The Happy Warrior by Kerry B. Collison

the action no more,
    The trees maimed and broken, a grim tragic token
    Of the terrible havoc of war.
    A soft quietness steals and the moonlight reveals
    The result of this death-dealing game;
    The sky rains its dew, as if all nature too
    Were weeping with pity and shame.
    An unseen hand has sketched on the sand
    A pattern just out of reach,
    Of many a wave that flows o’er a grave
    On the Sanananda Beach.
    Pte C. R. Shaw
    Q126475
    (AWM PR 87/062)
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    The Ringers from the North
    They have finished with the riding, down the lonely cattle trails,
    They are through with swapping stories, watching riders from the rails,
    And the moleskins and the leggings that are sweaty, old and torn
    Are discarded for the glory of a Khaki Uniform.
    They won’t be drafting bullocks for many days to come
    And the noise of rushing cattle will yield to roaring guns,
    And those nights spent by the campfire in the stock camps near the yard
    Will just be pleasant memories to a ringer doing guard.
    They are using, now, a field gun where they once just used the reins,
    And they’re marching and they’re drilling getting cusses for their pains,
    But they know the job’s worth doing, as they know a good man’s worth,
    They are number one good fellows are the ringers from the north.
    And when they’re cold and hungry, sitting shivering like lost souls
    There will come some fragrant memories of grilling rib-bones on the coals
    With a damper in the ashes and a quart pot full of tea
    And the black boys hobbling horses singing native songs of glee.
    And when the war is over and the bugle calls no more,
    Then the ringers will be moving to a southern tropic shore
    And as the sky grows crimson beneath the setting sun
    You will see each ringer heading for a distant cattle run.
    Lance Bombardier Sydney Kelly 
    (AWM PR 87/062)
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    Bomber
    As darkness covers the tarmac,
    The bombers grasp the sky;
    Their crews are cold with sweat,
    For fear that they might die.
A pilot sits transfixed
    Before his knobs and dials and switches;
    His navigator sits and stares,
    Not a muscle twitches.
    The engines drone regardless,
    The gunner tests his guns,
    Assures himself that they will work
    When he must down the Huns.
The planes roar out across the sea,
    The target drawing near,
    Until the sounds of those before them
    On the wind the crews could hear.
    Burst of flack and wicked tracer
    Lacerate the night;
    Bomb run commenced,
    The pilot must not deviate in flight.
Ahead there is a blinding flash,
    A bomber bursts in flames —
    All the men aboard are dead,
    Glorious are their names.
    Planes are falling from the sky,
    Torn blazing from the night,
    Balls of fire with smoking trails,
    They plummet out of sight.
The cry of “Bombs away!” at last,
    Time again to breathe,
    Power on to climb and turn,
    A lifetime to achieve.
    The 109s are all around;
    Cannon and machine gun fire.
    Silhouetted against the flames,
    The bombers’ funeral pyre.
The survivors claw their way
    Towards the coast and homeward bound,
    Trailing smoke and glycol —
    Still the fighters hound.
    A badly damaged straggler
    Limps across the sky;
    The surviving crew are cold with sweat,
    For fear that they might die.
The navigator’s lifeless form
    Lies twisted on his sight,
    Near stalling speed the plane
    Prepares to slip beneath the night.
    The gunner stares through sightless eyes,
    At nothing to be seen,
    Reflecting tiny images
    Where once such life had been.
The pilot, numbed by pain and shock,
    Sits rigid all alone;
    He tries to keep his plane aloft
    To reach the aerodrome.
    The altimeter is winding down,
    Airspeed reaching critical,
    Heartbeats measure lifetime,
    Survival hypothetical.
Shattered screen and instruments,
    The air an icy flow,
    The engines cough and splutter,
    Oh, how the wind does blow!
    Greg Brooks
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    Egypt? For Australia We Fight
    We’re here because we’re here is a song we used to sing
    Before we left Australia for the