The kid looked rather puzzled and didn't understand,

But the Digger went on talking and started to wave his hand.

“For this great land we live in, there's a price we have to pay,

And for this thing called freedom, the Diggers had to pay.

“For we all love fun and merriment in this country where we live,

The price was that some soldier, his precious life must give.

For you to go to school, my lad, and worship God at will,

Someone had to pay the price so the Diggers paid the bill.

“Your daddy died for us my son — for all things good and true,

I wonder if you can understand the things I've said to you?”

The kid looked up at the Digger, just for a little while

And with a changed expression, said, with a lovely smile:

“I know my daddy marched here today, this, our Anzac day,

I know he did, I know he did — all the blooming way!”

Anon

The Unknown Soldier

James Young's son, a Major in the RAE, commanded the detachment that had the honour of returning the remains of the ‘Unknown Soldier' home.

The long quest on foreign soil for an Unknown Soldier ends,

His country wants him home at last, back here among his friends.

With fanfare, pomp and glory the honour guard will stand

As they raise this Unknown Soldier from out this foreign land.

Then proudly will they bear him through the green French countryside,

Long gone the muddy trenches, where he and many died.

He is coming home a hero born aloft on golden wings

To rest in the Nation's Capital, take his place with lords and kings.

To lie in state, on Aussie soil his holy place of rest,

A symbolic choice from thousands of our youth, our very best.

The honour we bestow on him, this unforgotten man,

Belongs to all his cobbers who fell in a foreign land.

Tho' many years have passed away since this young soldier died,

His tomb will stand for all to see, a font of national pride.

At last our soldier rests in peace, in simple dignity,

He harkens not to words of praise nor honour does he see.

Lying there so proudly, the country's flag his pall,

As ghostly footsteps echo across the great King's Hall.

The Nation's grateful people show a mark of their respect

To bear their head in silent prayer, sleep well, lest we forget.

Flanked by youthful comrades standing guard until that day,

When he makes the final journey to the tomb wherein he'll lay.

As a day of national mourning it moves the young as well as old,

Old soldiers sit and ponder absent comrades, brave and bold.

A hushed silence greets his casket as down the avenue it comes,

Borne by the Nation's leaders, marching slow, to muffled drums.

The bugler blows the Last Post as our Soldier goes to rest,

Where future generations can salute Australia's best.

James D. Young

The Last Parade

The blazing sun was high above

The steamy jungle shade,

Soldiers standing side by side

The battalion's last parade.

Not here the sound of cheering

Though duty has been done,

Suffice it is to hear no more

The rattle of the gun.