Discussion in 'World War 2' started by Antipodean Andy, Sep 23, 2007.
Post WWII soldiering poetry here. I reckon Ron'll have some good stuff!
All the blooming way.
by: D Hunter of 2/12th Bn
I saw a kid marchin' with medals on his chest.
He marched alongside Diggers marchin' six abreast.
He knew it was ANZAC Day – he walked along with pride.
He did his best to keep in step with the Diggers by his side.
And when the march was over the kid was rather tired.
A digger said "Whose medals son? " to which the kid replied:
"They belong to Daddy, but he did not come back
He died up in New Guinea on a lonely jungle track".
The kid looked rather sad then a tear came to his eye.
The Digger said "Don’t cry my son and I will tell you why,
Your Daddy marched with us today – all the bloomin' way.
We Diggers know that he was here, it’s like that on ANZAC Day."
The kid looked rather puzzled and didn’t understand
But the Digger went on talking and started to wave his hand.
"For this great land we live in, there’s a price we have to pay.
And for this thing we call freedom, the Diggers had to pay."
"For we all love fun and merriment in this country where we live,
The price was that some soldiers, their precious life must give.
For you to go to school, my lad, and worship God at will
Someone had to pay the price, so the Diggers paid the bill.
Your Daddy died for us my son – for all things good and true,
I wonder if you can understand the things I’ve said to you."
The kid looked up at the Digger – just for a little while,
And with a changed expression, said, with a lovely smile:
"I know my daddy marched with us today – on this, our ANZAC Day,
I know he did – I know he did – all the bloomin' way "
THE CROSSES GROW ON ANZIO
Oh, gather 'round me, comrades
And listen while I weep;
Of a war, a war, a war...
where hell is six feet deep.
Along the shore, the cannons roar.
Oh how can a soldier sleep?
The going's slow on Anzio
And hell is six feet deep.
Praise be to God for this captured sod
That’s rich where blood does seep;
With yours and mine, like butchered swine;
And hell is six feet deep.
That death does wait
There's no debate;
No triumph will we reap
The crosses grow on Anzio,
Where hell is six feet deep.
BY: Audie Murphy, 1948
A BEACH IN FRANCE
Last night I sat and watched a man die
He wasn't afraid he seemed in good cheer.
Last night I sat and asked myself why
A dying man should feel no fear.
One minute he breathed, a faint smile on his face
He wasn't afraid he seemed so at peace
One minute he was here and then he was gone
An empty shell in a lonely space
He said "At last I'm old" and then he died
Too many go young when a thief steals their time
At least he was warm, with a friend by his side
No one should die alone
Last night I sat and watched a man die
He wasn’t afraid, he'd faced death before
Last night he told me how he'd stolen his time
On a beach in France in '44'.
From youth he jumped chest high in pink water
Wading ashore in another worlds war
Random selection in a senseless slaughter
Praying to his Jesus for a few minutes more
He killed his first man near that beach in France
Fifty years later he still prayed for his soul
He found his God on that beach in France
Crying in terror in a too shallow hole
(Dedicated to the memory of ex Sergeant Arthur Walton,
Kings Shropshire Light Infantry, British Army 1939 - 1947)
By: Frank Gibbons
Goodbye, G.I., big-hearted Joe.
We are glad you came. We hope you’re sad to go.
Say what you can for this old-fashioned isle;
And when you can’t - well, say it with a smile.
Goodbye, G.I., and now you know the way.
Come back and see us in a brighter day,
When England’s free, and “Scotch” is cheap but strong,
And you can bring your pretty wives along.
Goodbye, G.I., don’t leave us quite alone.
Somewhere in England we must write in stone!
“Here Britain Was Invaded By The Yanks,”
And under that, a big and brilliant “Thanks!”.
Eulogy for a Veteran
Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the Gentle autumn rain
When you awaken in the mornings hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there, I did not die.
Antoine de Saint Expury
The soldier is not a man of violence.
He carries arms and risks his life
for mistakes not of his making.
He has the merit of being unflinchingly
true to his word, to the end,
while knowing that he will be forgotten.
The Final Inspection
The soldier stood and faced his God
Which must always come to pass.
He hoped his shoes were shining
Just as brightly as his brass.
Step forward now, you soldier,
How shall I deal with you?
Have you always turned the other cheek?
To My Church have you been true?
The soldier squared his shoulders and
said, No, Lord, I guess I ain't,
Because those of us who carry guns
can't always be a saint.
I've had to work most Sundays,
And at times my talk was tough;
And sometimes I've been violent,
Because the world is awfully rough.
But, I never took a penny
That wasn't mine to keep...
Though I worked a lot of overtime
When the bills just got too steep.
And I never passed a cry for help;
Though at times I shook with fear.
And sometimes, God forgive me,
I've wept unmanly tears.
I know I don't deserve a place
Among the people here.
They never wanted me around
Except to calm their fear.
If you've a place for me here, Lord,
It needn't be so grand.
I never expected or had to much;
But if you don't, I'll understand.
There was a silence all around the throne
Where the saints had often trod.
As the soldier waited quietly
For the judgment of his God.
Step forward now, you soldier,
You've borne your burdens well.
Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets;
You've done your time in Hell.
This was written in reply to Brooke's The Soldier:
If you should die, think only this of me
In that still quietness where is space for thought,
Where parting, loss and bloodshed shall not be,
And men may rest themselves and dream of nought:
That in some place a mystic mile away
One whom you loved has drained the bitter cup
Till there is nought to drink; has faced the day
Once more, and now, has raised the standard up.
And think, my son, with eyes grown clear and dry
She lives as though for ever in your sight,
Loving the things you loved, with heart aglow
For country, honour, truth, traditions high,
- Proud that you paid their price. (And if some night
Her heart should break - well, lad, you will not know.)
It is the soldier, not the reporter, Who has given us freedom of the press.
It is the soldier, not the poet, Who has given us freedom of speech.
It is the soldier, not the organizer, Who has given us the freedom to demonstrate.
It is the soldier, Who salutes the flag, Who serves beneath the flag,
And whose coffin is draped by the flag, Who allows the protestor to burn the flag.
- Father Dennis Edward O'Brian, USMC (often incorrectly attributed to Charles M. Province)
"For the Fallen"
[FONT=Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif]For the Fallen[/FONT]
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears. They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe. They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them. They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables at home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam. But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night; As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain. Laurence Binyon (1869-1943)
ALONE AND FAR REMOVED
Alone and far removed from earthly care
The noble ruins of men lie buried here.
You were strong men, good men
Endowed with youth and much the will to live.
I hear no protest from the mute lips of the dead.
They rest; there is no more to give.
So long, my comrades,
Sleep ye where you fell upon the field.
But tread softly please
March o'er my heart with ease
March on and on,
But to God alone we kneeled.
By: Audie Murphy
They always make me cry no matter how many times I read them! Whilst I knew that Audie Murphy was a war hero, I didn't realise that he was also the poet - I thought it was a namesake.
He was also a songwriter Nana !
Audie Murphy - American Hero
What a nice looking man he was !! .... and still young when he died .... after all he went through !
RIP Audie !
Not a bad actor either although I've only seen him in Jimmy Stewart's Night Passage.
I’ll tell you a tale of a Martuba
Off gunners from old Blighty shores.
Of Stuka’s and bombs and machine guns
Of M.E’s and Macchis and more.
On through the night with ne’er a light
We crept till the break of day
With sand in our eyes, we searching the skies
For the birds, that in Martuba lay.
A roar in the air, means an M.E. is there
And he’s out to settle a score.
As the rounds of our guns, slow the start of the fun
And the Stukas come out and lots more.
And then comes the crack of Bafor Ack-Ack.
And the Bren Guns also let drive.
One Stuka his tricks end, with just two kicks
He comes down in a desert bound dive
We load up our rounds, for the Martuba we’re bound
And so on for more weary hours
Till at night we are quite on our marks.
With the dead on the deck, theirs and ours.
Aye we’re the boys, Old Englands sons.
Just some of the lads in the racket,
With our quads and our guns and our downed
You betcha we gave em a packet.
BBC - WW2 People's War - The Story of DOUGLAS HEWITT (my husband) â€” Part 2
There are others on that page
Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels'Many a mother in Australiawhen the busy day is doneSends a prayer to the Almightyfor the keeping of her sonAsking that an angel guide himand bring him safely backNow we see those prayers are answeredon the Owen Stanley TrackFor they haven't any halosonly holes slashed in their earsAnd their faces worked by tattooswith scratch pins in their hairBringing back the badly woundedjust as steady as a horseUsing leaves to keep the rain offand as gentle as a nurseSlow and careful in the bad placeson the awful mountain trackThe look upon their faceswould make you think Christ was blackNot a move to hurt the woundedas they treat him like a saintIt's a picture worth recordingthat an artist's yet to paintMany a lad will see his motherand husbands see their wivesJust because the fuzzy wuzzycarried them to save their livesFrom mortar bombs and machine gun fireor chance surprise attacksTo the safety and the care of doctorsat the bottom of the trackMay the mothers of Australiawhen they offer up a prayerMention those impromptu angelswith their fuzzy wuzzy hair.Bert Beros
The Heroes of Tobruk
Who comprise those gallant heroes, and where did they come from
Renowned in song and story, Aussies some thousands strong?
They are composed of Macs and O’s, with Smiths and Jones combined
With Camerons and Campbells to fortify the line.
Now famed the wide world over for the blows they gave and took
On the sandy plains of Africa, in and round Tobruk.
Now, what inspired such valour, many thousand miles from home?
It was not lust of conquest – they had plenty of their own.
It was for faith and freedom, and Australia’s honour, too,
And to stem the tide of evil and tyranny subdue.
Urged on by noble sentiments, the Aussies cannot fail.
For God and King and Country, their arms will prevail.
You may scan all history’s pages, but wherever you may look,
You’ll never meet with braver than the heroes of Tobruk.
James Sweeney (1943)
A Soldiers Dream
Submitted by: Billy Little
Author: Billy LittleEvery soldier has a dream
Whilst going off to war
He dreams of coming home
And what he`s fighting for
The promise he made to his mother
Whispered in a farewell embrace
Or the tears he wipes away
From his little sisters face
He shakes the hand of his father
Then hugs him ever so tight
He's holding back the tears
With all of his might
His wife kisses him so tenderly
While his son is at his knee
He scoops him up into his arms
The tears flow for all to see
His little boy wipes his tears
And say`s “Daddy don't cry”
I will look after mum for you
If you were to die
He puts his son down
And turns to walk away
Dreaming, that he will
Make it home one day
military wife do not be afraid
Author: Janelle CabreraGod was watching a military wife one day and she sat in her bathroom crying by herself so her children could not hear. He stood behind her and said
"Military wife do not be scared.
I am always behind you your heartache I share.
Do not be afraid to tell the ones you love
,that your soldier may or may not be watching you from above.
You are tired I know but do not be afraid
to tell your soldier after his long hard rough day.
Do not hide inside all the fears that you feel
Your soldier he will listen and your heart he will heal.
He thinks of you more than you think of him.
He loves you so dearly, his heart you did win
He wants you to know as he crys alone
That you make his life, his pride and his home.
Military wife you are not alone
when you say to your children that daddy will not come home.
He is with me at last
and I care for him always
but his love for you lasts and with you it will stay
He will watch over you daily and at noon and at night
He will kiss your head gently even when he's out of sight
Military wife do not cry, I am here
I am holding you hand
ANd I swallow your fear"
And with that the wife got up on her feet. And although she didn't hear god speak to her. She was alright.
Separate names with a comma.