MEMORIES

When all is quiet and I'm alone,
Memories come flooding back on their own,
Of people, times and places,
Of deeds and names and faces.

I can't remember all the good times,
But I can't forget the bad times.
Friends and foes pass by in line,
As they wander through my mind.

There are things I thought I'd left behind,
That I'd banished from my mind,
But they all come back unbidden,
From the place where they've been hidden.

Memories can be important things,
When threats of war make bugles sing.
And though we may not like to fight,
We'll defend our land with all our might.

I'm just a burned out digger now,
And I sit and wonder how,
That past events are still so real,
They won't allow my mind to heal.

WHY

Do you wake up in the morning,
And feel you want to cry?
Do you dread the coming dawning,
But really don’t know why?

At night with head on pillow,
And with God your peace you make?
Do you think about to-morrow,
And hope that you don’t wake?

I feel this way most mornings,
And the world won’t go away
So I face the new day’s dawning
And hope I’ll be OK.

I didn’t go away like this
I’m a shell of what I was,
And the Government that owned us
Is embarrassed now by us

Our death rate is much higher
Than the civvy population’s
Our Cancer rate is higher
Than most other occupations

But the Minister assures us
That we are well attended
But the Minister didn’t fire a shot
Or see her world up-ended

We gave our best, and lived to fight,
Again, if our country needs
But although we know untruth is rife
For our country we’d still give our life

THE BLAME

Fear of it stops you from finding out
What you can do.

Experience of it stops you from wanting
To do what you can do.

I'm so tired of trying,
I'm so tired of crying.

I'm so tired that I don't know
If I can try again.

So tired, so tired, so tired.

PSALM 7.62

The section commander is my shepherd.
I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in safe shell scrapes,
and leadeth me to the meeting place for the APCs.

He giveth me strength.

He guideth me in the right paths through the mine fields, as he has promised.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil, for the Corporal is with me.

His SLR and radio will protect me.

He provides a ration pack banquet for me, where all my enemies cannot see me.

He treats me as a good soldier,
and allows me to fill my cup canteen to the brim.

I know that his skill and strength will be with me all my life,

And his hootchie will be my hootchie as long as I live

For the Section Commanders
(With apologies to those people who wrote the original in the Good Book)

BLUEY TURNER’S PARTY

We were just five burned out diggers,
As we sat there with old Blue,
With thirty years of memories,
Some were vague and some were true.

We’d gathered there at Phil’s place,
‘Cause Blue’s not been too well.
You should have seen his bloody face,
And the stories it could tell.

He hadn’t had a word of warning,
Of what Phil had all teed up.
And when we came around the corner,
He nearly had a pup.

Mick Gibbons was there from Burnie,
He still talks kind of slow,
And Paul Curran came from Melbourne,
Boy, can he put on a show.

I’d come down from Ocean View,
To join Phil Brookes, my mate.
He said I had to be there too,
And made sure I had the date.

We won the war on Friday night,
Before we went to bed,
But when we woke at morning,
Had to check if we were dead.

When lunchtime slowly came around,
We went as people should,
To the Brekky Creek for a mighty steak,
And to try one "off the wood".

On Saturday night we held the fort,
And battled on again,
And boosted by a vintage Port,
We won the war again.

On Sunday morn we parted,
With photographs to show,
That although we’ve aged a little,
We’ll still step up to "have a go".

And Blue, we hope that you’ll do well,
You know we love you mate,
And even though you’ve been through hell,
Don’t rush on through that gate.

Bob Lange 28-02-2004

ANZAC DAY

ANZAC Day is here once more,
We'll march again with pride.
We don't march to glorify war,
We march for those who died.

We'll march again with heads held high,
As Aussies ought to do.
But there'll be some with a teary eye,
For each year we lose a few.

We've marched from France to Germany,
And from Moresby to Japan,
In Korea, Malaya and Borneo,
- And we marched in Viet Nam.

We march to-day to celebrate,
The fact that we are free.
We march to-day to thank our mates,
Who are no longer here to see.

We march for those who cannot march,
Who've paid the price of war,
But if the need should rise again,
We'll have to march once more.

So don't ever say we glorify war,
Or that we revelled in the slaughters,
We went away to fight those wars,
To protect our sons and daughters.

We've seen the horrors of a war,
So that our children wouldn't see,
But we march to-day to remind the world,
That Australia must be free.

And every year we'll march again,
On this important day,
To thank the ones who gave their all,
So Australia could be saved.

And their voices may be heard,
As we bow our heads in silence,
"We died for you, our children,
So Australia can be free."

A FINAL FAREWELL TO BLUE

We met in Nineteen Sixty Eight,
Four blokes from different Aussie states.
One thing in common in a world of hate,
We had Bluey Turner for a mate.

Blue was just an ordinary soldier,
But a man you’d be proud to have at your shoulder.
In a land of death and despair we found,
We somehow felt better when Blue was around.

We’ll never forget his cheeky grin,
And we’re united again in mourning for him.
Always happy but rarely loud,
Somehow he always stood out in a crowd.

We’re here to-day to say our good-byes,
And not ashamed of the tears in our eyes.
The body is just an empty shell.
Blue, we know you’re in heaven, you’ve already been through hell.

Our lives are richer for having known you.
Farewell Blue, we’ll never forget you.

From Phil Brookes, Paul Curran, Mick Gibbons and Bob Lange

Bob Lange June 2004

NED

He was a man of Faith and Dignity,
And it carried him through life.
He had so much love within him,
For his family and his wife.

When war came rushing to the world,
He did his duty there.
But only on one day a year,
Would his medals show just where.

He always had some time to spare,
To help someone in need,
And he took the time to say a prayer
When he couldn’t help by deed

When sickness finally laid him low,
He didn’t ask for pity,
And he died the same way that he lived,
In Faith and quiet Dignity

Lest We Forget
For the Talbot Family
Bob Lange 30 Jun 04

LIQUID GOLD

On the 18th of August, Two Thousand and Four,
We met at Mudjimba, on Maroochy’s North Shore.
Just a bunch of old diggers from the Vietnam War
And we prayed for ourselves and our brothers once more.
That special day in August, we marched with mates of old.
And the tributes from the bugle, flowed like liquid gold.
It doesn’t matter what music you play, or if you practice ‘til you’re old.
For battle calls from times of old, only the bugle flows liquid gold.
We know that we are getting older, with troubles getting hard to shoulder.
But in every eye there came a tear, when the bugle called from yesteryear.
We’re a dying group I’ve heard it said, as more and more will join the dead,
Our numbers soon will start to fall, no more to hear the bugle call.
It doesn’t matter from whence you come, or if you march to a different drum
For battle calls from times of old, only the bugle flows liquid gold.

For Keith Walker,
AABC, 2 RAR

JUST A SIMPLE SOLDIER

He was getting old and paunchy, and his hair was falling fast,
And he sat there telling stories of his past,
Of a war that he had fought in, and the deeds that he had done,
With his mates, they were heroes, everyone.
And though sometimes to his neighbours, his tales became a joke,
His mates listened, for they knew whereof he spoke.
But we’ll hear his tales no longer, for old Blue has passed away,
Now we’re a little poorer, for a soldier died to-day.

No he won’t be mourned by many, just his children and his wife,
For he lived an ordinary, quiet life.
He held a job and raised a family, quietly going on his way,
And the world won’t note his passing, tho’ a soldier died to-day.
When politicians leave this earth, their bodies lie in state,
While thousands note their passing, and say that they were great
Papers tell of their life stories from the time that they were young,
While the passing of a soldier goes unnoticed and unsung.

Is the greatest contribution to the welfare of our land,
Some clown who breaks his promises and cons his fellow man?
Or the ordinary fellow, who in times of war and strife,
Goes off to serve his country, and offers up his life?
The politician’s stipend and the style in which he lives,
Are sometimes disproportionate to the services he gives,
While the ordinary soldier, who offered up his all
Is paid off with a medal, and perhaps a pension small.

It is so easy to forget, for it was so long ago,
That our Blue’s and Phil’s and Paul’s went to battle, but we know
It was not the politicians, with their compromise and ploys,
Who won for us the freedom that our country now enjoys.
Should you find yourself in danger, with your enemies at hand,
Would you really want some cop-out, with his ever-waffling stand?
Or would you want a simple soldier, who has sworn to defend
His home, his kin, his country, and would fight until the end?

He was just a common soldier, and his ranks are growing thin,
But his presence should remind us, we may need his like again.
For when countries are in conflict, then we find the soldier’s part
Is to clean up all the troubles that the politicians start.
If we can’t do him the honour while he’s here to hear the praise,
Then at least, let’s give him homage at the ending of his days.
Perhaps just a simple headline in the paper that might say,

THE COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING,
FOR A SOLDIER DIED TO-DAY