The Happy Warrior Read online

  More than an idle dream.

  The Dardanelles was hell’s gate,

  The world’s great monster fort,

  Too powerful to be charged at

  Or ever to be caught.

  Yet our boys braved the monster,

  Charged up the flaming mounts,

  Unheeding tongues of flame and shell

  From iron jaws and founts.

  The shells were screaming ’round them,

  The flames of hell burst forth ;

  But their blood was up and boiling

  With a fiery ’vengeful wrath.

  They took no thought of danger,

  They only saw the heights,

  And knew the Turks were hiding

  Behind those bursting lights.

  “Now for it, boys!” they shouted,

  “We’ll break their jaws asunder;

  Don’t have them say Australia let

  The British flag go under!”

  Nor did they make an idle boast —

  They stormed, and charged, and thundered!

  Right down the ages will be read

  How every nation wondered.

  Australia’s men had courage,

  They were a priceless white men.

  Don’t mourn their dead — the honoured dead —

  Thank God they were the right men.

  Who says our boys are laggards now,

  Who calls our country black?

  Where is the laggard that would dare

  To blaze that Turkish track?

  Come, give your countrymen three cheers-

  Three good Australian yells —

  You cannot shout too loudly for

  The Dardanelles! The Dardanelles! The Dardanelles!

  E. Power-Pinn

  * * *

  ANZAC!

  Would but some wingéd angel, ere too late,

  Arrest the yet unfolded Roll of Fate,

  And make the stern Recorder, otherwise

  Enregister; or quite obliterate !

  Omar Khayyam

  (d 1123)

  On Turkish coast it woke to life

  The symbol of a budding fame!

  And ’ere the annals made it rife

  The world had breathed the wondrous name.

  Like letters writ in human fire

  And burning through the Nation’s brain

  The mystic word seemed to inspire

  The Empire’s courage yet again.

  Australian and New Zealand men

  Had fathered it on foreign soil,

  And what they made it stand for then

  No human pow’r on earth can spoil.

  While History remains to tell

  The thrilling story to the world;

  Australia and New Zealand will

  Be famous as the flag unfurled.

  At Gaba Tepe they won their fame,

  At Suvla and Gallipoli;

  And ‘ANZAC’ was the wondrous name

  They gave it with their victory!

  Illustr’ous spot, illustr’ous name,

  That holds the mem’ry of their deeds!

  No finger points to coward’s shame,

  But bravery where courage speeds.

  On to the end of Life’s decree,

  On to that eternal close;

  When ev’ry light has ceased to be,

  And ev’ry nation’s lifeblood flows.

  Out through the channel into space,

  From whence we never can come back;

  The world will want to keep in pace

  With army lads we call’d: ANZAC!

  E. Power-Pinn

  * * *

  Our Heroes

  A Tribute to Our Wounded Soldiers

  We sent you out with heartbreaks

  Tho’ we smiled as we said good-bye,

  For we knew you were brave lads,

  You would conquer or you would die.

  What tho’ there was danger before you!

  What tho’ it was hell’s own gate!

  You would face the danger as bravely

  As any who shared your fate.

  What tho’ there were loves behind you,

  And mothers, and children, and wives!

  The Empire needed your arm, lads,

  To help her to save those lives.

  Are you sorry you fought that battle,

  And sorry you faced those shells;

  Sorry you helped to storm those great heights

  Back there in the Dardanelles?

  What was the pain to the glory, lads,

  What was the price to the gain?

  Your country is proud to claim you hers,

  To immortalise your name.

  Heroes for ever, thro’ all time

  On hist’ry’s pages to shine

  What are the marks of the campaign

  To the names on ev’ry line?

  You can stand before the coward,

  A man amongst men today;

  Tho’ the marks of the battle remain,

  ’Twas a noble price to pay.

  In the years that face you, soldiers,

  There may be some who will scorn,

  Because you are not as robust

  As you were on the battle morn.

  But you need not fear those jibes, lads,

  You have earned a crown more fair

  Than all the beauty they can claim,

  In the battle scars you bear.

  E. Power-Pinn

  * * *

  Heliopolis : Egypt : Land of Sand

  Oh! Egypt, land of dreams and visions

  Of dirty towns and street collisions,

  Where Arabs sell their greasy wares

  And cabbies charge you double fares,

  Where sin and wickedness, dirt and smells

  Makes this a disease-stricken hell,

  A land of sand and desert plain

  Where no such thing is known as rain,

  A drink of water is a treasure

  And tucker’s issued in half measure,

  Where donks and camels bear huge loads

  Across loose sand in place of roads,

  Where donkeys, goats, fowls, dogs and natives

  All live together, like relatives:

  Such sights are common over here

  Where Soldiers drink cheap doped-up beer

  Then fall, drunk, helpless in the sand;

  It makes your hair on end to stand

  Two drinks will make a man dead tight

  And make him argue all the night

  Until his sleepy mates rebel

  And wish him and his beer in hell;

  ’Tis here, midst sweltering sun and skies,

  Tormented by insects and flies

  The soldier trudges, sick and sore,

  Cursing the Kaiser, and the war,

  Which brought him from his home to dwell

  In this dreary dried up land of hell.

  Tpr W. H. Johnstone (?)

  8th ALH, AIF

  (AWM PR 84/049)

  * * *

  Over There

  Over there, it’s in the air,

  The smell of death is everywhere,

  Unburied bodies lying ’round,

  Bits of flesh upon the ground.

  Grotesque shapes of shattered bone

  Stand like sentinels alone;

  Where once were living breathing men,

  Now hidden, now turned up again.

  Tiny flags of flapping rags

  Flutter in the air,

  Or stiff with mud and dried in blood,

  Mutely cry, “Beware!”

  Beware of man for he has been,

  And look what he has done.

  Before another moon does rise,

  Once more man will come,

  Leaving death and darkness

  Ever in his wake.

  Greg Brooks

  * * *

  Night Attack

  Do you see the cannon flashing?

  Do you
hear their fire crashing

  On the enemy emplacements far away?

  With the infantry advancing,

  In expectation prancing,

  Eager to move up and join the fray.

  Our eyes are blinded by the flash,

  Our ears are deafened by the crash

  Of rapid firing high explosive rounds,

  While the cordite smoke surrounds us

  Spreads an eerie haze around us,

  And the cartridge cases gleam upon the ground.

  The artillery is booming,

  Their muzzle flash illuming

  Shedding temporary daylight all around,

  While the enemy is quaking,

  In trenches they are shaking,

  Trying to dig deeper in the ground.

  But they really needn’t bother,

  The artillery will smother them,

  And bury them in craters deep and wide;

  Then any who are left to fight,

  By bayonet will be put to flight,

  As the infantrymen sweep them all aside.

  Greg Brooks

  * * *

  The Show Went on Forever

  They came in the summer of ’fourteen.

  Like daytrippers from Dover they crossed,

  With expectations of glory, swaggering proud.

  Whilst the lie that war is noble dripped

  Like poison from insipid lips

  Of politician and statesman,

  And urging angry crowd.

  They thought it would be a short war:

  “Give the Hun a bloody nose,

  By Christmas it will all be over —

  Come early, don’t miss the show!”

  They faced off in their tunnelled rows,

  Lines of green on grey;

  A whistle blew the grave command,

  Then all was disarray.

  Metal streamers filled the air

  In intersecting lanes.

  Deadly ribbons tore their flesh

  And hammered through their veins.

  They died in droves amongst the groves

  And in the fields of France,

  Pirouetting line on line,

  Danced their deathly dance.

  The neverending rending

  Of the earth and of the air

  Saw fragments once were living men

  Now scattered everywhere.

  They hung upon the sagging wire

  Like clothing spread to dry,

  Khaki flags of flapping rags,

  Stark against the sky.

  The living mud entrapped them,

  Drew them down in watery holes,

  Tightly clung, enwrapped them,

  Filled their eyes, took their souls.

  The beast of carnage sucked the flesh

  And marrow from their bones;

  Belched the stark white excrement

  Back to the killing zones.

  Where is war’s nobility?

  What price war’s romance?

  Their blood as tears the angels shed,

  The agony of France.

  A generation bled to death,

  Sacrificed in Christian war,

  Fodder to the holy beast

  To sate its hungry maw.

  They waited for the final curtain,

  But the curtain never came.

  And the show went on forever

  To popular acclaim.

  Greg Brooks

  * * *

  Camp Topics

  I wonder what they’re doing now

  In France and Germany;

  I wonder why our Government

  Sent us across the sea?

  Wonder where the others are,

  That left soon after we;

  I wonder what we’re going to have

  Next Sunday night for tea?

  I wonder why we’ve got to lead

  Our horses thro’ the sand,

  While officers and NCOs

  Can canter round the land,

  I wonder why our boys go out,

  And act so very queer

  I wonder is it natural,

  Or is it only beer.

  I wonder if the 3rd Brigade

  Are going to start the band;

  I wonder will they practice in

  Some distant foreign land,

  Or if they wake the Colonel up,

  And all his staff as well,

  I wonder will he tear his hair

  And order them to ?

  I wonder when the heads will wake

  And issue us our pay;

  I wonder do they understand

  We’re all stone broke today:

  And if this state of things goes on

  I wonder what they’ll say,

  When half the men clear out and get

  A ship to old SA?

  I wonder when our government

  Will start a decent store;

  We’re paying more for foodstuffs now

  Than e’er we have before.

  I wonder when the trumpeters

  That practice on the plain

  Will be shot as peace disturbers

  Or be sent back home again?

  I wonder why we march to church,

  And stand well in the rear;

  I wonder why the clergy preach

  Too soft for us to hear;

  I wonder did the angels blush

  When at this said parade,

  A gambler netted thirty bob ,

  Without the clergy’s aid?

  I wonder, yes, I wonder,

  What the is in the wind;

  I wonder, yes I wonder,

  How on earth this show will end.

  I wonder, yes I wonder.

  How my dear ones are tonight.

  That settles all my wondering, so —

  I’ll bid you all goodnight.

  BAC

  (AWM 1 DRL 572)

  * * *

  When Your Number’s Up

  You may dodge fatigues and duty if the Sergeant’s on your side

  You may shirk a kit inspection and some have even tried

  To avoid (and quite successfully) an airman flying low

  But you cannot dodge your bullet when your number’s up to go

  For this is a law of warfare not every man must die

  Since some must live to tell the tale and no-one shall say why;

  Bill Jones is killed while Tom is spared but so the gods decree

  And it’s no use trying to dodge it for the likes of you and me.

  There was Jimmy Green of the Durhams; he’d done his buckshee year,

  Waiting to go with the transport, busy packing his gear,

  “One more shot at the blighters! Lend us a Bondook!” he cried,

  Popped his head over the parapet, stopped an explosive and died.

  And I shan’t forget that afternoon when Ginger Cook came down

  The muddy ditch we called a trench to speak to Topper Brown.

  He lit a fag, said “So long, Boys,” turned back and gave a shout –

  A German sniper had him set and laid poor Ginger out.

  Perhaps you’ve left the trenches which are commonly called hell

  You think you’ve clicked and found a job away from shot and shell,

  But high explosives travel far and aeroplanes range wide

  And behind the lines they oft cop out worse than they do inside.

  The moral then is surely writ quite plain for all to see:

  You chance your arm a thousand times wherever you may be,

  The gods on high they play this game, we are the pawns below

  And when they put your number up, it’s up you’ve got to go.

  Sgt A.M. Dick (?)

  (AWM PR 00187)

  * * *

  Australians

  We stand on the shore of Durban

  And watch the transports go

  To England from Australia

  Hurrying to and fro,

  Bearing
the men of a Nation

  Who are heroes to the core

  To stand or fall by the motherland;

  And they’re sending thousands more

  We’ve watched the ships returning

  With the crippled and the maimed,

  With limbs that trail and falter

  Theirs an immortal name!

  The deathless name of “Anzac”

  That thrills from pole to pole,

  The remnants of the heroes

  On the long and glorious roll.

  And now in their tens of hundreds

  Come the men to fill their ranks,

  And what can we do to show them

  Our love, our pride, our thanks?

  We can’t do much (I own it)

  But give them a passing cheer,

  While the real elite beat a shocked retreat —

  Why, they saw one drinking a beer!

  Sgt AM Dick (?)

  (AWM PR 00187)

  * * *

  Assignment

  Laughingly he told us before he went away

  To look inside his wallet, we’d find his last weeks pay,

  And should he not return we were to spend the bloomin lot

  On a stimulating beverage at the first inviting spot.

  We said “Good luck!” and watched their shapes fade dimly in the west

  And I thought how many a truthful word is often said in jest;

  So we went about our work until the boys returned at three

  Then we heard that one missing and I knew at once ’twas he.

  And now that we are back a bit we all agree it’s best

  That we go on leave together and fulfil his small request;

  And we’ll spend his well-earned money and we’ll drink to one who knew

  That we’d be with him in spirit just the way he asked us to.

  Pte A. Morrison

  QX4534

  (AWM PR 00392)

  * * *

  Rhyme of War Gasses

  If you get a choking feeling

  And the smell of musty hay

  You can bet your bottom dollar

  That there’s phosgene on the way,

  But the smell of bleaching powder

  Will inevitably mean

  That the enemy we are meeting

  Is the gas we call chlorine.

  When your eyes begin a-twitching

  And for tears you cannot see

  It’s not mother peeling onions

  But a dose of C.A.P.

  Should the smell resemble pear-drops

  You had better not delay;

  It’s not your mate that’s sucking toffee

  It’s the awful K.S.K.