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The Gallipoli Association Forum |
DISCOVER GALLIPOLI POETRY |
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BOBANCRE ![]() Member ![]() Joined: 13 Feb 2013 Location: ESSEX Status: Offline Points: 101 |
![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() Posted: 30 Dec 2016 at 07:03 |
When Wilfred Owen died in 1918 at the age of twenty-five, only five of his poems
had been published.. But how many other poets of the Great War do you know of, particularly those who wrote about the Gallipoli campaign? Does even a mention of the word ‘poetry’ immediately bring down the shutters? If you’d like to find out more, banish those prejudices and discover the wealth of poetry that exists about Gallipoli, I send out at irregular intervals what I, incorrectly, call ‘Today’s Gallipoli Poem.’ It consists of poems, verse, doggerel, some ordinary, most good, a few great concerned with War, primarily the Dardanelles campaign, send me your email address. There is no catch! Here is a sample A Night Attack Be still. The bleeding night is in suspense Of watchful agony and coloured thought, And every beating vein and trembling sense, Long-tired with time, is pitched and overwrought. And for the eye, The darkness holds strange forms. Soft movements in the leaves, and wicked glows That wait and peer. The whole black landscape swarms With shapes of white and grey that no one knows; And for the ear, a sound, a pause, a breath. The hand has touched the slimy face of death. The mind is raking at the ragged past. ……A sound of rifles rattles from the south, and startled orders move from mouth to mouth. LEON GELLERT |
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ROBERT PIKE
The Victor Heroes.Saffron Walden in the Great War For Still We Hear Them Singing - Poems; ISBN-10: 1781489106 - ISBN-13: 978-1781489109 |
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BOBANCRE ![]() Member ![]() Joined: 13 Feb 2013 Location: ESSEX Status: Offline Points: 101 |
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I'll bring this up again as the response to it has been zilch. That has surprised me as I have about 300 who have joined the mailing list from other sources. Does this mean our members are not poetry fans; have comprehensive collections already or think there is a 'catch'?
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ROBERT PIKE
The Victor Heroes.Saffron Walden in the Great War For Still We Hear Them Singing - Poems; ISBN-10: 1781489106 - ISBN-13: 978-1781489109 |
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BOBANCRE ![]() Member ![]() Joined: 13 Feb 2013 Location: ESSEX Status: Offline Points: 101 |
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COUNTDOWN TO ANZAC DAY IN VERSE
1. The Attack at Dawn ‘At every cost,’ they said, ‘it must be done.’ They told us in the early afternoon. We sit and wait the coming of the sun We sit in groups, — grey groups that watch the moon. We stretch our legs and murmur half in sleep And touch the tips of bayonets and yarn. Our hands are cold. They strangely grope and creep, Tugging at ends of straps. We wait the dawn! Some men come stumbling past in single file. And scrape the trench’s side and scatter sand. They trip and curse and go. Perhaps we smile. We wait the dawn! … The dawn is close at hand! A gentle rustling runs along the line. ‘At every cost,’ they said, ‘it must be done.’ A hundred eyes are staring for the sign. It’s coming! Look! … Our God’s own laughing sun! Leon Gellert |
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ROBERT PIKE
The Victor Heroes.Saffron Walden in the Great War For Still We Hear Them Singing - Poems; ISBN-10: 1781489106 - ISBN-13: 978-1781489109 |
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BOBANCRE ![]() Member ![]() Joined: 13 Feb 2013 Location: ESSEX Status: Offline Points: 101 |
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COUNTDOWN TO ANZAC DAY IN VERSE
2. OUTWARD BOUND There's a waterfall I'm leaving Running down the rocks in foam, There's a pool for which I'm grieving Near the water-ouzel's home, And it's there that I'd be lying With the heather close at hand, And the Curlew’s faintly crying Mid the wastes of Cumberland. While the midnight watch is winging Thoughts of other days arise. I can hear the river singing Like the Saints in Paradise; I can see the water winking Like the merry eyes of Pan, And the slow half-pounders sinking By the bridges’ granite span. Ah! To win them back and clamber Braced anew with winds I love, From the rivers’ stainless amber To the morning mist above, See through clouds-rifts rent asunder Like a painted scroll unfurled, Ridge and hollow rolling under To the fringes of the world. Now the weary guard are sleeping, Now the great propellers churn, Now the harbour lights are creeping Into emptiness astern, While the sentry wakes and watches Plunging triangles of light Where the water leaps and catches At our escort in the night. Great their happiness who seeing Still with unbenighted eyes Kin of theirs who gave them being, Sun and earth that made them wise, Die and feel their embers quicken Year by year in summer time, When the cotton grasses thicken On the hills they used to climb. Shall we also be as they be, Mingled with our mother clay, Or return no more it may be? Who has knowledge, who shall say? Yet we hope that from the bosom Of our shaggy father Pan, When the earth breaks into blossom Richer from the dust of man, Though the high Gods smith and slay us, Though we come not whence we go, As the host of Menelaus Came there many years ago; Yet the self-same wind shall bear us From the same departing place Out across the Gulf of Saros And the peaks of Samothrace; We shall pass in summer weather, We shall come at eventide, When the fells stand up together And all quiet things abide; Mixed with cloud and wind and river, Sun-distilled in dew and rain, One with Cumberland for ever We shall go not forth again. Nowell Oxland : |
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ROBERT PIKE
The Victor Heroes.Saffron Walden in the Great War For Still We Hear Them Singing - Poems; ISBN-10: 1781489106 - ISBN-13: 978-1781489109 |
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BOBANCRE ![]() Member ![]() Joined: 13 Feb 2013 Location: ESSEX Status: Offline Points: 101 |
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COUNTDOWN TO ANZAC DAY 3 For the Gallipoli Peninsula History of the Great Fight April 25th 1915 J Stewart Private 2nd Hampshire Regt Halt! Thy tread is on heroes' graves, English lads lie sleeping below, Just rough wooden crosses at their heads, To let their comrades know. They'd sleep no better for marble ones Or monuments so grand, They sleep in tranquil contentment In that far off Turkish land. I've often passed those little mounds, Where the deadly bullets me-ow, And the air was full of shrapnel, 'Tis called shrapnel gully now. Whilst coming from the trenches, And glancing over there, I've often seen many a khaki form Kneeling in silent prayer. There's many a loving mother, Home in England dear, Who is weeping and broken-hearted O'er her loved son lonely there. There's many a true English girl Stricken with sudden pain, Mourning for her fallen sweetheart Whom she'll never see again. They know not where he lies, Nor how he fell. That 's why I'm writing these few lines The simple truth to tell. Their graves are on Gallipoli, Up in the very heights, Above the first great landing place, Scene of the first great fight. Officers and men who fell In that first fierce rush of fame, They lie there side by side, Their rank is now the same; The city boy who left the pen, The country boy the plough, They trained together in England, They sleep together now. Sleep on ! Fallen comrades, You'll ne'er be forgotten by The boys who fought with you And the boys who saw you die. Your graves may be neglected But fond memory will remain The story of your gallant charge Will ease the grief and pain. PS - That we know your kin are feeling, Over there across the foam, And we'll tell the story of your fall, Should we e'er reach Home Sweet Home. |
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ROBERT PIKE
The Victor Heroes.Saffron Walden in the Great War For Still We Hear Them Singing - Poems; ISBN-10: 1781489106 - ISBN-13: 978-1781489109 |
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BOBANCRE ![]() Member ![]() Joined: 13 Feb 2013 Location: ESSEX Status: Offline Points: 101 |
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COUNTDOWN TO ANZAC DAY 4
THE HEROES OF SUVLA BAY (SGT. W H WILLIAMS 6th. Bn. ROYAL WELCH FUSILIERS) Far, far away from England’s shore, Upon a desert land, Where the sun doth shed its burning heat Upon the yellow sand. I lay my weary self to rest Beneath my canvas home, And with the cooling breeze that blows My thoughts away do roam. They wander o’er the Ocean wide To where the rain and snow Fall down and mingle with The stormy winds that blow, Where women weep for loving sons Who fight far o’er the main, Where children cry, ‘God Bless, my Dad, And bring him home again.’ It is the land we’re fighting for Against the German foe, And fight we will until we strike That final, deadly blow. And then we’ll all come home again, Across the deep blue seas, To live once more, as we did before, In a world of perfect peace. Twelve months ago, we marched away, From Rushden town, so fair, To fight for King and Country too, To the land they call ‘Somewhere.’ At Devonport we went aboard The great big transport ship, And every man as they went along Had a song upon his lips. No soul was there to bid good-bye, As the troopship sailed away, With every lad, in Khaki clad, And eager for the fray, And as the boat went sailing on, There came across the foam, The strains of music, soft and sweet, And songs for home, sweet home. We sailed upon the briny seas, For fourteen days or more, Until at last we came in sight Of a strange and distant shore, T’was there we left the transport ship, On a beautiful summer morn, To land upon that Lemnos Isle, Forsaken and forlorn. T’was there we stayed for nine long days, With the blazing sun o’erhead, And only just the stony ground Was what we called our bed. But when the call came to the men To pack their kits and go, You ought to see the willingness Our gallant boys did show. T’was on a Monday morning, I’ll ne’er forget the day, T’is written down in history, As the ‘Landing of Suvla Bay.’ The shrieks of shell and shrapnel, And bullets flying past, As comrade after comrade Were falling by me fast, And as the Sun was setting, On the horizon far away, There was many a comrade missing, On the ‘Shores of Suvla Bay.’ That day went by, with its toll of dead, And so did many more, But still we held that costly ground, ‘Twixt mountains steep, and shore, Our boys they stood these hardships, For many a long. Long day, T’ween life and death they stood like one On the ‘Shores of Suvla Bay.’ Until at last there came a day, That all of us remember, I think it was the twenty-sixth Of the wintry month – November. The day had gone, and darkness came, To screen that dreadful sight That was in store for many a score On that terrible winter night. Our lads were in the trenches, Prepared to meet the foe, When the terrible storm came over, And gave us the first blow, The rain poured down in torrents, And thunder roared o’erhead, And lightning lit the battlefield, And showed the ghastly dead. The water rushed along the trench, Like a river to the seas, Until we all stood up and found The water o’er our knees. And as the trench came falling in And bullets flew all round We left the trench, and laid ourselves Upon the open ground. But ere the break of another day There was many a comrade brave Lying beneath that sodden ground, In a soldier’s humble grave. They died like heroes every one, Their duty now is o’er. And there they lie in peace, and rest On that far and distant shore. Well – now that battle’s over, Where gallant comrades lay And the enemy now are owners Of the ‘Shores of Suvla Bay.’ All honour to those heroes Who fell at duty’s call And to the living also All honour to them all There’s many a mother weeping, And many a father, too, For the sons they lost whilst fighting For the old Red, White and Blue. How many little children Are homeless, weary and sad, Through losing in that conflict, Their dear beloved Dad? There’s another world up yonder Where peace doth always reign, And when this life is over, We all shall meet again. The thunder of the cannon, The cries of dying men, Shall cease to be forever And be forgotten then. So when we’re called up yonder, On God’s great Judgment Day We all shall meet the Heroes Who fell at ‘Suvla Bay.’ Poem provided by Mrs. Nicholls, of St. Twynell’s, Pembrokeshire whose father served at Suvla. The 6th. Bn. The Royal Welch Fusiliers landed at Suvla Bay on ‘C’ Beach, August 9th. 1915. They left Suvla Bay on December 12th. 1915. Casualties – Nominal Roll July 1915, 800 officers and men. November 29th. 1915 – 8 officers, 102 other ranks. |
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ROBERT PIKE
The Victor Heroes.Saffron Walden in the Great War For Still We Hear Them Singing - Poems; ISBN-10: 1781489106 - ISBN-13: 978-1781489109 |
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BOBANCRE ![]() Member ![]() Joined: 13 Feb 2013 Location: ESSEX Status: Offline Points: 101 |
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COUNTDOWN TO ANZAC DAY 5
The Valley of Torment Many stories have been told of The deeds of the Anzacs on Gallipoli, But there ia one that will touch All your hearts in.silent sympathy. The story of the New Zealanders With their life’s blood nearly spent, Wounded and dying in a valley— The “Valley of Torment.” They had been carried there for safety, After each had fought and fell, By the Stretcher Bearers, from the hail Of shrapnel, shot and shell. And they called the place Torment— For there was no relief, And the horror of their sufferings Passes beyond belief. As the battle went raging on, The wounded still came in. For there were four hundred there, Below the battle din. And there was no way of removing them, Till the night had come around, So they had to lay there suffering The tortures of the damned. There was no water for these men, But they did not cry or whine, For they knew that every drop must go Up to the firing line. Till one less wounded found a leak Of brackish water there That just wet their lips as they thanked Their God silently in prayer. As the day wore on the wounded men Lay under the burning sun, Cheering each other with words of hope That the light was nearly done. And they would soon be rescued From the hellish torment blight, When the message came that the rescue Would be on the following night. So through the long night they laid there Suffering side by side, And the next day came with the burning heat. And that day many died— Died because there was no way To help to save their lives; Died in agony and torment— Tortured to death by flies And when at last the night came, They heard the tramp, tramp, tramp of feet. In thankfulness they sang the hymn. Beautiful and sweet. “At even ere the sun was set, The sick, O, Lord, around Thee lay. As they were placed on the stretchers And carried silently away. Each wounded man was carried along With care so tenderly, Over the hills, down to the Dressing Station by the Sea. And to-day they are among you With bodies broke and bent, Martyrs to the cause of Freedom, From the “Valley of Torment.” So the New Zealanders were taken out of the “Valley of Torment,” And this story has been written for thee. For they suffered for you the same as He Who died on Calvary. They went through the “Valley of Torment” To deliver thee from evil and sin. For Thine is the Kingdom, Power and the Glory, For ever and ever, Amen. PTE A G HARMAN 5th AIF |
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ROBERT PIKE
The Victor Heroes.Saffron Walden in the Great War For Still We Hear Them Singing - Poems; ISBN-10: 1781489106 - ISBN-13: 978-1781489109 |
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BOBANCRE ![]() Member ![]() Joined: 13 Feb 2013 Location: ESSEX Status: Offline Points: 101 |
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COUNTDOWN TO ANZAC DAY 6
The Day Before We went out in the afternoon. The hills were standing knee-deep in the bay, Watching it all, unmoved. It was like a forgotten dream, the way The sunlight struck a house and trees ashore. But now there was no thinking back; we bore Down past a troopship, still at anchor. Then The living arms of men Tossed upwards. From across the water rolled Their voices in one shout, cheering us on. Our hands rose, from our throats an answer tore Before we knew. More ships. More men. All down The channel it was cheering back and forth. Long after we were gone We heard it as some other ship moved off. And followed seaward—shout after shout. Off—that was stronger than a thought of home. Woman or child; more real than all the past. The hills might stand and know. We moved at last. All morning there had been ships going out. Now we were with ourselves. We heard the water pushed aside. We felt The engines thumping. With our hearts they beat Darkly. Men lounged about and talked. One dealt Cards to some others. It was all the same. Words made no sense against that steady surge Forward of ship and mind. Against it all None, player or watcher, cared who won the game. The day was going. Where the ships had left A haze, the land was hovering, on the verge Of fading utterly. A whistle-call Screeched overhead. Up there the colonel stood: "At dawn," we heard him say, "To-morrow, men . . . Perhaps—some of us—" the sea swamped his voice . . . "Yes, but our names will live for ever, then . . . I say the man may still go back who would. Let him stand out. It is not too late, yet. . . " None stirred. We knew at heart there was no choice. He'd said: "Stand out, who would!" God, there? Who could? One whispered: "Did you see? His eyes were wet." We filed below, the sun was nearly set— Pushed onward, too. But he was sure to see To-morrow. We—only our names might live . . . How long beyond men's memory? And what were names? Something more than words, Undying notes that fluttered round the sun For ever, once released from earth? What chords Then would go mourning through the morning light To-morrow when the night was done? I heard a ship's engine pounding fearfully. We were on deck, all lined up in the darkness. The ship was trembling as she slackened speed. No sound—only the water washing cold Along her length. No lights showed anywhere Aboard or on the sea. But a star might Scribble in a wave's gulf; then the crest rolled And smudged all out, lest anyone might read. And we a while ago sat in the light Below, where men ate, drank, and spoke; some sang— For that was our last meal together. Here We stood now, scarcely of the world of men. No sound to tell we lived in it; no sight. Air, water flowed by. Immense moments passed. The morning star leapt from the deepest band Of darkness—high up. Was that cloud or land? Now it was shot with running fire. What hand Had kindled that? Soon it was all made clear— Over the sea the sound of rifles rang. Two Brothers We laughed. Those two were with us still. Always in camp, on shipboard, they had held Themselves apart from us. Packed in the boat Just now, they had sat staring, beyond reach Of every joke we made to keep our dread Down. Then we had forgotten them. Instead, Grinding of keels. Shouts. . . "Over with you!" The swill Of water round your body. Your feet jarred Against stones. Stumblings. Breaths coming hard. This pack pushing you down. Blankness . . . Half-afloat A dead sailor lay sprawled upon the beach. But no rest for us. On. On. In a cleft Between the hills the wounded lay or sat. Some cheered. But most were still. "Give it to them For us," a gash that was a mouth once wailed. On. Up. Legs, feet heavy—this pack—Up still. . . Now we lay waiting on the hill, And with us were those two. They were two brothers. They kept aloof there even from us others. In front, over the ridge some rifles spat; Beyond, the battle came to life. It rushed Along unvisioned valleys at a stride, Roaring its challenge out for us to pit Our strength against it. Then grew sullen, hushed; Once more, louder than ever, as over it The seaplane sailed. "We'll soon be in it," someone said. The air Cracked open over us. Smoke swooped down. Things fell, fell, fell. A man screamed: "I'm hit." More, more shells shrieked their coming. We lay flat. But never flat enough. Run! Down the slope. No. No. Where then? "Earth take and hide Me," all my being cried. That will fall here. Run! Which way? Too late. "Earth—" No. There is no escape from the machine; Unseeing, it picks us out, and strikes unseen. You are the one hope. Earth. Only a hope.. . . Then one shell passed us by. Now they all burst Behind us, spattering the sea below— Like a storm gone over. The sun shone again. And slender grasses leaned and swayed. Patches of ocean toyed with glints and gleams. Ships swung at anchor unafraid. We saw men come unhurrying, and go This way and that down on the beach. "It seems More like a holiday," one brother said. "Somewhere at home, some seaside place—the sun, The boats, and all that passing to and fro." The other laughed. "Colour is all it lacks— Some women's dresses here and there." No one Spoke for a while. We lay against our packs. Each watching what he saw. "A prisoner, Look!" Half-way down the hill A man stood up. He screamed. "Kill him! Kill. Kill. There, bayonet him. Shoot him. Our orders were Not to take one of them." Not an arm lifted. None took up that shout. The prisoner shambled round the hill. "He's out Of it," we were all thinking. "He seemed glad To have been taken," someone's voice broke in. "Who could have shot a man like that? Not me." The world had grown to only sky and sea. To only murmurs from beyond the blue. "Their orders cannot make us beasts, blood-mad," That was the older brother speaking. "And, I say. The man who took that prisoner, he won For us the greatest victory to-day." No word more. Sprawled, eyes shut against the sun. The wind brought rumours up. Deep-stained the glare Into that inner world of ours pierced through. "You wait till we advance and they begin To shoot at you." It was the old soldier's voice. At things it hinted that could not be told. But only learnt, each for himself. The air Settled about us. Unseen shadows came And touched our hearts with cold. "That will not make me want to kill." That cry Rippled across our thoughts. "You'll have no choice When the order comes to open fire." "No! No! I will not. I will not. I will shoot high." New voices crowded out all else. "Then why Did you enlist?" . . . "Traitor to waste Good ammunition!" . . . "Let us shoot him here. Ourselves." . . . "Think of the wounded men below." Quick! Flat! Words died. Thought stopped. From out to sea It came. There. Our own battleships again. Guns. Guns. Their dark din Trailed through the sky; then shattered itself on hills Far over. Earth shuddered. Yes, men embraced You there, too. Earth; and cried out in the pain Of their fear, men we called the enemy. "The bastards!" a man shouted. "That shell kills A hundred of them." The air beat out and in As though great doors were slammed and opened. "Boys, I know." The voice laughed. "Both came to the war To please some girl." We laughed too. In that noise And tremor we remembered them once more. We talked, laughed, listened. Still there stirred that thought. Stories of places, women, men. Nothing could dull the ache of waiting. How long? When? Then all at once the word— And over that hillside there were heard Hands kissing rifles as they caught Them up. "Advance." Men rising, packs being eased; It was as though Earth had herself been stirred To action. "We are advancing." We were going Along the beach again. But now we turned Into a valley, banked with bushes growing So furtive in the sun; And pools quivered, where water had now ceased For heaviness to run. The path forked. We halted. Now which way To the edge of this world? Did they both lead there Sooner or later? Left or right? Our captain muttered: "Orders do not say Which track we are to take." He turned about. "At least let us go light. Quick, men, off with these packs and leave them here. And now I want two men to volunteer To stay and guard them." Me! I cannot. Out At last two men stepped. At this chance they smiled. We moved off. Up that right-hand track we filed, Disdainful, at heart envious. Of two men made so sure of living. They Were not those brothers. They went on with us. How near were we now? Would we find it there In the next valley? Yet it was aware Of our coming. We heard its anger grow. Up on the left it stamped, stamped, and the track Was barred with smoke and noise. Bullets snarled by, or flicked off leaves. A man Stumbled.. . . "He's only wounded. Come on, boys. We can't stop. He must find his own way back." We ran. We crawled. We ran, And that unseen eye followed all the way; Always the shells kept bursting just ahead. Look! Over there. Four men down at once. "Spread Out more, you fools." Spread out? There is no room. Into the bushes then . . . They clutch and tear; The ground gives underfoot. Up! Help me, twig, bough, root. Under the ridge at last. Rest. Breathe. The air— How quiet here. A flower is in bloom. And then they came, bur own men, over the crest. Bleeding and limping, babbling out their news: "We've chased them miles ahead.. . . They won't Stand up and fight like us.. . . They're just in front." They led one who kept crying: "I could see No one. Only green bushes and a hill." He would never see so much again. Breathe. Rest. "Fix bayonets," the word comes. "Charge!" Charge. Kill. Now go and kill the man who has to wait For you down there. Legs, bring me to him straight. Do not falter. All along this had to be. And just this way. Where is he hiding? Only green bushes and a hill. Suppose There is no man at all. Yes, but there is. I feel his eye on me. He knows. He knows I'm on this ridge; I'm crawling through this wheat. There is no hiding from him anywhere. "Take cover, men. Lie down. Here in this dip." Behind this bush. Already bullets strip Off one by one the leaves above me—his. Dig, fingers, scratch deep in that earth. Down there Is shelter. See—this root. The way it goes. And stones know it, too. "I'm shot," a man cries. "Oh! Don't touch me. No, I can't bear it." Bullets come, more and more; Nothing may stir. Fingers, only grip The ground tighter. He is calling still: "Don't leave me to them. Shoot me first. Shoot...." The air is turned to lead, Its weight presses me down and holds me flat. Now he is crying only to himself. "Fire!" The word runs. "On that ridge ahead." Fire. Fire. Shoot. Shoot. Something at last to do. If only it is to kill. But no man shows himself. Shoot. Shoot. What at? Nothing—only green bushes and a hill. We were back on the ridge again. At nightfall we'd come in; the crest was lined With men already digging to entrench. Few faces there we knew. They cried, "Dig here. They'll attack soon." And as we worked they told Of Turks who'd stood, and Turks who'd run. Of Turks they'd killed, of men they'd left behind In fights on far high hills they could not hold. We all knew one another now. One fear Brought us together, made all work as one. There was no officer to see it done. The trench was to our knees when it began. In front, sparks pricked the darkness. Bullets whined Again above us. The old soldier took Command. "Don't fire. Not yet. Wait till they come." Those sparks kept creeping down. Crackling, they ran Ripping the darkness through from end to end. The air is combed deeper. I dare not look. Upward. I press my face against this heap Of earth, and only listen. Rifles crash. Over me, I could touch that rushing sound. "Up! Up! Here they come. Fire!" I see a flash, I press my finger. There leaps out a flame From my own rifle. Shouts, flame, crashings smash The night to pieces. Fire. Re-load. Fire. "Keep It up, lads." Hot. My rifle burns my hand— "Cease fire." Is it all over? "Stop!" Men aim And shoot into the darkness just the same. "Cease fire, you fools. Don't waste another round." The clamour dies away, to leave at last Only a whimper on the left. The night Draws in together. "Dig," is the command, And sometimes words from man to man are passed— "More stretcher-bearers wanted on the right," Or, "Stand to arms. Stand-to." We rise and stand. We heard them gathering on the hills again. They called and whistled, bugles blew. "Allah!" they cried. Then feet came thudding on. "Allah!" Up on the left the firing grew, In one gust it came down to us. "Stand-to! Here they come. Fire!" Once more We fire at shouts and shadows—and then . . . gone. They are gone now, all melted as before. "Dig!" Now we dig to keep The cold back. One time it began to rain. For how long? Did we sleep? "Stand-to. They're coming." It was that all night. We stood-to, waiting for the dawn. They would attack before it came, we thought, But the darkness held only darkness. We heard No foot stumbling, out on the hills no call. Far-off a rifle spluttered—that was all. At last there came the light, The hills showed motionless. A stray air caught A bush nearby; its rain-drops kissed the earth. "Stand-down! Some men may sleep." The word Passed gladly on. We saw the day's slow birth. We who were left to watch. We hoped anew. The trench was to our breasts. Out came the sun. And now this glow to warm our tired limbs through; This stillness made for sleep.. . . But we must dig. A rifle broke the quiet. A man cried out. Along the trench a little way. Now he lay on its floor— One of those brothers. He gasped, gasped, and then was still. It was the younger one; The other kneeled by him. We heard him say: "Come, Tom. We have to dig now. Only wait, And we can all sleep soon." The old soldier said, "Yes, dig, man. Can't you see that he is dead?" He got up. From his eyes had gone all doubt. He threw his rifle up to fire; to shout; "Kill! Kill them all!" There showed upon the hill No one. But we knew then that, for a war. Love they enlisted, too, as well as Hate. True Patriot In this world there are many things to love. Things we can see, hear, touch. To hate, we find Only man and the workings of his mind. Still it went on: Because, it seemed. An old man in a ship's saloon had signed His name, when after dinner, he had said: "At all costs we must take that knoll ahead Of us on the map there." Because As easily, behind Those hills in front, another hand had scrawled To say: that they must push us back, down, out Into the sea—at all costs. So across That plot of ground between, the men were hurled, We, scarcely awake, too tired to shout; They, crowded together, grown too wise to care. Platoons rushed, platoons dropped down and lay flat. Up. It went all to plan still. Bayonets gleamed.. . . Then a machine-gun scribbled on the air. Rifles wrote, wrote, wrote, cancelling this, that. Bombs blotted out everything. Orders were bawled, But words had lost all power. Voices screamed Nothing. Here, there men crawled Back to a trench, or else out of this world. So it went on. Its din was in our ears All day, all night. Our eyes, all they saw now. Was earth. Digging, we felt, smelt, tasted it— Earth. When we rose to watch, the dead men lay There in the periscope. And every day Flatter, more like the earth they grew somehow. Those parapets of it beyond rose higher With ours. Men dug, men died. Still the hills hung As far away as ever. Still that bit Of sea behind us taunted them. On land Some days, to our eyes nothing moved at all. Over it the sun swung, A lens, focussed for things that squirmed, too small To see else in the hollow of a hand. This day they'd sent us out again. Still, still We did it all once more. Crawled forward. Fired. Ran on. . . . Now back again, in groups We huddle in the trench, alive. "They got My mate," a man cries. Bullets search the air. Probe the dust. "That machine-gun where they've wired The gulley got him." A shell swoops. Talons feel for us cruelly. "My mate Jack!" The warships out at sea answer our prayer. We hear their shells climb over and at last Crash in the hills. "The Old Man, is he back?" Somebody shouts. "Who spoke?" The voice of the old soldier laughs: "Why not?" I've told you they have nothing here to kill Me with, Taree. Perhaps their women will The day we take Constantinople." Smoke Springs up far over. "Look a town afire!" Men crowd around the periscope. "There, see!" Our new-made corporal points it out: "See what our navy after all can do." The man we called Taree looks in to shout: "Only a lucky hit! The same as once the lightning set the bush Alight outside Taree." More shells go over. Higher That smoke rolls. "Anyway, what good will it Do us? There'd only be Women and children there." The corporal turns on him—"And who are you To judge the High Command? Where that fire burns the map shows there are stores Of ammunition. So we now can push Forward as it was planned—" "God! Ammunition? They've enough for me Just out in front. This High Command of yours I'll bet we never take that ridge ahead. It only knows what's on the maps." "You only know what you see here. The High Command knows everything That happens everywhere." "My mate is dead. Out there in the barbed wire. Does it know that?" "It knows some men must die Before that ridge is won. And to take that is but a little part Of all its plans. This whole campaign perhaps Is only a diversion, so the war Can on some other front be ended."— "True," The old soldier says. "That's all it is To me too. Till, as all campaigns have done. It ends in wine and women. Wait till this One's over, and you'll see war's serious side." "Women! Is that what you enlisted for?" "That and some fighting. And, my corporal, you?" "I came for love of country. I'm the one To see you serve her too." He looked at us, gave some command. And then The purpose of our life was changed. It was From that time we did only fear the men Out there; could no more curse, only deride Our generals and their plans. And all because That corporal now we hated. Night and day He fed our hate: A pause While a back straightened: "Keep on digging there." If a head drooped: "The English troops who sleep On guard they shoot, headquarter orders say." He joined against us with the sun. "No water till to-night for anyone. I have reserved this tin." He tried to make the dark more fearful. "Get Up on that parapet," He said one night. "Walk out ten paces. Keep Your rifle at the slope." "But they will see Me moving up there, and my bayonet." "Orders are orders. While you're under me You'll do your guard according to the book." It was not long before we dragged him in. Only a boy he was. "Where are you hit?" "That mad fool! See if it Is bad enough to send Me home away from him." "Who's next for guard? Up there, you!" "Not me!" the old soldier yelled. "I do not want this war to end For me just yet." The stretcher bearers took Their burden down the trench. We stood perplexed. There was nothing that we could trust, we felt. "Orders are orders. I have warned you all." "Report the lot of us then. Also tell Them what the order was. And you're the next To be sent off." Out of another world A laugh came, then a call: "They say I'm home, boys. Thank the corporal. Good-bye! For him a soldier's real farewell." "Look, corporal," the old soldier said. "A good Sleep you need. I'll take charge to-night for you. Taree, you go on first." Soon our trench grew Quiet with drowsiness. Still on the left Rifles, bombs wrangled. Out at sea a gun Demanded men, more men. Nearby the dark Muttered: "Is he asleep? What would we do If patriots never slept?" "There would be none Soon left to fight for them." Against a sky Of flame Taree and the old soldier stood. "A patriot! That bank clerk. Him and his love of country! Why he would Not know a gum-tree if he dreams of one." I heard their voices still beneath the din. . . . Then rain was falling on the roof at home. There was a stir one afternoon. "Come on! We're being relieved at last." Into the trench strange men were filing. "A fresh battalion's taking over." Past Us strangely swayed their faces, strangely smiling. Eyes asked what we had learned. Those days spent there, then turned Aside, afraid to know. Now they were gone. And we were moving. Someone said: "They will know soon." We stumbled through more trenches. Then light, air. We saw, beneath the hillside we were on. The green of growing wheat, the white of foam. We trod, not watchful now, yet most aware; Our steps enspirited By odours, shapes and c'olours that were not Of clay or loam. Down those slopes slipping, we forgot All we had left behind up there. "Here! Keep in line, you men." It was that corporal. Only then Did we remember. We'd forgotten him. We joined those standing in the cleft The hills made near a beach. "Is this all left Of us?" men asked. Names were now being called. "Here, sir! Here!" Answers came Gladly. "Here!" Then a name And no response. It drew back. Then, less bold. That name set out once more upon its quest Amongst us. "He's not here! No." In the air It lingered round us still. Then, like a flame That flares upward, it was not anywhere. Another name now. Answer it, someone! Oh, quick! At last: "Here!" Less cold The wind comes off the sea. Now I can lie and rest This body. How the sun Has warmed the earth for me. Warm—So is sleep. Then the rain ceases, the wind falls And a light dazzles. Fences glint, paddocks glow, Up from the river-flats the horses come. A magpie calls From the tall gum That stands, I know. Over my shoulder. Galloping, they come Still. Their coats gleam. And their hoofs drum. . . . The banjoes strum, All the men hum The tune, and stamp. The glasses jig, the bottles reel, the lamp Dances in the smoke under the beam. Somebody sings: "We won't go home." Then comes a shout "Time, please. Timel Everybody out!" . . . The dust drifts upwards still. The waves of heat Roll under it. Fence-posts, trees, it takes all. Two kurrajongs stand rooted in mid-air. And then are not. No shadows fall Out of the glare Here where I wait. That dust comes with the sound of many feet, lust over there My dog stands laughing. Out of the murk stream The first sheep, heading for the gate. Men shout, dogs bark. . . . "Wake up!" A torch-light flashes in my eyes. "Here, you!" That corporal cries, Then leaves me in the dark. Men stir around me, sighing for that dream They'd dreamed just now. Lights flit about. "Quick! Kick that man up there!" New voices shout: "Fall in, men Rifles and equipment!" Steel Jangles, limbs feel. And fumble. There is muttering and cursing: "Why can't they let us sleep? Where are they taking Us at this hour?" A figure looms up. "Boys, We're called upon again." Our captain's voice Says. "Follow me. No noise. No lights! This way!" Our feet Step off, obedient to a will Not ours, bearing our bodies onward. Where? Up on the left, we hear Machine-guns, rifles, bombs rehearsing Their parts. Soon we'll be up there making Our gestures, uttering our lines, until The farce or tragedy becomes complete. Up a strange valley we moved half-asleep. Our feet would feel a pathway, then lose it. Still on we shuffled. And then would come a halt. "Sit down!" would pass the whisper. Down we'd sit There. Heads would droop, hands slacken, breaths Come quietly. Odours of earth ruffled The memory's curtain like a- face or rhyme. Remembering, forgetting. Time For us soon opened lovely doors. . . . The sunlight spills Down from the hills. The reeds bend but do not rustle. Across the water her song thrills: "Awake."— "Here, wake up." Who is that? Why? Where? It is dark, now. A far-off darkness rings With rifle-fire, with shudderings, with fears. "Come on!" That corporal says, standing just there. And she is dead these years. And yet just now her voice Was more a living thing to living ears Than all this bustle, all this noise. "Keep in line!" He kept saying. In that dim Light, up that winding track. None railed at him. Or muttered curses now. There was no mirth Left even for the ridiculous. Had he gone mad with military zeal. Grown pitiless through loving some ideal And nothing else, or spiteful, hating us. We did not care; so long as we could feel Beneath our feet the earth. Could touch each other, find things real. We urged our feet forward. They lifted, fell. Still was our progress imperceptible In that place, through those hours. Then we would strive With frenzied moments, up fantastic slopes. Walking- we scarcely knew enough to tell Which was dream, which reality; Resting, if we Were dead, alive. And then before our eyes the dark was spangled With fires that flared and died, and lived again. The snarls of bullets, close by, jangled Upon our ears. Our captain stopped to say: "Go, Corporal, with the guide, here. Learn the way. And then come back at once." Taree's voice spoke: "I will go, too, in case.—" Did no one care That we were wandering there? Or know, except ourselves? And we forgot It soon. Once more we woke— "The Corporal, sir? I don't know where's he's gone," Taree had said. "I found the track though."— "Lead Us then!" Again our bodies follow on. On as before. At last we're from them freed. We watch them turn right, take that upward path. Hands drag them up by bushes that scratch, tear; By grabbing at the dust. Breaths come fast. Voices curse it for a track, Taree for finding it. As feet, legs, arms go sliding back. "Near here's the place, sir!" The place where? Where what? Here is a rope to climb Up by. And here a ledge on which to sit Under the ridge, alive. "Sir, orders are—" Taree was saying, but we paid no heed. The sun was shining when we woke next time. Taree laughed. "Where's the corporal? He must Be following still his compass and a star According to the book. Where I don't know. How did I strike the track? Why, by that tree Down there. It's like the wattle in our yard In old Taree." Smoke rising here. Men stirring there. The sea Just heaving. Up there with the sun we swung, Looking down on it all. It seemed as though A laugh had gone around the world, and jarred It free of all pretence. No! Not all. Still in the haze, far Away, a white ship hung— A mirage in a scene that made no sense. "Those blood-mad generals will have no say Up here. That's one thing!" the old soldier shouted. Taree said: "Yes, leave us the job. Now when Their own troops would not stand it for one day." A volley called louder. "Get ready, men." The order came. It seemed no longer hard That we should face it all again so soon. We filed into the trench. No Destiny Ruled us, but our own intelligence. Whoever else, whatever it might be, It was not himself now that a man doubted. Women Are Not Gentlemen They said there was a woman in the hills Behind us. All day long she watched for when A man's head showed. Some knew that she was young And beautiful. And some that she was old. Mad with a hate of men. "Each shot she fires she kills," They said. "She never misses. Then at night She comes and takes their money from the dead." She would not even leave them with their names. Her hiding place was hung With paper, silver, gold; Her neck with all the things that would have told Who a man was when we must bury him. "Here lies an unknown soldier," we would write. Oh, we'd be bitter when we turned and left Him pushed out of men's sight, and mind. Bereft Of body and of name. For all time more. In the one world we knew, nothing. And all Through an old woman's spite. Or young girl's whim. Those weeks we moved in fear of her all day. Up in the trenches we crouched low. "Stand-to!" The word would come. "They're forming to attack. UP! Watch!" And there again the dead men lay. Sharing the sunlight and the flowers that grew In the old places. Often nothing stirred Beyond. Then in the trench a man would fall, Shot in the back. "Down! Quick!" There, kneeling on that gritty floor, We'd watch him sob his life out. Some men swore From her had come the word, Sent through a spy amongst us—"And I'll bet The bastard sleeps with her. One night I'll find her burrow. He'll die first." None laughed at the old soldier's boasting now. But sometimes there would gleam a bayonet Then others. On the left firing. Bombs burst. In front the ground heaves men up, up, and out Into the open. On they come. The shout To see at last these men set on to kill Us. "Fire!" Still they come running. "Get out, boys, And meet them." I am up here. My legs take Me forward. Faces rush in. And hurt eyes. Steel flashes. Impacts. Bodies struggle, strive In big gasps. A red darkness. Thrust. I break Up through it. I see men's backs running. Cries* Cheers all around. A dry mouth. My own voice At last cheering. Sunlight. I am alive. A whistle blows: "Retire. Get back before they open fire." Run. Run. Here is our trench. Breathless we drop Into it safe. "We're coming through the wire," A voice calls. "Help me down with him. Take care." Two feet show first, feeling the air. They stop. That shot was from behind. Down! "There! She fires again." No voice on top Calls for help now. Past help, those feet hang there— "She's got them both." We know they both are dead. Machine guns stutter. Rifles start up. Lead Weighs down the air above. "They're coming soon, again," a man cries. "No, You fool, they think that we'll attack instead. Hear how afraid of us they are." High, low. The bullets come and go. We lie back, glad to know that there is dread Out there, too. With that woman still in mind. Pity, almost a love. We feel for those men in the trench ahead. Then someone would want water. There'd not be A drop in any bottle. Straightway thirst Came into every mouth. Water—It was behind our talk of guns. Guns—Why we heard guns drumming in the south? Slaughter by battleships— Mines blowing up advancing battalions— Of generals' new schemes to have more killed. Through it all we would see A corner of the valley road. There lay Water—a muddied pool where tins were filled. But no one dared start down. We sat and cursed That woman with set lips. We did not watch the sun, those evenings, sink Behind the ships, the day Plunge from the headlands. There would come a star Into our strip of sky. Then could we stand And see the lights afloat off-shore, afar. Along the paths they laid. Homeward we wandered from the gloomy land— "Go down, you two, to fill them. Come Back quick." "It is like home. Off for a drink While she's not looking." The old soldier laughed. You know that you are near it by the hum Of talk. But not a word You hear until you drink that long, first draught. "They got into our trench to-day. We had To bomb them out of it." You break the scum. There is your form beneath you in the pool. Deep down. Dipping and filling, it grows blurred. "Who says the navy is no help? The fool." "I do. And our artillery is as bad. They've killed more of our own than Turks." By some Fresh fit of firing stirred Your form down there is breaking Into strange shapes. "I say, that's near Lone Pine. Hear the destroyer on our right join in?" 34 Shadows, not of your making. Trouble ihe water. Fires into it come And pass, and go. "Our colonel has gone mad; They're taking him away." "I wish they'd take ours, too. He's drunk all day. Fewer of us get killed. But it's our rum." "A soldier, you? To talk Of officers like that. Why, ours all say We'll be across to Maidos in a week." "Yes, if the battleships go overland." More men crowd in. Lights shine. The pool mirrors it all, not right, not wrong. "She shot my mate to-day." "Here, that's my tin." "I tell you it is mine." "Clean out behind his eyes the bullet came—" "Stop fighting, there. No war's down here. Get back. You two, where you belong." New faces show as matches flame. The cigarettes glow and the pool turns black. "We buried him just now." All the way back it seemed the earth were waking To a new life from some day-dream of Death's. The slopes were deafening with fiery flowers. Winds of all colours blew. Forests of smoke rode by on unfelt breaths. Lights crashed. Flames strode along the ridges, making A world where nought was fixed, but all was true: A time that had no hours. No days, nor years; A world where, a time when Height called to height and kindred ears. And, without speaking, men could speak to men. Pallor bloomed dim as shapes came, carried by. Towards ease at last. No moan was heard, no cry Of pity. Pain was here an ecstasy That held lips mute, made eyes too wide for tears. And figures passed, heads high. Walking as men should walk the earth. Proud, without pride of birth. Gentle, though unbeset by fears. And in the morning still was Beauty there. We lived. We could stand up and watch the sea. Telling its dream. Then how The wind would have it told another way: See how the first light found A new cape, a fresh tree; The mist still hid a hollow, until now Unguessed at. We would hear again the sound Of silence settling in from everywhere: Then voices floating strangely in. Far-off In front behind their lines the same cock crew. And still his brother lived beneath the hill To answer. Closer in the dog barked still. We'd listen, straining towards the trench out there To catch the same man's laugh, his comrade's cough. We'd call good morning, then. And they'd call, too. . Deep in the hush somewhere A rifle whispers, a spent bullet whirs Past us. "That is not hers. It is too early for her yet. She knows We'd see her rifle smoking in this light." The left is waking. As it stretches, stirs Its limbs, things crash. It mutters now in fear Of the time coming—"That is where the fight Will be to-day. There—" Its full roar we hear Of rifle, bomb, rifle. "Look! It's our men attacking. See the way They're going over?" "Here, let me Up! Why, you'd think they're walking out to play A game of football." The rifle fire rushes All to one spot, to one noise. In the trench We crowd together, clambering up to see. "Get down, men. It will be Her time, soon." Arms, heads, bodies drop to stay Down. Every voice hushes. And still the battle shouts. The hill behind Mimics it shrilly. "They are never done. Women, spoiling our fun," The old soldier mutters. "I came here to get Away from one. For King and country, I told her. She swore I went because 1 was a coward. True, That was, truer than she knew. Now here is this one saying the same thing yet: 'Sneak! Liar! Coward! You won't see the war'." A youngster down the trench says: "And I am here Because a girl said I'm a coward, too. She never even came to wave good-bye." The firing stops for breath. Only the shout. Shout from men's throats, strikes on that other ear Of ours. "You have an eye for women, son, I have a way with them. Point this one out And I'll soon show her it is not Her war." Bombs. Up there rifles snarl. Leashes are slipped. New packs give tongue. "They've got Our fellows on the run." And then, one morning, the young soldier raised His rifle up. He cried: "I've got her. Look! There is her rifle lying beneath that bush. I saw the sun shine on it when she took Aim at somebody." "Get down. Quick! You young fool. You shoot her? It's just a trick Of hers." Still he stood there and no shot came. Then men began to push Hats up on bayonets. Their arms grew tired And let them fall while we looked on amazed. A man stood up, and then another. Soon We were all standing, and no rifle fired At us. "There, see it lying shining there." There was a wrinkled smile upon the sea. The leaves across the valley gleamed. Below, Uncringing, men went on their ways, as though They knew already. "It makes a man feel The War is almost over." "God! For me It is all over," the old soldier said. "What is there now to be afraid of?" "Her!" Our sergeant told him, "We are going across To-night to see if she is really dead." "What for? If she stays quiet I don't care." "The sergeant wants to get that money. Share And share alike, I say." "But it's the boys' here." "God! I wouldn't touch The bloody stuff. Yes, yes, there's too much Blood on it." "We can play For it, then." Someone found Two pennies. "Let the sergeant toss." "Heads! Tails!" It went. "Heads!" The old Blood on it." "We can play For it, then." Someone found Two pennies. "Let the sergeant toss." "Heads! Tails!" It went. "Heads!" The old soldier won. We felt our way down; up. Our best guide was To keep the uproar of the fight Behind us. Bushes clutched, leaves felt our faces. Then whispered us to pass. Eyes told but little, blind with all the light Of one bright instant, then the sudden dark. Like that for hours we went. Our whispers grew To mutterings— We've long lost our landmark. Sergeant. Let us go back." "Come on! The place is Somewhere between that hump there and that star." We crept behind him still, sick of it all. Cold, tired. "We can't be far From it now. This way!" Then we heard him fall. Snapping wood, cursing. "Help me out of this. Stop laughing up there. God, there's something soft Under my foot. It's her. Give me that torch. Yes, here she is." We leaned over. Then a man laughed. He coughed With laughing, still— "Sergeant, she grew a strong Beard, did that woman there." "God," a voice gasped, "It was a man, poor bastard, all the time." "What," the old soldier cried. "But what about My money? Turn the pockets out." "Here you are. Look!" There were Some copper coins, a charm, a crust of bread. Nobody spoke till we began the climb Back to the trench. Then the old soldier said, "My luck with women never lasted long." Another laughed: "Well, anyway, she's dead." Someone was humming to himself a song: "And my thoughts back there fly, To where I said good-bye. To my land, my own land, where the sky Is always blue, And blue her eyes are, too. Oh, I love her true. And she loves---" The young soldier's tawdry song Told us that she would never die. Christmas after the Armistice What is this quiet? Where you lie Beside me, brother, can you tell? Is it the sea-fog floating by? Or that the frost has fixed a spell On every voice from flower to star? The guns have gone, and, with them, fear. The hush of death is on us here. Yet this is stiller, deeper far. Comrade, there lying, listen well. Brother! Comrade! I hear the sun Filling the world with happy light. I see a shade where cool vines run. It's my verandah. God! The sight! Brother, it's peace—a Christmas day. My son's new trumpet makes a noise, A little girl spreads out her toys. Their mother stands and sees their play, Peace in her eyes glows calmly bright. Comrade, I hear a ringing bell And footsteps crunching overhead. Brother, what is it? Can you tell? The guns still sending down more dead? It is not soldiers marching on. But through the snow the children singing. Troop up to where the bell is ringing. Then, still! They pray. My pain is gone. There, listen, brother, in your bed. Brother, I'm walking down a street. The joy of bells fills all the air. Upon my heart they ring and beat. Up past me all the people fare. God, look! The way their faces smile! The pigeons in the sunlight falling— A ferry on the harbour calling— The joy of these! A little while We lived, but peace is everywhere. Homeward To the old friends and faces. To the old life again. To often-dreamed of places, Pleasant in sun or rain; For home my face is set. Home! Madly goes my heart With calling up each minute Those visions none forget. All that the word has in it— For each man things apart. Wef watched our land go from us. The sea stretched far, unknown; To all it glowed with promise— 1 watch the sea alone. Some lie within its sound. Scarce past its edge of foam. Yet hear it surging never. And some their grave have found Far from the sea for ever. The sea that takes us home. I hear you, waves, that glisten, I see your path for me. Maybe the dead can listen. See more than I can see. Not for the guns, their sound Heard muffled through the loam. Nor noise of sea or heaven. Not see the trees around, No! not the grass roots even, But sounds and sights of home. Peace — and the Woman Oh, they can carve it out in stone. And sign it in the blood of kings; And it can be on every tongue. And theme for every song that's sung. I know that when the news is known. And everywhere the shouting rings. Me it can leave, unmoved, alone. The world can evermore be free From war and hate, but Peace—'twill be Only a word, unless it brings My own love back to me. When the guns' last roll at last is still. Out on the hills there can remain Silence a bird would fear to break. Night can be night, no light to make Day out of dark to show to kill; The red earth can grow green again. Grass! Grass! Oh, grow it never will Over the ground where my love lies. No grave could keep from me his eyes. Oh, vain the peace where death were vain. When up to me he cries. From heaps oi stone, walls standing bare. Where cower a few, or all are fled, Towns can be builded up once more. To stir with life as heretofore. Oh, if, when mirth starts everywhere, Around me at a word that's said, I turn to him and he's not there— And I remember—then for me The room is silent suddenly. Stark walls hang round me, there is dread In every face I see. The Solace of Life And as I stood I watched them pass— The people oi the town. No glimmer of a star there was. Only the rain came down To tell there was a world outside That narrow, garish street. No one looked up, but, anxious-eyed. They passed with hurrying feet. It is a joy to feel the rain Beat keenly on your face— I tread the sodden earth again. Here in this open space No light is, but pale waters gleam Down where the tree-forms start. Out in the gloom somewhere a stream Croons with a happy heart. What joy is in the lives of men Who scarcely know the sun? Who count the hours to tell them when Day is begun or done? Now for the full wide sky above. The fresh breath of the wild— So I was thinking when my love Stood at my side and smiled. I looked within her eyes; their light Showed me life's meaning clear— They hurried onward for the sight And smile of someone dear. Love's purpose is Life's purpose, too. There is no life so small But finds something to love. I knew. My love's smile told me all. HARLEY MATTHEWS 4TH AIF |
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ROBERT PIKE
The Victor Heroes.Saffron Walden in the Great War For Still We Hear Them Singing - Poems; ISBN-10: 1781489106 - ISBN-13: 978-1781489109 |
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BOBANCRE ![]() Member ![]() Joined: 13 Feb 2013 Location: ESSEX Status: Offline Points: 101 |
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COUNTDOWN TO ANZAC DAY 7
LEMNOS 1915 Clement Attlee Many a time I've longed these ways to go, To wander where each little rugged isle Lifts from the blue Aegean's sparkling smile Its golden rocks or peaks of silent snow. The land of magic tales of long ago, Ulysses' wanderings and Circe's wile, Achilles and his armour, Helen's smile, Dear-won delight that set tall Troy aglow. Happy the traveller whose eye may range O'er Lemnos, Samothrace and Helles' strait, Who smells the sweet thyme-scented breezes. Nay, How willingly all these I would exchange To see the buses throng by Mile End Gate And smell the fried fish shops down Limehouse way. |
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ROBERT PIKE
The Victor Heroes.Saffron Walden in the Great War For Still We Hear Them Singing - Poems; ISBN-10: 1781489106 - ISBN-13: 978-1781489109 |
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BOBANCRE ![]() Member ![]() Joined: 13 Feb 2013 Location: ESSEX Status: Offline Points: 101 |
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COUNTDOWN TO ANZAC DAY 8
WHERE THE RANGES CAST THEIR SHADOWS Where the ranges cast their shadows Down a valley where a river used to wander to the sea On a rising patch of level rest the men that dared to tender Life and all its sweetness for their love of liberty. In a thousand miles of ugly scrubby waste and desolation Just that little space of level showing open to the sea Nothing there to lend it grandeur (sure it needs no decoration) Save those rows of wooden crosses keeping silent custody. There’s a band of quiet workers, artless lads that joked and chatted Just this morning. Now they’re sullen and they keep their eyes away From the blanket hidden body, coat and shirt all blood bespattered Lying motionless and waiting by the new-turned heap of clay. There are records in the office- date of death and facts pertaining, Showing name and rank and number and disposal of the kit More or less a business matter, and we have no time for feigning More than momentary pity for the men who have been hit. There’s a patient mother gazing on her hopes so surely shattered (Hopes and prayers she cherished bravely, seeking strength to hide her fear) Boyhood’s dreams and idle memories-things that never really mattered Lying buried where he’s buried ‘neath the stars all shining clear. There’s a young wife sorrow-stricken in her bitter first conception Of that brief conclusive message deep fulfilment of her dread; There are tiny lips repeating, with their childish imperception Simple words that bring her memories from the boundaries of the dead. Could the Turk have seen this picture when his trigger finger-rounded Would his sights have blurred a little had he heard that mother’s prayer? Could he know some that she knew, might his hate have been confounded? But he only did his duty and did it fighting fair. Just a barren little surface where the grave mounds rise ungainly Monuments and tributes to the men who’ve done their share. Pain and death, the fruits of battle and the crosses tell it plainly Short and quick and silent suffering; wish to God it ended there. Harry McCann HQ 4th Australian Light Horse Gallipoli 1915 |
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ROBERT PIKE
The Victor Heroes.Saffron Walden in the Great War For Still We Hear Them Singing - Poems; ISBN-10: 1781489106 - ISBN-13: 978-1781489109 |
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BOBANCRE ![]() Member ![]() Joined: 13 Feb 2013 Location: ESSEX Status: Offline Points: 101 |
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COUNTDOWN TO ANZAC DAY 9
THE TROJAN WAR, 1915 WE care not what old Homer tells Of Trojan war and Helen's fame. Upon the ancient Dardanelles New peoples write-in blood-their name. Those Grecian heroes long have fled, No more the Plain of Troy they haunt; Made sacred by our Southern dead, Historic is the Hellespont. Homeric wars are fought again By men who like old Greeks can die; Australian backblock heroes slain, With Hector and Achilles lie. No legend lured these men to roam; They journeyed forth to save from harm Some Mother-Helen sad at home, Some obscure Helen on a farm. And when one falls upon the hill – ¬Then by dark Styx's gloomy strand, In honour to plain Private Bill Great Agamemnon lifts his hand! ARTHUR H. ADAMS. |
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ROBERT PIKE
The Victor Heroes.Saffron Walden in the Great War For Still We Hear Them Singing - Poems; ISBN-10: 1781489106 - ISBN-13: 978-1781489109 |
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BOBANCRE ![]() Member ![]() Joined: 13 Feb 2013 Location: ESSEX Status: Offline Points: 101 |
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COUNTDOWN TO ANZAC DAY 9
ANZAC By purple hills and alescent sea And sunlit leagues of plain they lived, and they Were summery-hearted all, and life was gay, And peace was theirs, and love, and liberty. And when the clarion sounded suddenly, They went, a rollicky band of boys at play, Tilted at doom, and there, at Anzac Bay, Died .. _ but they taught the world what men there be. And Anzac now is an enchanted shore; A tragic splendour, and a holy name; A deed eternity will still acclaim; A loss that crowns the victories of yore; A glittering golden dome for evermore Shining above the minarets of fame. BARTLETT ADAMSON. |
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ROBERT PIKE
The Victor Heroes.Saffron Walden in the Great War For Still We Hear Them Singing - Poems; ISBN-10: 1781489106 - ISBN-13: 978-1781489109 |
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BOBANCRE ![]() Member ![]() Joined: 13 Feb 2013 Location: ESSEX Status: Offline Points: 101 |
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COUNTDOWN TO ANZAC DAY 10
The Unburied Now snowflakes thickly falling in the winter breeze Have cloaked alike the hard, unbending ilex And the grey, drooping branches of the olive trees, Transmuting into silver all their lead; And, in between the winding lines, in No - Man's - Land, Have softly covered with a glittering shroud The unburied dead. And in the silences of night, when winds are fair, When shot and shard have ceased their wild surprising, I hear a sound of music in the upper air. Rising and falling till it slowly dies - it is the beating of migrant birds Wafting the souls of these unburied heroes Into the skies Signed M, R., N.Z. Headquarters |
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ROBERT PIKE
The Victor Heroes.Saffron Walden in the Great War For Still We Hear Them Singing - Poems; ISBN-10: 1781489106 - ISBN-13: 978-1781489109 |
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BOBANCRE ![]() Member ![]() Joined: 13 Feb 2013 Location: ESSEX Status: Offline Points: 101 |
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COUNTDOWN TO ANZAC DAY 11
Evacuation of Gallipoli Not only muffled is our tread to cheat the foe. We fear to rouse our honoured dead to hear us go. Sleep sound, old friends - the keenest smart Which, more than failure, wounds the heart Is thus to leave you - thus to part. Comrades, farewell!! Alfred Leslie Guppy 1887 - 1944 reported missing April 1917 confirmed German POW June 1917 Company QMS 14th AIF Gallipoli and France |
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ROBERT PIKE
The Victor Heroes.Saffron Walden in the Great War For Still We Hear Them Singing - Poems; ISBN-10: 1781489106 - ISBN-13: 978-1781489109 |
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BOBANCRE ![]() Member ![]() Joined: 13 Feb 2013 Location: ESSEX Status: Offline Points: 101 |
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COUNTDOWN TO ANZAC DAY 12
ANZAC Ah, well ! we're gone ! We're out of it now. We've something else to do. But we all look back from the transport deck to the land-line far and blue : Shore and valley are faded ; fading are cliff and hill ; The land-line we called "Anzac"... and we'll call It "Anzac" still ! This last six months, I reckon, 'll be most of my life to me : Trenches, and shells, and snipers, and the morning light on the sea, Thirst in the broiling mid-day, shouts and gasping cries. Big guns' talk from the water, and . . . flies, flies, flies, flies, flies ! And all of our trouble wasted! all of it gone for nix ! Still ... we kept our end up—and some of the story sticks. Fifty years on in Sydney they'll talk of our first big fight. And even in little old, blind old England possibly some one might. But, seeing we had to clear, for we couldn't get on no more, I wish that, instead of last night, it had been the night before. Yesterday poor Jim stopped one. Three of us buried Jim— I know a woman in Sydney that thought the world of him. She was his mother. I'll tell her—broken with grief and pride— "Mother" was Jim's last whisper. That was all. And died. Brightest and bravest and best of us all—none could help but to love him— And now ... he lies there under the hill, with a wooden cross above him. That's where it gets me twisted. The rest of it I don't mind. But it don't seem right for me to be off, and to leave old Jim behind. Jim, just quietly sleeping; and hundreds and thousands more; For graves and crosses are mighty thick from Quinn's Post down to the shore! Better there than in France, though, with the Germans' dirty work: I reckon the Turk respects us, as we respect the Turk; Abdul's a good, clean fighter—we've fought him, and we know— And we've left him a letter behind us to tell him we found him so. Not just to say, precisely, "Good-bye," but "Au revoir"! Somewhere or other we'll meet again, before the end of the war ! But I hope it'll be in a wider place, with a lot more room on the map. And the airmen over the fight that day ‘ll see a bit of a scrap! Meanwhile, here's health to the Navy, that took us there, and away; Lord! they're miracle-workers—and fresh ones every day! My word! those Mids in the cutters! aren't they properly keen ! Don't ever say England's rotten—or not to us, who've seen! Well! we're gone. We're out of it all! We've somewhere else to fight. And we strain our eyes from the transport deck, but "Anzac" is out of sight! Valley and shore are vanished ; vanished are cliff and hill; And we'll never go back to “Anzac"... But I think that some of us will ! TROOPER BLUEGUM |
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ROBERT PIKE
The Victor Heroes.Saffron Walden in the Great War For Still We Hear Them Singing - Poems; ISBN-10: 1781489106 - ISBN-13: 978-1781489109 |
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BOBANCRE ![]() Member ![]() Joined: 13 Feb 2013 Location: ESSEX Status: Offline Points: 101 |
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COUNTDOWN TO ANZAC DAY 13
THE DARDANELLES – Pro Patria There's a lonely hut on the Gippsland hills Where the golden wattles bloom; Sweet sunshine all the woodland fills, But never the silent room. For sorrow has clouded a young girl's life; Her face its story tells; She's a struggling settler's brave young wife, And he's at the Dardanelles. There's a cheerless hearth in the crowded street, Where the city workers throng. On the pavement patter the passing feet; Within, the hours wear long. And far in the night there's a child newborn; Joy springs from her heart's deep wells. Oh, God! how far it seemed that morn To the distant Dardanelles! There's a homestead drear on the northern plains, The dread drought stripped it bare; And the old man's lost his hard won gains, And the years his strength impair. But he's battling on with a new-found hope, Nor loss nor trial quells; His boys were first on the lead-lashed slope That morn at the Dardanelles. In a fisherman's crib in the seaport town, There's a woman, old and worn; Her man was lost when the boat went down, Her girl when "Babs" was born. The child she reared had become her stay, But Duty's call compels; She's playing at home her part in the fray, While he's at the Dardanelles. In the shearing shed on the old Paroo, The hands are signing on; Names are missing the manager knew, Familiar faces gone. Big Bob, the "ringer", has changed his blade, But with the new he still excells. He one of the young bush-born brigade, That stormed the Dardanelles. On the Overland the drover's night In a vigil long and lone; There's a face he sees in the embers bright. There's a voice on the night wind blown. They'd travelled the track together for years, Through floods and droughty spells. In the twentieth list his name appears, Shot down at the Dardanelles. Husbands and loved ones, brothers and sons, Pals of the road and shed, Battered and torn by the searching guns, Bleeding, and maimed, and dead. The flag that floats on the farthest isle, Where the spirit of freedom dwells, Is planted now on a sacred pile On the shore of the Dardanelles. On Gallipoli's hills are buried our dead, Australia's heroes brave. Shall the foreign despot dare to tread On our kinsman's honored grave? Arise, ye sons of the Austral land! The cry for succor swells; Stretch forth a comrade's helping hand To win the Dardanelles. Ten thousand gaps are in the ranks. What noble deeds they've done! Ten thousand men to fill the blanks And hold the line we've won! For hold we must if we play the game; Success each more foretells, Eternal shame on Australia's name If we lose the Dardanelles! (Printed in the "Inglewood Advertiser" 25/6/1915) |
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ROBERT PIKE
The Victor Heroes.Saffron Walden in the Great War For Still We Hear Them Singing - Poems; ISBN-10: 1781489106 - ISBN-13: 978-1781489109 |
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BOBANCRE ![]() Member ![]() Joined: 13 Feb 2013 Location: ESSEX Status: Offline Points: 101 |
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COUNTDOWN TO ANZAC DAY 14
REFLECTIONS ON THE EVACUATION Once more sits Mahomet by Helles' marges And smokes with ease among- his cypress-trees, Nor snipes from scrubberies at British targes Nor views them wallowing in sacred seas, But cleans his side arms and is pleased to prattle Of that great morning when he woke and heard That in his slumbers he had fought a battle, A bloody battle, and a little bird Piped (in the German) at his side, and said, “The something infidels have been and fled." Cautious he crept from out his mountain-ditches, Down the long gully, past the Water Towers ; By Backhouse Point he nosed among the niches, But they were hushed, and innocent of Giaours ; Still fearful found the earthly homes we haunted, Those thirsty stretches where the rest-camps were, Then the sea slunk on, a trifle daunted By wreathed wires and every sort of snare, And came at last, incredulous, to find The very beach all blasphemously mined. Now on each hand he eyes our impious labels. Bond Street and Regent Street, those weary ways ; Here stands the Pink Farm, with the broken gables. Here Oxford Circus marks a winding maze; But most, I ween, in scarred grave-ridden regions, O'er many a battle-scene he loves to brood. How Allah here was gracious to his legions, How here, again, he was not quite so good, Here by the Brown House, when the bombs began, And they — I whisper it — they turned and ran. And we shall no more see the great ships gather, Nor hear their thunderings on days of state, Nor toil from trenches in an honest lather To magic swimmings in a perfect Strait; Nor sip Greek wine and see the slow sun dropping On gorgeous evenings over Imbrose Isle, While up the hill the Maxim will keep popping, And the men sing, and camp-fires wink awhile And in the scrub the glow-worms glow like stars, But (hopeless creatures) will not light cigars; Nor daylong linger in our delv'd lodges. And fight for food with fifty thousand flies, Too sick and sore to be afraid of "proj's," Too dazed with dust to see the turquoise skies; Nor walk at even by the busy beaches, Or quiet cliff-paths where the Indians pray, And see the sweepers in the sky-blue reaches Of Troy's own water, where the Greek ships lay, And touch the boat-hulks, where they float forlorn, The wounded boats of that first April morn; Nor wake unhappily to see the sun come And stand to arms in some Cimmerian grot — But I, in town, well rid of all that bunkum, I like to think that Mahomet is not ; He must sit on, now sweltering, now frozen. By draughty cliff and many a mountain holt. And, when rude fears afflict the prophets chosen, Gird on his arms and madly work his bolt, While from the heights the awful whispers run, "Herbert the bard is landing with his gun." A. P. Herbert, |
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ROBERT PIKE
The Victor Heroes.Saffron Walden in the Great War For Still We Hear Them Singing - Poems; ISBN-10: 1781489106 - ISBN-13: 978-1781489109 |
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BOBANCRE ![]() Member ![]() Joined: 13 Feb 2013 Location: ESSEX Status: Offline Points: 101 |
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COUNTDOWN TO ANZAC DAY 15
FOR ENGLAND! The bugles of England were blowing o'er the sea, As they had called a thousand years, calling now to me; They woke me from dreaming in the dawning of the day, The bugles of England -- and how could I stay? The banners of England, unfurled across the sea, Floating out upon the wind, were beckoning to me; Storm-rent and battle-torn, smoke-stained and grey, The banners of England -- and how could I stay? O, England, I heard the cry of those who died for thee, Sounding like an organ-voice across the wintry sea: They lived and died for England, and gladly went their way, England, O England -- how could I stay? James Drummond BURNS James Drummond Burns [Corporal] - [b. 1895; d. 1915] Enlisted at the outbreak of war, served with the 21st. Batalion at Gallipoli and was killed in action there in September, 1915. |
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ROBERT PIKE
The Victor Heroes.Saffron Walden in the Great War For Still We Hear Them Singing - Poems; ISBN-10: 1781489106 - ISBN-13: 978-1781489109 |
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BOBANCRE ![]() Member ![]() Joined: 13 Feb 2013 Location: ESSEX Status: Offline Points: 101 |
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COUNTDOWN TO ANZAC DAY 17
KIDD FROM TIMARU The boys aboard the transport were busy talking 'fight'. We'd just begun our journey - said "Goodbye" to Farewell light; Some were skitin' awful, of the deeds they meant to do. When he butted in promiskus with - 'I'm Kidd from Timaru.' His years were twenty; wavin' hair above two steel-grey eyes. A laughin' face - you know the sort - the smile that makes smiles rise; At first we barely noticed him until again he drew Attention, by repeatin' his - 'I'm Kidd from Timaru'. Oh! Timaru - that tiny town - he'd got it on the brain - We'd start to talk of many things but he stuck to one refrain; We hoped we might see London, p'raps Berlin and Paris, too, And then he calmly asked us if we'd been to Timaru. And he'd a girl in Timaru - a girl with Irish eyes - 'A genuine old paintin'; guess she'd tumbled from the skies; He referred to her as 'scrumptious' - was satisfied he knew That her eyes were fixed on Egypt, though she lived in Timaru. Egypt! Well, we got there, to its endless sand and sun, Then drilling, always drilling - a case of never done; Sand and sand, fierce burning sand, our red hot curses drew, And Kidd admitted Egypt had more sand than Timaru. Then came the news that we could get our chance to win our spurs, To play the game and show our breed was not a breed of curs. We were ordered off to Gaba to face the Turkish crew, We yelled 'New Zealand will be there!' - Kid said, 'And Timaru.' A rousin' cheer, that split the sky, went boundin' through the air, We vowed when we struck Gaba they'd know that we were there. We swore for king and country our very best to do, Kidd swore for king and country, but added - Timaru. The world knows how we played the game on Gaba Tepe's shore, How, ploughin' through the gates of Hell, the brunt of fire we bore, Blood-painted sand proclaimed the doom of comrades, good and true; But bullets somehow seemed to miss young Kidd from Timaru. We faced 'Loose Hell', as scrunching o'er the sand we scaled the cliff, While Turkish snipers' rifles mowed men down at every whiff; No fellows stopped to count the cost as up the bank they flew, And level, with the foremost ran young Kidd from Timaru. Old Abdul under cover was as cunnin' as a rat; As yet we'd done no shootin' - saw nothin' to shoot at, Till a Turkey popped his head up; that head he ne'er withdrew, For a rifle pinged, the Sergeant said, 'Turk's head for Timaru.' And when the fight was over, and each had done his part, And felt a man and soldier, with aching eye and heart, I searched among the wounded for the fellows that I knew. I turned one over on the sand - 'twas Kidd from Timaru. He'd carried in his Captain, almost dying, through the wrack Of smoke and fire and battle; but just as he'd got back, A Turkish sniper 'pinked' him, but the bullet went clean through, And when he's well, they'll hear again from Kidd of Timaru. We both could do with patchin', so they popped us into dock, Where we lie, with many others, with our eyes fixed on the clock Wonderin' when the time will come, when we're well enough to do Some more for old New Zealand - Kidd, some more for Timaru. Last week a 'head' slipped in and read a cable from the King; He thanked his 'gallant soldiers', we made the sick room ring With cheers - real rousin' hearty cheers - then Kidd said 'Strike me blue, I hope to God he's not forgot to cable Timaru!' |
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ROBERT PIKE
The Victor Heroes.Saffron Walden in the Great War For Still We Hear Them Singing - Poems; ISBN-10: 1781489106 - ISBN-13: 978-1781489109 |
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BOBANCRE ![]() Member ![]() Joined: 13 Feb 2013 Location: ESSEX Status: Offline Points: 101 |
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REMEMBER THIS ANZAC DAY THE 'FORGOTTEN PARTICIPANTS' OF THE CAMPAIGN THE CORPS EXPEDITIONNARE D'ORIENT WHO SUFFERED 27, 000 CASUALTIES
ANZAC DAY by Capel Boake (pen name Doris Boake Kerr) The Scarlet poppy burns again, The tender grasses wave, The bitter almond sheds her leaves On many a nameless grave. The earth has healed her wounds again Where Turk and Christian met, And stark against an alien sky The cross of Christ is set. From north and south and east and west, With eager eyes aflame, With heads erect and laughing lips The young Crusaders came. The waves still wash the rocky coast, The evening shadows creep Where through the dim, receding years They tread the halls of sleep. O sacred land, Gallipoli! Home of our youthful dead; How friendly is the springing grass That shields each narrow bed! The toiling peasant turns to pray, Calling upon his God, And little children laugh and play Where once their footsteps trod. Mourn not for them, nor wish them back; Life cannot harm them now; The kiss of death has touched each cheek And pressed each icy brow. Yet, on this day when first they died, Turn back the troubled years; Pause in the press of life awhile; Give them again - our tears. |
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ROBERT PIKE
The Victor Heroes.Saffron Walden in the Great War For Still We Hear Them Singing - Poems; ISBN-10: 1781489106 - ISBN-13: 978-1781489109 |
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