Howitzer and its role during that battle. This poem is dedicated to all of the Veterans who took part in this battle and kept alive the spirit of the Anzacs.
âTake Post! Take Post!â Theyâd heard it before,
They were quick to their guns, a few even swore,
But this was a fire mission like none in the past
And so it had started the battle at Long Tan.
The boys from D Company were in a fix,
Not far from the Dat, about two clicks,
The call came in for support to survive
And to the fore were 105âs 105s.
In the rubber plantation the boys on the ground,
Facing enemy fire from all around,
Conditions appalling the mud and fierce rain,
Visibility a problem but confusion restrained;
The position more clearly with bright blue flashes,
From the guns in support landing rounds in the ashes;
The gunfire was loud, bright and blaring,
Placed a look on the diggers surprised and glaring.
They knew there was hope with accurate fire
To help them survive the mud and the mire,
The guns so constant with dangerous close fire.
Back at the Dat the actions were true,
The boys on the guns they knew what to do;
The weather so bad the rain teeming down,
Strong cordite mist was hugging the ground,
Empty cart cases were forming a mound,
But the guns would not cease until the very last round,
From 105âs 105s.
The battle raged on through that terrible night,
Uncertain the thoughts of the men in the fight,
But the soldiers had been trained for a job to be done
And all fought and battled until it was won.
At the end of it all they all looked around,
They were tired, drenched and spent,
And looked at each other in wonderment.
Through the days that had passed battle honours had been won,
You could not but admire the Australian Son,
But then a glance at that little gun, 105âs 105s.
WO2 Bill Pritchard
----
Body Bags
Body bags slick, shining green,
white nylon zips unable to stem
the knowing of limp slack lines
and men who once were friends.
Floppy hands and heavy carry
to waiting helicopter doors,
and mates who once smiled
now stacked on aluminium floors.
Congealed blood and torn boots
by the bamboo groves,
and thumping rotor blades
taking away the stiffened hands.
Stacked, flopped, almost liquid
in the obscene formlessness of plastic,
hiding the end product of insanity
and the awful work of jumping mines.
Taking from your pocket a letter
still unread, but opened by shrapnel,
and here an arm, and there a leg,
neatly body-bagged, and bloody well dead.
The ashes of unshown grief choking us
along with the red dust as you go away,
now a mere dot in the vault of the sky,
wrapped with your memories in a bag.
Lt John A. Moller
RNZIR Whiskey Two
Vietnam
----
The Last Step
Had enough time to cry
âMy God!â
As the innocent track
Leapt up in a moment
Of sound and fury
And the jumping mine
Cut him in two
At his pubic hair line.
And in the dark shadows
On the sides of the track
His friends all retched
And gently reached back,
Pulling their bayonets
To prod the bloody track.
Fighting down their fear
And wanting to run,
But knowing if they did
Theyâd be dead, every one;
Feeling for the trip-wires
And the shining prongs,
Inch by inch all prodding
The leaf mould and the slime.
John A. Moller
----
A Salute to the Men of Long Tan
Kiss your wives and farewell your friends,
itâs time my lads to stand with the men;
Bloodied red bayonets and mouths painful dry,
bandage your brothers, and try not to cry.
The Vietcong are coming all black down the road
so take up your rifles and aim well and load;
Forget all your dreams and remember your past,
I fear that this battle may well be your last.
Stay firm in the trenches, shoot slightly low,
ignore dying friends as the cannon mouths glow,
The enemy are evil and slavery their name,
so fix tight your bayonets and mark well the aim.
So kiss all your wives and hug tight your child,
for today is the day
âTake Post! Take Post!â Theyâd heard it before,
They were quick to their guns, a few even swore,
But this was a fire mission like none in the past
And so it had started the battle at Long Tan.
The boys from D Company were in a fix,
Not far from the Dat, about two clicks,
The call came in for support to survive
And to the fore were 105âs 105s.
In the rubber plantation the boys on the ground,
Facing enemy fire from all around,
Conditions appalling the mud and fierce rain,
Visibility a problem but confusion restrained;
The position more clearly with bright blue flashes,
From the guns in support landing rounds in the ashes;
The gunfire was loud, bright and blaring,
Placed a look on the diggers surprised and glaring.
They knew there was hope with accurate fire
To help them survive the mud and the mire,
The guns so constant with dangerous close fire.
Back at the Dat the actions were true,
The boys on the guns they knew what to do;
The weather so bad the rain teeming down,
Strong cordite mist was hugging the ground,
Empty cart cases were forming a mound,
But the guns would not cease until the very last round,
From 105âs 105s.
The battle raged on through that terrible night,
Uncertain the thoughts of the men in the fight,
But the soldiers had been trained for a job to be done
And all fought and battled until it was won.
At the end of it all they all looked around,
They were tired, drenched and spent,
And looked at each other in wonderment.
Through the days that had passed battle honours had been won,
You could not but admire the Australian Son,
But then a glance at that little gun, 105âs 105s.
WO2 Bill Pritchard
----
Body Bags
Body bags slick, shining green,
white nylon zips unable to stem
the knowing of limp slack lines
and men who once were friends.
Floppy hands and heavy carry
to waiting helicopter doors,
and mates who once smiled
now stacked on aluminium floors.
Congealed blood and torn boots
by the bamboo groves,
and thumping rotor blades
taking away the stiffened hands.
Stacked, flopped, almost liquid
in the obscene formlessness of plastic,
hiding the end product of insanity
and the awful work of jumping mines.
Taking from your pocket a letter
still unread, but opened by shrapnel,
and here an arm, and there a leg,
neatly body-bagged, and bloody well dead.
The ashes of unshown grief choking us
along with the red dust as you go away,
now a mere dot in the vault of the sky,
wrapped with your memories in a bag.
Lt John A. Moller
RNZIR Whiskey Two
Vietnam
----
The Last Step
Had enough time to cry
âMy God!â
As the innocent track
Leapt up in a moment
Of sound and fury
And the jumping mine
Cut him in two
At his pubic hair line.
And in the dark shadows
On the sides of the track
His friends all retched
And gently reached back,
Pulling their bayonets
To prod the bloody track.
Fighting down their fear
And wanting to run,
But knowing if they did
Theyâd be dead, every one;
Feeling for the trip-wires
And the shining prongs,
Inch by inch all prodding
The leaf mould and the slime.
John A. Moller
----
A Salute to the Men of Long Tan
Kiss your wives and farewell your friends,
itâs time my lads to stand with the men;
Bloodied red bayonets and mouths painful dry,
bandage your brothers, and try not to cry.
The Vietcong are coming all black down the road
so take up your rifles and aim well and load;
Forget all your dreams and remember your past,
I fear that this battle may well be your last.
Stay firm in the trenches, shoot slightly low,
ignore dying friends as the cannon mouths glow,
The enemy are evil and slavery their name,
so fix tight your bayonets and mark well the aim.
So kiss all your wives and hug tight your child,
for today is the day
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