Lying 'mongst the fallen.
Created | Updated Apr 24, 2009
Lying 'mongst the fallen,
head rests on others' death.
Holes bleed red, tunic's gape,
noisome stench, exhalations rent.
Memories sharp, bright, unbidden,
play through curtained pain.
Sweet sounds; that beery taste;
country air; a thirst to slake.
Smiling face, poster exhorts,
‘Coo-ee, won't you come?'
Bluey and Chikka rib him at the pub.
'Car'n mate don't be a bloody bludger.
'Come an' join with us!'
Dad tells him: 'Never trust an Officer.
Stick by all your mates.'
Mum, steeled, sobbing, soft smelling,
hugs him to her heart.
'Come home to me, my darling boy.'
Port of Albany, Western Australia:
Troopships, Cruisers, men and horses.
Guns 'n' barrels, tins in boxes;
gangplanks raising, falling, streamers coiling.
Blue seas wider, ever more water,
desert river, Pyramids, camels with one hump.
Pommy officers all spit and polish,
blokes in turbans, women with no faces.
Calm seas, strange shores; no waves like home.
Hot days, mild nights,
Different stars, different lights.
Ships 'n' boats, ships 'n' boats.
Imperial steel, long guns and stacks,
smoke billowing back, lines charcoaled black.
Pale Pommy soldiers, laughing mates,
grinning at accents, slapping backs.
Bright sharp outlines, cliff and beach
studded with splotches, khaki and scrub.
Soldiers talking harems, Turkish delights,
officers talking wine, uncouth Colonials.
Little boats filled with mates;
dawn without rocking of metal plates.
Landing; splashing, gunshots, screams,
Jesus Christ! It's hell I've seen.
Days of death: blest I'm left.
Tired bodies sag, so little rest.
Weeks of death but still we jest.
Christ knows if we'll die: who's next?
Cricket on beaches, swinging whacks ‘n' taps.
Soaking mouldy biscuits, chewing on the tack.
Smiles release the floodgates, tears unbidden wrack.
We're on the Grand Adventure, by God it's turning black.
Splashes of redness on parched lips,
whizzing bullets, ‘Zzzt...Zzzt.Zzzt'.
Bits and pieces blown about,
mince of no one's choosing.
Ground's already wet and blotched,
gore of morning's sacrifice.
Life-force flutters, beats uneven;
I think I'm never leaving.
Memories of blood, that salty taste.
Is it mine or the poor Coot near me?
Face shot off him, his eye rests on Khaki,
strange it looks, strange but familiar.
Like runny yolk of breakfast past.
Screams: interrupted reverie,
Grist for the mill runs over, past me.
'Zzzt, Zzzt'; dull plops, speeding lead, pliant flesh.
Emergent figures, haze of death.
Cloth covered helmets, walrus moustaches.
‘Allah, Allah Akhbar': here was Johnny Turk.
He bled and died, he cried like us.
I'm scared, Mum. Please, Dad, take me home.
Pommy lying next to me's ballooned full of flies.
Boy I'm lying top of hails from Wangaratta.
Fifteen he was; tricked 'em at the office.
A child's voice, stilled and soon forgotten.
Now his legs lie out in front of me,
tattered scraps of cloth and bone.
Such calves he has: God's speed,
but no football evermore.
I played cricket, rugby too,
went to Sydney, jeez no school.
Kissed a girl, lips red ‘n' cool,
gosh she's pretty, dressed in blue.
Laughing, giggling, gawd I'm a fool.
Peeked at Auntie: Dad's hard boot.
Horses shot: His rough embrace.
Damned dogs they ate his birds!
By crikey he chased 'em flat.
I wish I'd hugged him back.
First beer: I coughed and spluttered;
he swelled and smiled so wide.
His funny wink: I swaggered and I swayed.
I'm crying now, though tears are not for men.
Mum fixed a knee: 'A tough'un you'll be.'
Grabbed cakes ‘n' buns: Christ! Me poor bum.
She licked her hand for hair astray,
nights sick with sweat then her sweet kiss.
Coming home now, Mum, coming home.
The Turks are shooting over me,
they run so bloody fast.
One drops just nearby me,
blood runs from his mouth.
Up he gets- a boy like me
‘Allah, Allah,' on one knee.
Raising his gun he looks at me.
I blink, and see her smiling.
head rests on others' death.
Holes bleed red, tunic's gape,
noisome stench, exhalations rent.
Memories sharp, bright, unbidden,
play through curtained pain.
Sweet sounds; that beery taste;
country air; a thirst to slake.
Smiling face, poster exhorts,
‘Coo-ee, won't you come?'
Bluey and Chikka rib him at the pub.
'Car'n mate don't be a bloody bludger.
'Come an' join with us!'
Dad tells him: 'Never trust an Officer.
Stick by all your mates.'
Mum, steeled, sobbing, soft smelling,
hugs him to her heart.
'Come home to me, my darling boy.'
Port of Albany, Western Australia:
Troopships, Cruisers, men and horses.
Guns 'n' barrels, tins in boxes;
gangplanks raising, falling, streamers coiling.
Blue seas wider, ever more water,
desert river, Pyramids, camels with one hump.
Pommy officers all spit and polish,
blokes in turbans, women with no faces.
Calm seas, strange shores; no waves like home.
Hot days, mild nights,
Different stars, different lights.
Ships 'n' boats, ships 'n' boats.
Imperial steel, long guns and stacks,
smoke billowing back, lines charcoaled black.
Pale Pommy soldiers, laughing mates,
grinning at accents, slapping backs.
Bright sharp outlines, cliff and beach
studded with splotches, khaki and scrub.
Soldiers talking harems, Turkish delights,
officers talking wine, uncouth Colonials.
Little boats filled with mates;
dawn without rocking of metal plates.
Landing; splashing, gunshots, screams,
Jesus Christ! It's hell I've seen.
Days of death: blest I'm left.
Tired bodies sag, so little rest.
Weeks of death but still we jest.
Christ knows if we'll die: who's next?
Cricket on beaches, swinging whacks ‘n' taps.
Soaking mouldy biscuits, chewing on the tack.
Smiles release the floodgates, tears unbidden wrack.
We're on the Grand Adventure, by God it's turning black.
Splashes of redness on parched lips,
whizzing bullets, ‘Zzzt...Zzzt.Zzzt'.
Bits and pieces blown about,
mince of no one's choosing.
Ground's already wet and blotched,
gore of morning's sacrifice.
Life-force flutters, beats uneven;
I think I'm never leaving.
Memories of blood, that salty taste.
Is it mine or the poor Coot near me?
Face shot off him, his eye rests on Khaki,
strange it looks, strange but familiar.
Like runny yolk of breakfast past.
Screams: interrupted reverie,
Grist for the mill runs over, past me.
'Zzzt, Zzzt'; dull plops, speeding lead, pliant flesh.
Emergent figures, haze of death.
Cloth covered helmets, walrus moustaches.
‘Allah, Allah Akhbar': here was Johnny Turk.
He bled and died, he cried like us.
I'm scared, Mum. Please, Dad, take me home.
Pommy lying next to me's ballooned full of flies.
Boy I'm lying top of hails from Wangaratta.
Fifteen he was; tricked 'em at the office.
A child's voice, stilled and soon forgotten.
Now his legs lie out in front of me,
tattered scraps of cloth and bone.
Such calves he has: God's speed,
but no football evermore.
I played cricket, rugby too,
went to Sydney, jeez no school.
Kissed a girl, lips red ‘n' cool,
gosh she's pretty, dressed in blue.
Laughing, giggling, gawd I'm a fool.
Peeked at Auntie: Dad's hard boot.
Horses shot: His rough embrace.
Damned dogs they ate his birds!
By crikey he chased 'em flat.
I wish I'd hugged him back.
First beer: I coughed and spluttered;
he swelled and smiled so wide.
His funny wink: I swaggered and I swayed.
I'm crying now, though tears are not for men.
Mum fixed a knee: 'A tough'un you'll be.'
Grabbed cakes ‘n' buns: Christ! Me poor bum.
She licked her hand for hair astray,
nights sick with sweat then her sweet kiss.
Coming home now, Mum, coming home.
The Turks are shooting over me,
they run so bloody fast.
One drops just nearby me,
blood runs from his mouth.
Up he gets- a boy like me
‘Allah, Allah,' on one knee.
Raising his gun he looks at me.
I blink, and see her smiling.
