The Happy Warrior (6 page)

Once again they've a number and name.

Back they can go the furnace

That is fed by man's malice and hate;

Given lease to a life full of sorrow,

Mayhap Death were a kindlier fate.

Some paid a price that was lighter,

An arm, or a leg, or a hand.

Back on the trail they were started

That ends in dear Aussie land.

We are leaving old ‘Figtree Alley'

We are going up further they say;

Does it mean that the blood wasn't wasted?

Does it mean we are nearer the Day?

Epilogue

Let us hope that the crosses which we leave behind, 

Let us hope that the blood and the tears of our kind, 

Will be 'membered when we reach our own sunny land, 

May they serve to remind us: War isn't grand!

NX.8448

2/11 Aust. Field Ambulance, MDS

(AWM MSS 1221)

An Airforce Guard, New Guinea 1942

It's dark like inky blackness,

Your eyes just pierce the gloom,

The palms like ghostly figures

From out the jungle loom.

Like weird and dancing phantoms

They stand out in the night,

The jungle all around you

A dank and dismal sight.

The rain drops pitter-patter,

A tattoo on the kite,

Like some prehistoric monster

It stands there in the night.

The muzzle of your rifle

Is shining with storm,

Beneath that dripping rain cape

You feel your body warm.

The wing gives slight protection

From the beating jungle rain,

Like a million phantom drummers

It plays a haunting strain.

Your mind is just attracted,

It seems to catch the eye,

A twinkling, hovering spectral,

A drifting firefly.

That tiny little creature

With its body all alight

Gives a fraction's comfort

In the long and dreary night.

The breeze like devils' voices

Whispering out of space,

Whistles round the main plane

And fans your shining face.

A light shines in the distance,

Like some orb'd evil eye;

It stabs the dark around you

Casting shadows to the sky.

Then as the light approaches

It fades towards the hill,

The darkness round you gathers

The night is once more still.

The rain has stopped its beating,

Just a drizzle trickles down;

You think of home and people

In some far and distant town.

Then as the night grows older,

Comes the silver creeping dawn,

The scene that stands around you

Seems strange and much folorn.

The birds around awaken;

Their song is soft and sweet

To the ears of a standing figure —

A sentry on his beat.

W. A. Dutton

(AWM MSS 1481)

His Dream Girl

Jungle, jungle, jungle,

Humid, wet and green.

Entangled vines and creepers,

Like some horrid, awful dream.

The order it is given,

The advance stops for a spell;

You fall fatigued and tired,

In this jaded jungle hell.

As you sit there in the jungle,

Your mind drifts into space;

In a mud-hole filled with water,

You see a charming face

Of a pretty dark haired lady.

Her smile is soft and sweet.

Her eyes are gay, alluring,

Her face is small and neat.

Her face it seems to sparkle

Like an elegant morn in June;

It lingers in your memory

Like the strain of a haunting tune.

You bend down to her closer,

To kiss those ruby lips;

Instead of scented lipstick.

Just muddy water sips.

Your dream girl, she has vanished

The pool is stirred and black;

You wish that pretty lady

To that mud pool would come back.

W. A. Dutton

(AWM MSS 1481)

An Airman at Milne Bay

Beneath the spreading palm trees,

Flat in the bloody mud,

The Zeros scream above you,

And down the bombs they thud.

Up go six P40s

The War — it's on at last!

You listen to the chatter

As the Brownings start to blast.

The Japs they are not frightened,

As they streak across the sky,

Our boys are right behind them —

They're out to do or die.

You shiver in the trenches,

As one comes rather low,

Then down swoops one P40

And lets her six guns go.

A Zero does a sort of bank,

With flames from nose to tail,

And disappears behind the palms

In a fiery, smoky trail.

Then one of our lads gets the works,

The Jap caught him a beaut;

But from that flaming kitty,

He bails out in his 'chute.

The dog fight's nearly over,

Our losses: two to five;

Although we've lost one pilot,

The other's still alive.

The sky is cleared of Zeros,

The Kitties just remain

And hope to fight those yellow swines,

If they come back again.

W. A. Dutton

(AWM MSS 1481)

Remembrance

In remembrance of the Officers, NCOs and men of the AIF and AMF who fell at Milne Bay, 1942

When shadows fall and night has come

At the close of a glorious day,

The birds have all flown home to rest

And silent lies the bay.

It brings back tender memories

Of the eve before the dawn,

When everything was peace and still,

The evening breeze was warm.

But on that bloody morning

War's dread drums did beat,

The battle raged with fury

With powder smoke and heat.

And now the battle's over,

And peace reigns on the bay

We hear it at the sunset

And at the close of day.

Sounding across the still night air,

Reminiscently soft and sweet,

A voice of a distant bugle

As it plays the last retreat.

Its notes are soft and soothing,

Like a voice they seem to say,

“Sleep on ye valiant heroes,

Who fell beside the bay.”

A symbol of Remembrance

Is that starry cross on high,

Like God's own guiding angels,

It stands there in the sky.

Throughout the long and dreary night,

God's guiding angels keep

A watch on graves beneath the palms

Where gallant heroes sleep.

W. A. Dutton

(AWM MSS 1481)

The Men in Green

These jaded sons of Anzacs,

Valiant in every deed,

Their daring and their courage,

An example we might lead.

From Milne Bay and Buna,

Of Lae and Kokoda fame,

Their blood on the beaten jungle

Has written their glorious name.

Through rivers, creeks and jungle

And land that no one knew,

They overcame the setbacks,

These men in Nature's hue.

A cross stands in the jungle,

A tin hat on its frame,

It bears the scribbled letters

Of a fallen hero's name.

Perhaps a kiddy's daddy,

Perhaps a mother's son,

Lies down beneath that heap of earth,

His life and duty done.

Nippon's scattered remnants,

Retreat before their might.

Broken in disorder,

They leave the bloody fight.

Onwards, ever onwards,

Their work and fight unseen,

These gallant sons of Anzacs,

Who wear the jungle green

W. A. Dutton

(AWM MSS 1481)

The Road to Kokoda

Dedicated to the Gallant Australians who battled through the Owen Stanley Ranges New Guinea, 1942

The road to Kokoda;

Through the pages of history we'll look back

Of the hardships and the suffering

On that jungle beaten track.

Their goal was always onwards,

Up high and perilous slopes;

In spite of the setbacks

Their hearts were full of hopes.

The weary, worn and wounded

Who had stopped a knife or shell,

Were carried back to safety

From this unforgotten hell.

Their bearers they were gallant,

Their skin was shiny black;

Through unseen work and glory

They brought the wounded back.

These Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels

Their childlike actions odd,

Had surely come from heaven

And were sent to us by God.

Every inch a hardship,

Every mile a woe,

Carried our boys nearer

Toward a cunning foe.

So on this road of glory

With many a turn and bend,

Towards a well earned victory

When they reach their journey's end.

W. A. Dutton

(AWM MSS 1481)

Bomb Happy

We are the bomb happy children

We play around the drome every day

We just love to build a dispersal

Or help at constructing a bay.

As we dive in and out of slit-trenches

Our officers say it's a shame

But they don't understand that it's only

Just part of our bomb happy game.

Lt Alfred William Salmon 

(AWM PR 00297)

I Joined Up in the AIF

I joined up in the AIF,

Just eighteen months ago,

To get a blinking uniform

And see the ruddy show.

My mother waved goodbye to me,

Her eyes were pools of pain

As she said, “God bless you, laddie,

And bring you home again.”

My brother laughed and jeered at me

And said, “It's ballyhoo!

You're one of Menzies' tourists

Of the war you'll have no view.”

So he's still home in civvies

With my sheila and my job,

While I'm stuck in the Army

Scared to open up my gob.

A billiard cue's his rifle,

A racecourse ‘No-man's Land',

While I'm stuck in the desert,

With plurry flies and sand.

Or away up in the trenches,

Too afraid to lift my head,

For fear a blasted sniper

Will plug it full of lead.

Sometimes I'd sell my rifle

And chuck away my gear,

For a night out with a sheila

And a belly full of beer.

But when I think of Aussie

And my brother loafing there,

I pull a hitch upon my belt

And strive to do my share.

I've made a lot of cobbers

Of men and just mere kids,

And wouldn't lose a one of them

For all of Nuffield's quids.

So when I'm feeling kind of blue

Or rotten for a while,

I shove a round up in the spout,

Then face old Fritz, and smile.

L/Cpl A. W. Clark

QX5546

(AWM PR 83 151)

Ass

In a certain women's paper

That is published once a week

There are many lying statements

About which I must speak.

They use a national crisis

As a purpose for this end,

Then send a woman writer

And say that we're her friends.

She said: “We like the country,

The climate suits us swell.”

She forgot it's only training,

For when we go to hell.

Long after our arrival

The mail plane brought her in,

If only she'd stayed longer

Her waist would soon get thin.

She mentioned leave in Singapore,

Although she failed to say

That once a year we get this leave,

We have to train each day.

She may have liked the country;

Perhaps we would like it too,

If we travelled round in cars

With nothing else to do.

Because of women waiting

For news of men abroad,

They paint a perfect picture,

The truth, it is ignored.

They create a wrong impression,

It's sure to boost their sales;

Though truth may be stranger

Lies make the better tales.

Our unit never saw her,

Our camp was far from town;

Think of the discomfort

In a weary travel down.

Now she's back in Aussie,

We'd like to be there, too.

She goes on writing falsehoods —

There's nothing we can do.

Raymond John Colenso

(AWM PR 00689)

Leave in Malaya

You've heard of scrumptious parties

And tiffin feasts galore

That the AIF are having

At Kuala Lumpa and Singapore,

And tales of taxi dancers

So soothing on the eyes;

I'll stage for you the dinkum facts

Without such varnished lies.

To make it more authentic

I'll tell you what I've seen;

Perhaps your views will alter

When you find out what I mean.

The first Australian convoy

To land troops in the East

Had no honoured welcome party

Or celebration feast.

They whipped us straight up country

Two hundred miles or more,

I cannot quote the figures,

The censor would be sore.

We landed in the jungle,

And settled down to work;

We never had the chance to rest,

Let alone to shirk.

It appears some high official

Thought it would be good

To make us work four times as hard