Kokoda Poetry
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A Soldiers
Farewell to his Son
I stand and watch you,
little son,
Your bosom's rise and fall,
An old rag dog beside your cheek,
A gaily coloured ball.
Your curly hair is ruffled as you
Rest there fast asleep,
And silently I tip-toe in
To have one last long peep.
I come to say farewell to you,
My little snowy son.
And as I do I hope that you will
Never slope a gun,
Or hear dive-bombers and
Their dreadful whining roar,
Or see or feel their loads of death
As overhead they soar.
I trust that you will never need
To go abroad to fight,
Or learn the awful lesson soon
That might to some is right,
Or see your cobber’s blown to scraps
Or die a lingering death,
with vapours foul and filthy
When the blood-flow chokes the breath.
I hope that you will never know
The dangers of the sea.
And that is why I leave you now
To hold your liberty,
To slay the demon War God
I must leave you for a while
In mother's care - till stars again
From peaceful heaven smile.
Your mother is your daddy
now,
To guard your little ways,
Yet ever I'll be thinking of you both
In future days.
I must give up your tender years,
The joys I'll sorely miss,
My little man, farewell, so long,
I leave you with a kiss.
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BENEATH THE FADED WORD
It sat out
in the shearing shed for 30 years or more,
With cobwebs, dust and binder twine, and sheep dung on the
floor.
An old and rusted Lockwood kept its secrets from my eyes,
A cabin trunk of leather there since 1945.
I asked my dad who owned it and what we kept it for.
He replied, "its Uncle Basil's. That he brought back from
the war.
So don't you bloody touch it, or I'll tan your bloody hide.
"But that only made me more intrigued to see what was
inside.
I wondered at its mysteries and the secrets that were hid.
Beneath the faded word Tobruk stenciled on the lid.
Near Wilcannia, where only hardy cattlemen will go.
Uncle Basil had a station, Baden Park, near Ivanhoe,
A strong and gentle man who once rode the 'Birdsville Track'
Just to prove he wasn't hampered by the shrapnel in his
back.
So I stood alone and weighed it up: which would I decide,
Should I leave the memories undisturbed or take a look
inside?
I knew I had to take a look, to see what it'd hold.
Medals? Spoils from the war - silver, jewels or gold?
The old man went off fishin' of a Sunday with Bob Gray,
So if I was gonna do it - that would have to be the day.
I started out determined - I was done by half past two.
With half a broken hacksaw- blade. I cut the padlock
through.
But even as I opened it the truth was plain and clear.
The old trunk held no gold or jewels, there was no treasure
here.
Just a pile of letters tied with string, an old moth - eaten
flag.
A rusty metal helmet. A mouldy webbing bag,
A cup made from a jam tin, an emu feathered hat,
A newspaper clipping with the title 'Desert Rat'.
Some photo's of the pyramids - a rusty bayonet,
An IOU - Jack Carmody - 2 quid (a 2 - up debt).
I folded out a faded map as the day began to wane
Foreign places like Benghazi, Tobruk, Kokoda, El Alamein.
Then I came upon a satchel and a little leather book
And a photo of some blokes - so I took a closer look
It was twenty young recruits, their faces tanned and worn
From places like Cohuna, Moama and Bamawm,
Farmers, Shearers, Stockmen off to fight a noble war,
For the empire in a foreign land they'd never seen before.
And scrawled across the bottom, in writing rough and coarse
Twenty names below the words, the Echuca Boys - Light Horse.
I turned the photo over and there upon the back
Were words that sent a chill through me, and made my mouth
go slack
A solemn list of twenty - the fate of each the same
Everyone but Uncle Basil had a date beside their name.
Some said September '42, some said June, July
A record from our history, the date that each one died.
I turned back to the photo and looked in every face
And written over each one was a month, a year, and a place
A grinning, Sun-bronzed soldier’s face, each now with a name
Like September 1942 Kokoda or November 1943, the words El
Alamein
I wonder - did they think as they sailed across the foam
That amongst them only one - Uncle Basil - would come home?
Recorded in that little book - an' I remember to this day -
A record of their actions and how each had passed away.
A mortar shell out on patrol: A sniper in the night:
A landmine blew ones legs off poor bastard died before first
light
The death of each was brutal, the reality was stark
40 pages written there, I finished just on dark.
I slowly- closed that record of the men who'd kept us free
And turned to see my father, standing, watching, silently,
He didn't do his block, as I expected that he would,
He just said. "Come on pack it up. I reckon that we should"
So with love and care we packed away the treasures from the
past,
When I came upon the photo - it was put aside till last.
And with new respect and love - I recorded his fate.
Next to Uncle Basil I wrote April '68.
Yeah, Dad and I we packed it up and put it back again
And wrapped it in a bit of tarp, to keep it from the rain.
We never spoke about it or discussed what we had read
I reckon that was his way, to respect those blokes long
dead.
There's a statue of a digger in most every country town.
And a list of names of locals, who fought with great renown,
And now when I go by, I remember what I read
Sitting on the floor out there, in our old shearing shed,
And I think of Uncle Gordon, lost somewhere on Ambon,
Uncle Jack on the Kokoda, and in England, Uncle John.
I remember still that photo, with sadness and remorse,
That mob of grinning faces, the Echuca boys, Light Horse.
In a cemetery near Ivanhoe lies a bloke who left his mark,
Basil Thomas of Echuca. Tobruk and Baden Park.
Author
Peter Thomas
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The Anzac on the Wall
Loitering in a country town, 'cos I had some time to spare
I went into an antique shop, to see what was there.
Bikes and pumps, and kero lamps, the old shop had it all,
then I was taken prisoner, by the Anzac on the wall.
Such an honest open face, a young man in his prime,
and when I looked at the photograph, his eyes locked onto
mine.
A face so proud and confident, inside a wooden frame,
I felt myself drawn to him, in a way I can't explain.
"That
Anzac have a name?" I asked, the old bloke didn't know.
He said,
"Those who could have told me passed on long ago."
Anyway the old bloke kept on talking, and according to his
tale,
the photo was unwanted junk, bought at a clearance sale.
"I
asked around" the old man said, "But no one knew his face",
he's been up
on that wall for years, deserves a better place,
someone must have loved him, it seems a shame somehow."
I nodded, and said quietly, "Oh well I'll take him now."
So
you come home with me mate - too long you'd be alone,
I don't even
know your name mate, but you're welcome in my home.
Did you fight at Flanders? Or perhaps Gallipoli?
I'll never know the answer, but I know you fought for me.
I
wonder where they sent you mate, when you answered the call,
Were you
killed in action, did you have a home at all?
You must have had a family - will you be claimed one day?
To be honest mate, I hope not, cause I'm proud to have you
stay.
Sometimes
visitors look at you, and then they question me,
And I tell a
small white lie, and claim you're family.
They say, "You must be proud of him", I tell them one and
all -
that's why you got pride of place mate - the Anzac on the
wall!
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