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.
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.