Background : The following are a collection of poems compiled by Bill. Some are confirmed as written by 2/2 Pioneer Battalion soldiers. They were originally sent to Snowy Anderson by Mrs Barbara Girardi in 1994 along with a letter.

FORT MERDJAYOUN By VX20808 Scotty Bell (2/2 Pioneer)

Oh, Syria ye land of mountains,
With ruggedness I’ll ne’er forget,
When I leave you behind,
I leave you with regret,

We’ll never forget that morning,
The 17th of June,
The Pioneers went into action,
At Fort Merjayoun,

You all were really tired,
Badly needed rest,
But you never grumbled,
I know you done your best,

You were well out-numbered,
You only had a few,
But you went in like heroes,
You had a job to do,

Your courage was Australian,
Your pluck we all admire,
But you had no chance,
Against that deadly fire,

Yes you had to take it,
Pioneers one and all,
Lying in that stony ground,
Or crouched behind a wall,

I will always think of pals,
While I say words such as these,
How you retreated from that fort,
Came back in two’s and three’s,

For those of you who did return,
To God we offer thanks,
I know you’ll never forget,
The Legionnaires and Franks,

Goodbye my pioneer comrades,
You didn’t die in vain,
We will tell the story,
When we get home again,

So I’ll leave you Pioneers,
With a pang of regret,
But you are Australian Heroes,
Australia can never forget.


DRIVERS By VX20808 Scotty Bell (2/2 Pioneer)

When we get back to Aussie,
And folks we love so well,
Sitting around our own fireside,
Stories we will tell,

You’ll hear of how the war was won,
Heroes that fought and fell,
Of heroes that done their job,
Amidst the shot and shell,

These are the boys I’d like to mention,
They never made a fuss,
They are the boys who done a job,
Driving a tank or bus,

I take my hat off to you drivers,
Always pals of mine,
I’ll never forget those hectic days,
Around the fighting line,

You took us many miles,
Places I know not where,
And when this job is finished,
I know you done your share,

Over Syria’s steep and stony tracks,
And narrow mountain passes,
Only fit for camel teams,
Goats, wogs and asses,

Around those hairpin bends,
With gorges many feet below,
But you never faltered drivers,
Onward you had to go,

Yes we are proud of you blokes,
You were tough guys,
They could not stop the drivers,
Though they bombed them from the skies,

Froggies tried to stop you,
Tried all the tricks they knew,
Blew up the roads and bridges,
Machine-gunned your buses too,

Many times you heard aircraft warning,
How you ducked for shelter,
Falling, tumbling over rocks,
Going helter skelter,

I wrote these few lines to the drivers,
I know the job they do,
And I know when we want them,
They will see us thru,

So when we get back to Aussie,
And stories we may tell,
Don’t forget to mention Drivers,
They done this job real well.


PIONEERS XMAS GREETING

Hello you folks at home,
In Aussie far away,
My thoughts are with you all,
On this Xmas Day,

Xmas time in Aussie,
I always will remember,
And I wish you all the best,
On the 25th of December,

A Merry Xmas to you all,
So be of good cheer,
T’is just a Xmas Greeting,
From a Pioneer,

Absence makes the heart grow fonder,
So most people say,
And my heart will be in Aussie,
On this Xmas Day,

I won’t be home for Xmas,
Even if I get the leave,
But I can picture those happy scenes,
Shopping on Xmas Eve,

I can see old Santa Claus,
With his bag of toys,
Bringing joy and happiness,
To all the girls and boys,

I see my friends at home,
Many pals I knew,
I see them celebrating Xmas,
They’ll have a niner too,

I see the children happy,
I hear the church bells chime,
May all the earth’s joys,
Be yours at Xmas time,

We wish you all the best,
The boys from over here,
We wish you all a Merry Xmas,
A Bright and Happy New Year,

We are sorry we can’t be with you,
But we are not to blame,
And what we’ll do to Adolph,
Well! It’s just a blooming shame!


SAFE AND WELL

When you’re sucking at your pencil,
And you don’t know what to say,
When you wish the flaming Censor,
Had ne’er seen the light of day,
There’s always one small item left,
Considered good to tell,
It doesn’t take much writing,
Dear Mum I’m safe and well,

The tucker may be onkus,
The water pretty crook,
You haven’t had a drop of beer,
Since Warell took Tobruk,
You’ve been up before the skipper,
For being A.W.L,
But take your pen and write it down,
Dear Mum I’m safe and well,

You’ve heard the Jerry Bombers,
Come screaming overhead,
And it isn’t very pleasant,
To be dodging lumps of lead,
When you’re lying in the trenches,
’Midst hail of shot and shell,
You’ll still have time to send a line,
Dear Mum I’m safe and well,

A grey haired mother standing,
Beside the old bush track,
Waiting for the mailman,
For news of Soldier Jack,
A smile lights up her worried face,
With a beauty words can’t tell,
As she reads the dear familiar words,
Dear Mum I’m safe and well.


WHEN I COME HOME TO STAY

I’m thinking of my friends,
Friends I call my own,
My thoughts are with you all,
As I sit here all alone,
I know you wish for my return,
’T will be a happy day,
When I return to Aussie,
To come home to stay,

I know that you are waiting,
With a friendship true,
And when this war is finished,
I’ll return to you,
You know my thoughts are with you,
Shall be with you always,
We shall be happy friends together,
When I come home to stay,

Although the seas do divide us,
And I’m far across the foam,
I know there is a welcome,
When I return to home,
We’ll enjoy this life together,
Together we’ll always stay,
When this job is finished,
And I’ve come home to stay,

When I return to you my friends,
I’ll see that Victory smile,
We’ll have a happy future,
Making life worthwhile,
Absence makes the heart grow fonder,
So most people say,
So remember the happy times to come,
When I come home to stay.


THE GUY THAT STAYED AT HOME

I’m pulling off my colours
Throwing my webbing away
Going back to my Alex
To draw my bloody pay
I’m tired of being a soldier
So help me God I am
Of eating mouldy biscuits
And chewing bread and jam
I’m tired of fighting Germans
Out on my bloody own
When I think of him back in Aussie
The guy that stayed at home

When I mentioned it to Mother
That I volunteered to fight
She said “God bless you son,
And bring you back alright”
He called me a chocolate soldier
A dollar-a-day murderer too
He said I’d never see the front
Or even get a view
He said ‘You’ll have a picnic
Across the ocean foam”
But he wasn’t game to try it
The guy that stayed at home

He isn’t a bad shot either
When on a rabbit track
But there ain’t no blooming danger
Because a rabbit can’t hit back
But it’s different here in Syria
Where the Froggies aren’t so slack
For if they get their eyes on you
There ain’t no coming back
His billiard cue is his rifle
The bar-room his fighting zone
For slacking don’t mean nothing
To the guy that stayed at home

As he swing around the ballroom
He thinks he’s used his wit
He even pinched my sheila
Don’t you think it’s time to quit
Stuck in these bloody trenches
Nine days out of ten
Never a spell comes near us
For we haven’t the fighting men
But if I get hit with shrapnel
I’ll die without a groan
For the one that really killed me
Is the guy that stayed at home.


FOR A CIGARETTE

Sometime life gets monotonous,
When one feels himself alone,
He sits down and thinks of troubles,
That he calls his own,
Of course I have a remedy,
Troubles I may forget,
I just pull out my tobacco,
And roll a cigarette,

Life has its sentimental moments,
Sometimes life is a joke,
You can see both sides of life,
As you watch the curling smoke,
So my pal if you have troubles,
Don’t sit around and fret,
Just pull out your tobacco,
And roll a cigarette,

When you’re in the Army,
And just come off parade,
Don’t growl about the Colonel,
Pull out a tailor made,
And as you puff away,
What a thrill you’ll get,
To find that things are not so bad,
When you’ve smoked a cigarette,

If ever you are on guard,
On the darkest night,
And you find a bumper,
That you long to light,
Do not light that bumper,
Or sure you will regret,
For that’s a risky time,
To smoke a cigarette,

As I watch the curling smoke,
A smiling face I see,
’Tis the face of a girl,
That’s waiting home for me,
So I rest contented,
I know she does not fret,
That’s one of my thoughts,
As I smoke my cigarette,

You’re just a puff of smoke,
But to me you are a friend,
And when I light you up,
I smoke you to the end,
One more thought of you,
This I’d like to say,
It grieves me very much,
To throw your bump away.


SONG OF TOBRUK

They brought us from Australia,
To fight the Nazi Huns,
We’re once more on the warpath,
Well equipped with tanks and guns,
They shoved us into Libya,
Where the guide says it’s grand,
But they all forgot to mention,
Little things like flies and sand,

Tobruk was chosen for the place,
For us to strut our stuff,
Old Jerry soon besieged it,
And began to treat us rough,
He dropped a kindly hint or two,
As to how we soon would cop it,
Advising us to turn it in,
Forget the war and hop it,

Now being mad Australians,
We just don’t take the drum,
So he sent his diving Stukas,
And made things darn well hum,
A few chaps took the final count,
And some joints got knocked about,
But the damage done as the Tommies say,
Was really bleeding nowt,

Ite’ keeps on raiding with his planes,
Drop bombs and booby traps,
His soldiers sometimes make a move,
And the lads have front line scraps,
But the months have passed we must admit,
I think we’re here to stay,
Till the Springboks come to join us,
Marching from Bardia way,

When we’re back at home again,
And all this strife is o’er,
Some silly mug is bound to ask,
“How did you win the war?”
You can look the bloke right in the eye,
And pat the babies curls,
Say “We defended Old Tobruk,
Where there wasn’t any girls”.


MY DOWNFALL OR HIS

He grabbed me by my slender neck,
I could not yell or scream,
He dragged me to his dingy room,
Where he could not be seen,

He took me from my flimsy wrap,
And gazed upon my form,
So beautiful, so bare, so cold,
And he was very warm,

His fevered lips he pressed on mine,
I gave him every drop,
He took from me my very soul,
I could not make him stop,

He made me what I am today,
That’s why you’ll find me here,
An empty bottle thrown away,
That once was full of beer.


THE ISLE OF DOOM

Here I sit on the Isle of Doom,
Bludging on my blistered feet,
Little wonder I’ve got the blues,
With feet encased in big canoes,
Khaki shorts instead of slacks,
Living like a tribe of blacks,
Except that blacks don’t sit and brood,
And wait throughout the day for food,

It was just a month ago, not more,
We sailed for Greece to win the war,
We marched and groaned beneath our load,
While bombers bombed us off the road,
They chased us here, they chased us there,
The devils chased us everywhere,
And while they dropped their loads of death,
We cursed the blooming R.A.F.,

Yet the R.A.F. were there in force,
They left a few at home of course,
We saw the entire force one day,
When a spitfire spat the other way,
And then we heard the wireless news,
When portly Winston gave his views,
“The R.A.F” he said, “in Greece,
Are fighting hard to give us peace”,

And so we scratched our heads and thought,
This smells distinctly like a wrought,
And if in Greece the Air Force be,
Then where Blooming Hell are we,
And then at last we met the Hun,
At odds of thirty three to one,
And though they made it pretty hot,
We gave the Devils all we got,

The bullets whizzed, the big guns roared,
We howled for ships to get aboard,
At last they came and in we got,
And hurried from that cursed spot,
And then they landed us in Crete,
And marched us off our bloody feet,
The food was light the water crook,
I get fed up and slung the hook,

Returned that night chock full of wine,
And next day copped a 2 quid fine,
My paybook was behind to hell,
When pay was called I said “Ah well,
They won’t pay me I’m sure of that”,
And when they did I smelt a rat,
And next day when the rations came,
I realised their wily game,

For sooner than sit down or lie,
We spent our dibs on food supply,
Soon now it looks like even betting,
A man will soon become a Cretin,
And spend his days in darkest gloom,
On Adolph Hitler’s Isle of Doom.


TOBRUK

The German tanks supported,
By bombers on the score,
Came rushing on through Libya,
As they had rushed before,
Through Norway, France and Poland,
They’d crashed their blooming way,
No force upon this earth, they thought,
In front of them could stay,

Our tanks were old and battered,
By months of desert war,
For everything that we possessed,
The Huns had got a score,
To stop them it seemed hopeless,
But still we had to try,
So at Tobruk we rallied,
Prepared to do or die,

We know their goal was Suez,
To us a vital place,
We knew that if they got there,
We’d not be in the race,
The Huns were pushing hard,
T’was there and then they must be held,
Not gain another yard,

Then up spoke Colonel Watson,
Chief of the A.S.C.,
“No work for us to do,
We’ll join the Infantry,
For every man is needed,
And boys from what I’ve seen,
I know that you will hold your own,
Although you’re rather green”,

“You’ve got the guts to take it,
You’ve proved that on the road,
When those infernal bombers,
Swooped down to drop their load,
The footmen in their sangars,
Below the stones can duck,
But when you’re on the open road,
You’ve got the trust to luck”,

“You’ve got the guts to take it,
I know your hearts are right,
And you won’t let your country down,
When you have to fight,
From petrol, ammo and supply,
We’ll form a company,
For here upon the restricted lines,
We don’t need much M.T.”,

So they issued us with bayonets,
And captured Iti guns,
And hand grenades and cocktails,
With which to greet the Huns,
At first they held us in reserve,
Until some needed rest,
Then marched us right up to the front,
And put us to the test,

We held the front positions,
The days turned into weeks,
The force that should relieve us,
Had gone to help the Greeks,
But we have dug our toes in,
We’ll stay till crack of doom,
We check the blighters at Tobruk,
They’ve stopped them at Sollum,

The war’s not nearly over,
I cannot end this tale,
But all the boys who hold Tobruk,
Are sure that we won’t fail,
So beat the Germans man for man,
Workers do your best,
Send us the equipment,
And we will do the rest.


A DOLLAR A DAY

A man’s a gig, that’s what he is,
Of that I’m blooming sure,
Since joining our dear Army,
I’ve never been so poor,

“Gawd strike me” mate it’s insulting,
And I’m not afraid to say,
To offer any man at all,
Five deeners for the day,

Just think you cobbers, what a screw,
Gawd Struth it’s fairly frowsy,
It’s every adjective you know,
From damn to b…….. lousy,

And such a fuss when payday comes,
Parades with all their din,
They’re not content with insults,
They love to rub it in,

But I suppose I’m only moanin’,
They call me “Moanin’ Mick”,
I’ll trouble you no more today,
For off I’ve gotta nick,

At any rate I’ve just remembered,
We’re paid in a few days,
I’ll make the most of what I get,
In the usual sorta ways,

But strike me pink, I near forgot,
I just remembered then,
Me lousy pay is not worth takin’,
For I owe two pound ten!


THE PIONEERS

To be a proper Pioneer,
Yer gotta know yer job,
And no-one does a better job than me,
I’m Private Willie Moggs,
I am the bloke what knows the game,
And no better Pioneer you’ll ever see,

The brass hats they come up to me,
And slap me on the back,
The Colonel, well he takes me out to tea,
I never was a growler,
I just takes it as me due,
’Cause I know it’s hard to find good blokes like me,

There’s a special job I do,
That maybe ain’t so nice,
But blimey I just take it in my stride,
I does ’em every day,
’Cause the Major likes ’em clean,
So in the job I takes special pride,

I scrubs ‘em all around the sides,
Before I lift the lid,
’Cause it ain’t so nice the contents of the can,
And when the boys get careless,
And fills ’em up to much,
Cripes, the odour is enough to knock a man,

There’s a cove what comes each morning,
To cart away the stuff,
A funny sort of bloke it’s plain to see,
I says “there’s too much liquid”,
And it slops all down his back,
And seems to like to lay the blame on me,

And when the job is finished,
And I sorta beam with pride,
A proper Pioneer could not want more,
Than to see ’em all so nice and clean,
And lined up in a row,
Waste tucker cans outside the cookhouse door.


GOOD OLD NO. 9

If your head is aching and your bones are sore,
And a cough tears your chest like a crosscut saw,
P’raps it’s bronchitis, consumption or gout,
Lumbago, neuritis. You’re ill without doubt,

It may be the stomach, liver or flu,
The kidneys, digestion, heart trouble too,
A chill or a cold may have you in a grip,
A touch of asthma or just the plain pip,

A corn or a bunion may give you much pain,
It may be neuralgia or toothache again,
Rheumatics, anaemia or peritonitis,
Or only just common or garden tiredness,

Whatever your complaint, pray don’t lose your head,
He cannot cure that or a limb you have shed,
But if you have one of the aforementioned ills,
The M.O. will cure you with No.9 pills.


INNOCULATION By WX5918 Private P. Bradley

It’s roll up the sleeves and get into line,
And hold out the arm for the iodine,
Then it’s file past the doc’,
Who with needled syringe,
Injects you with serum,
And leaves quite a twinge,

Then the dope gets to work and you suffer the shakes,
And your arm grows hot and your head how it aches,
And you slink to your hut and flop on your bunk,
Cursing the doctor and all of his junk,

And you don’t give a damn if we lose or we win,
Or if the old globe decides not to spin,
And there in your gloom, you squirm and you moan,
And Garbo-like pine to be left all alone.


BULLY BEEF A LA CARTE

The slabs of bully beef that often grace,
The tables of our sturdy fighting forces,
E’re long I have a notion will give place,
To more refined, more epicurean courses,
With touches of the Ritz and the Savoy,
That well might make the soldiers cry “Oh Boy”,

Where now the camp cook ladles out the stew,
With gesture that says flatly take or leave it,
He’ll soon adopt an attitude quite new,
How gratefully the diggers will receive it,
And probably he’ll gammon that he’s deaf,
Unless respectfully addressed as chef,

Where now the soldiers eat off plates of tin,
And sit at an uncheering clothless table,
Amidst a horrible metallic din,
Swelled by a constant cook denouncing babble,
They’ll soon, if we can credit what we hear,
Be dining in a different atmosphere,

White cloths the tables with doubtless grace,
Gay flowers will be there for decoration,
A finger bowl will stand at every place,
Each course will be enhanced by a libation,
Of wine and when the dinner has been downed,
Cigars will probably be handed ’round,

The fricassee of boulli boef will earn,
The chef, no doubt, the soldiers’ deep devotion,
In lapin de garenne they’ll not discern,
Wild rabbit they’ll pronounce with deep emotion,
The pommes de terra bouvilles quite a treat,
Boiled spuds by any name will taste as sweet,

Yes things will be much better when the cooks,
Who feed the troops, are into chef’s translated,
And cook the food according to the book,
At least they’re apt to be less exasperated,
So here’s luck to the lads who crave relief,
From daily rounds of stew & bully beef.


WHITE CROSSES By QX11656 Private D. J. Wotherspoon

On the day before leave-taking,
From this place called Tobruk Bay,
One last visit I’ll be making,
To the graveyard down the way,
Where eight hundred small white crosses,
And eight hundred sacred mounds,
Show where our Australian losses,
Sleep their last on foreign grounds,

Every white cross tells a story,
With a number, rank and name,
Every mound is one of glory,
For it holds an Anzac’s frame,
Each fair state a space divided,
In this square of Libyan sand,
And undoubtedly decided,
Fairest square in all the land,

Every mound holds someone’s Digger,
Every cross some mother’s pride,
And Australia’s fame grows bigger,
For the way those heroes died,
Best of mates ’tis hard to leave you,
In this sandy waste so bare,
But fond hearts will ne’er forget you,
In your native land so fair,

We know not our destination,
When we leave this hostile bay,
But we’ve this determination,
We shall square the cost some day,
And perhaps it sounds like “hooey”,
But the orders read “no noise”,
Or I’d sound one last “coo-ee”,
As a farewell from the boys.


FRIENDS By VX872 Warrant Officer A. Wright

If nobody gave us a helping hand,
And nobody seemed to care,
If the prizes of life all went to the strong,
And nobody gave us a share,

If nobody had the time to give,
A thought for you and me,
And we had to struggle as best we could,
What a hopeless world it would be,

Lending a hand to help the weak,
Can lighten another’s load,
Giving our best with a willing hand,
Can brighten a lonely road,

’Tis on something to live for someone to love,
That the purpose of life depends,
And there’s nothing to equal the gladness and joy,
Of making and keeping friends.


POSTMAN'S LAMENT By NX19329 Sergeant E. Irvine

I’m ’ounded to death I am by blokes,
That seem to think I’m Mandrake’s only son,
I gets cold shivers, kidney pains and strokes,
Me life don’t hold a minute’s bleeding fun,
Within me ears that awful daily wail,
“God blimey Corporal, ain’t there any mail?”

It ain’t no use no matter where I go,
I ’ear the same old agonising cry,
I asks a bloke in hospital I know,
“ ’ow is he doing - is he going to die?”
“I’m dying mate”, he says, “but I’d get better,
If only you’d bring me one flaming letter”,

I tells you now, they don’t give me a go,
They waits around corners for me popping out,
Just when I think things are nice and slow,
An’ giving me again the same old shout,
“Hey Corporal, where the hell’s me ruddy mail?”
It ain’t no wonder that I’m looking pale,

When cocko Hitler’s ’anging on a rope,
And all the world is more or less OK,
I bet for me there won’t be any hope,
I’m sure in dreams to hear some blighter say,
With broken voice and blooming near in tears,
“I ain’t had bloody mail for years and years”.


THE STEIN SONG OF PALESTINE

Land of flies and sweaty socks,
Sin and sand and loads of pox,
Streets of sorrow, streets of shame,
Streets of which we give no name,

Harlots, thieves and pestering wogs,
Land of snakes and stinking dogs,
Blazing heat and aching feet,
Gippo’s guts and camel meat,

Choking clouds of dust that blinds,
Droves of fleas and shattered minds,
Arab’s Heaven, Soldier’s Hell,
Land of Bastards, Fare thee well.


ODE TO THE BLITZ KING (may be unfinished)

It’s 10 o’clock, the siren sounds,
All the family goes to the ground,
Down the garden helter skelter,
Dive into the bloody shelter,

Chairs and gas masks follow suit,
Father rolls in minus boot,
Shouting out the old refrain,
“The rotten bastard’s here again”,

Say the whole thing is a farce,
Ma says “Oh kiss my arse”,
Settle like sardines in bed,
Father bumps his bloody head,

Daughter dons her siren suit,
Pa can’t find his other boot,
Thinks he left it under the bed,
Brought the pisspot down instead,

Can’t find the pisspot anywhere,
Father says another prayer,
Places bottles in the rear,
Ma says “don’t forget the beer”.