We Were the 46th
We were the 46th.
We went to a war that was worlds away,
Why did you go you say?
We went for king,
We went for country,
But most of all we went for our pride in ourselves.
We’re all gone now,
We are no more,
But in the photos and text within, we are reborn,
We live again.
I can see Rollie Touzel,
The Country Boy from Cudgewa,
I can see Alf Willison,
The City Man from Melbourne,
The blue collar and professional alike.
I’m with them now,
With the mates we left behind.
No more are we in the stark madness of Pozieres,
The mud, ice, and the death at Flers,
Or the unbroken wire of Bullecourt,
Where I held a shattered mate’s hand as his young life ebbed away,
I looked him in the eye and told him he’d be just fine,
I lied.
This was the nightmare I lived,
’Till my own life had ended its day.
I was one of those who came home,
To my family, my children;
They were all precious to me,
But they couldn’t understand the difference within,
The pain, the anguish,
The scars of my time could never be healed as those that are physical.
Look at the photo,
Can you tell who I am?
I’m everyone,
A member of the 46th,
An anonymous infantry soldier,
The salt of the earth,
As much as we were from different walks of life
And different parts of the land, we were as one, we were a family:
we were the 46th!
Ian Polanski
On the Breaking up of 116 AGT. Company, Marrickville
(With apologies to Banjo Paterson)
There was movement in the unit, for the word had passed around
That the 116 GT was moving out,
And the rumours spread like wildfire, from the cookhouse to the ‘shop’
’Til no-one really knew just what was what.
The Sections all were grounded, not a truck was allowed out,
The transport office quiet like the grave,
But ‘Workshops’ kept on working, true, with very little zest,
Each man concerned with thoughts his skin to save.
“We’re going all to Burma,” was the first thing that we heard,
Then each one came his little tale to tell.
“I heard this from the Major,” or, “Up in the orderly room,”
But the truth is, no one is allowed to tell.
The men stood ’round in batches, each one speaking, quiet like,
Like mourners speaking of a friend just gone,
And so it was in figure, for the unit really had
Ceased to exist in name, though not in form.
The Workshops trucks were ready for their journey further north,
With all the inside nicely fitted up,
By Sgt Oby and young Dave, with Monty looking on,
And S. M. Griffo dodging in and out.
The ‘Moresby limp’ was evident amongst quite a number there,
Myself and Bill Grey both had it bad.
Old Stanley Noakes was suffering from ‘Central Aussie cramp’,
While others tried to make out they were glad.
Old George Nerney did not care at all where he was sent,
As long as it was somewhere near a pub,
While Alfie Weymark sure would die away from smallgoods shop
Because he couldn’t stomach Army grub.
The ‘Pommy Lout’ was shoutin’ out and making lots of fun,
Well, so were all the rest of us, for that,
Each one concerned with covering his feelings from the rest
And hoping that the move was not to come.
Our Storeman ‘Drumstick Baker’ managed to get very ill,
And to the hospital was straightway sent,
But fitter ‘Billy Gibson’ had to stand a lot of things,
Wondering where his last two bob had gone and went.
One consolation was that we had not much work to do,
A very rare thing for us,
It gave us time to get our foreign orders all cleaned up,
With no one spotting us to make a fuss.
Old Jake got out to Salvage just in time, the lucky cow,
Although I don’t suppose we’ll need him where
We’re going, cos it never rains out in that dry old desert land,
So windscreen wipers are not needed there.
Billy Mose the Welder is sure to like it over there,
No rain to spoil his days off, so to speak,
But Bollins, well I don’t know how he’ll manage without Mum,
Not seeing her for weeks and weeks and weeks.
There’s ‘Happy’ Howard, Ronnie ‘Hot’, and Jimmy Latham too,
And ‘Draughty’ Bill from Section 25,
And not forgetting ‘Aussie’, he’s the dreamy Sergeant man,
On bottled stuff he mostly seems to thrive.
Then there’s ‘Champion J.’ and Godden, writing letters by the score
And ‘Ding Dong’ Bell and ‘Bunny’ Guerin too,
And silly Carrapiett fooling ‘round the whole day through,
’Tho’ better mate one never need wish for.
A few more names and then the list is just about complete,
With Raymond Ford, the carpentering man,
And ‘Bluey’ Atkinson and ‘Kingy’ Clem the Storeman Sarge
And ‘Tinny’ Wetzler, Poker playing fan.
Of course there’s ‘Mother’ Evans, we must never forget him,
Though often through the day he is unseen,
And ‘Mac’ who’s always reading, and his Sergeant ‘Bricky’ Brad,
And Harry Douglas — not a bad old bean.
The ‘Staff ’ — we’ll ne’er forget him, like he often forgets us,
I mean when jobs are being handed out,
And D. M. Dunk and ‘Gilly’, who seem really very keen
And Bruce and ‘Robbo’, both just marching out.
There’s Sgt King who is away just now in Melbourne town,
But will be back again with us some day
To show us how to time a Ford, or fix a gearbox up,
Or change a plug the right and proper way.
Then there’s those of whom we’ll often think, who are not with us now,
Like old Ralph Haken, ‘five minutes to go’,
And ‘Scotty’ Duncan, good old toiler, not a bad old stick,
And not forgetting poor old cranky Joe.
There’s one thing that we’ll ne’er forget, no matter where we be,
On desert sands or South Pacific isle,
When we are tired and hungry, or resting in the shade
Or playing cards, or idle for awhile,
And that’s the ladies — regular as clockwork did they come
Each Sunday with their loads of scones and cakes,
With smiles and pleasant words of cheer to help us on our way,
And army life monotony to break.
Pte Jim Baker NX139320
30 January 1943
The Salvage
On active service not dismayed,
Who is this Unit on parade?
None other than the Salvage crowd,
Shoulders back and heads unbowed.
“Attention there!” “Stand at ease!”
Your gallant ‘Fuhrer’, you must please.
He stands commanding your regard,
His gun attached, “On guard!” “On guard!”
‘Note book’ Hall looks slightly hurt,
‘Gas’ Cunningham is on the alert.
‘Shields’ wants to put you on the peg,
‘Barrett’ is immovable — don’t pull his leg.
And there’s dark Durack full of sin,
With P. T. Gatherer so still and grim.
A post for Walker would be a small cost;
Skinner and Hampton appear to be lost.
Dalton and Plummer sometimes run the show.
Maclean as far as words has a wonderful flow;
There’s young ‘Tich’ Wilson the Unit’s noise
And criminal Smith, one of the boys.
The ‘Woorooloo Ram’ with his short arm is there,
And ‘Transfer Charlton’ so fat and fair.
‘Megaphone’ Foley can sometimes be heard;
The ‘Limping Scuttler’ is a bit of a bird.
There’s Private Plant of the ‘Wailing Wall’
And Lanky ‘Fields’ with his nobs and all;
The Dunlops brothers can give you a pain,
Gabell looks on in sarcastic vein.
There is also our youthful ‘Bantam Howard’
And overrated Ovens who looks a bit soured.
Rudkin there our spoiler of food,
‘Whispering’ Willis stands in pensive mood.
There’s ‘Gambler’ Power small and hairy,
And ‘Little’ Fitch the Unit’s fairy.
Plus little Kent who talks with beer,
Of steady Iredell you never hear.
There’s ‘Two-Ton Tony’ with all his might,
Lench, Hartnett and Phillips are pretty quiet
‘Goggle Eyed Merry’ stares with defiance,
Collins and ‘Two Up’ have sworn an alliance.
McDonald looks glum, his temper is short;
McKenzie, junior recruit, has come to report;
Summers the card fiend, is going to the dogs;
James looks ashamed of his friends the ‘Wogs’
“Attention! Attention!” “Stand at ease! Stand at ease!”
’Tis the call of the Salvage, a sort of disease.
“Will you take my punishment, or have a Court martial?”
You must say the Fuhrer is fairly impartial.
Sgt John Patrick Hampton
9th Aust. Div. Salvage Section
(AWM PR 00759)
Song of Tobruk
They brought us, from Australia to fight the Nazi Hun,
Who’re once more on the Warpath, well equipped with tanks and guns.
They shoved us into Libya where, the guide book says, it’s grand,
But forgets to mention little things, like flies and fleas and sand,
Tobruk was chosen as 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 didn’t take the drum,
So he sent his diving Stukas and made things dam well hum;
A few blokes took the final count, and some joints got knocked about,
But the damage done, as Tommies say, was really “Bleeding nowt!”
He keeps on raiding with his planes, drops bombs and booby traps,
His soldiers sometimes make a move, and the lads have front line scraps,
But months have passed, he must admit, it seems we’re here to stay
Till the Springboks come to join us, marching up from Bardia way.
And when we’re back at home again and all this strife is o’er,
Some silly is sure to ask, “How did you win the War?”
You can look the bloke right in the face and pat the baby’s curls,
Say “We defended old Tobruk, where there wasn’t any girls.”
Of all the Units we have here, there’s one we’d like to toast,
They’re always up to something, but you never hear them boast.
It’s good to hear them working, with reverberating crack.
We dip our lid sincerely to — the boys of the Ack Ack.
Sgt John Patrick Hampton
9 Aust. Div. Salvage Section
(AWM PR 00759)
Never Beaten
The following verses were written by Cpl Manning of B Company while his company was in occupation of the forward post during the period when they suffered heavy casualties from enemy shellfire. The Latin, Nunquain Victus or ‘Never Beaten’ is the motto of the old 48th Battalion of the first AIF.
They were drawn together by some master hand,
Who chose them somehow throughout the land
And flung them into the melting pot,
Where for a time they were as men forgot.
Now some there were who knew quite clear
They were there for all they held most dear.
Others had come for what they’d see,
And others after some wild spree.
Then came a time when tempers were tried.
We were mucked about ’til we could have cried,
And we mocked and jeered at Esprit de corps,
Saying, “What the hell do they take us for?”
At last we heard of the blue and white
And what it meant in the world of fight;
Tales were told of the men who’d worn it
And with what pride and glory they bore it.
We listened to men who had gone before
Of the tales they told of the last great war,
Wondering how we could stand the test
Of measuring up to the Nation’s best.
Then was the time we got the idea
Of something that rose above mere fear
And felt the stir of a strange new pride
In things we used once to deride.
Then came the day we were waiting for,
When we saw the last of Australia’s shore!
But still we were a polyglot crew
And what we’d do well — no one knew
We landed at last, in Palestine,
And if all thoughts were the same as mine
We had the idea we were a garrison mob,
Not thought worthy of a real man’s job.
Then came orders. We were due for a shift,
And you could feel our spirit begin to lift
For the news got round we were moving west
Going, perhaps, to our first big test.
We finished up on the Libyan plain
And thought once more we had to train,
And then they found us jobs to do,
Which could have been done by an infant crew.
At last we were moved by the powers-that-be
From a resting place by the still blue sea;
We had camped, for a breathing space,
In what, to us, was a damned good place.
Then rumours came: Things weren’t so hot
For-our ancient foe had us on the trot.
We were moving back — or so they said —
Though then we thought the war was dead
Back we were going, and going quick,
For Jerry’s tanks were pretty slick;
This was the time we’d been waiting for,
“At last,” we said, “We’re in the war!”
Back and back and still back we went,
’Til we wondered what our bosses meant,
And strength and endurance were needed now
For sleep was a thing that was snatched somehow.
Although we went through a little hell,
There was something born which repaid us well,
For we learnt what mateship really meant
And knew ’twould last where e’er we went.
The backward rush was stopped at last.
Outside Tobruk we were told, “Stand fast!”
And there we were — untried men
Waiting for something beyond our ken.
We lay all day under the torrid sun,
There was our baptism of fire begun.
We learnt the whine of the screaming shell
And some suffered more than they will tell.
But to cut and run never entered a head
Although we saw our mates lie dead,
And all of us made a determined vow,
We’d avenge their deaths on the Hun somehow
For a week or more there we stood,
Although he flung at us all he could,
And flat we lay on the stoney earth,
While his planes and bombs tested our worth.
Then came the day when his plunging tanks
Charged up and down our meagre ranks,
And we knew when they had passed
We’d take all he’d give and still stand fast
But best of all, there in my heart,
The feeling that I was at last a part
Of a band who knew that they were a crowd
Of whom their Fathers might well be proud.
Cpl Manning
You Have Served Us Well
DDG 38 you entered my life
in Boston USA;
Thirty-four years ago I joined you
on your commissioning day.
We were proud young sons of Australia
Three-hundred-and-thirty-three strong,
And as the band played Waltzing Matilda
we embarked from the dockside throng.
They named you Perth after another
who now rests in a watery grave,
You had a proud tradition to follow
established by men so brave.
I recall your baptism of fire
when we were called to that Asian war,
Of how your guns thundered in anger
toward a troubled shore.
San Som, Dong Hoi and Cua Sat
are names that drift in from the past,
In those northern ‘Sea Dragon’ waters
you forged a reputation that was to last.
You still carry the scars of that conflict
from the hot metal that punctured your skin,
Old shipmates on their chests wear coloured ribbon
but tend to hold those memories within.
I knew I could not serve in you forever
and in life’s journey we ventured apart,
Many thousands subsequently joined you
and maintained you as ‘State of the Art’.
You have nurtured a number of heroes
and there were larrikins that I knew,
You’ve been a source of pride and frustration
to the twenty-seven who skippered you.
I have returned for your last voyage
as your remaining days are but few;
Soon you will enter your final harbour
and they will take your name from you.
The wind plays a sad tune in the halyards
but your heart beats strong through the deck,
And I sense the presence of your old sailors
as I spend this quiet moment to reflect.
Soon the wake will not surge from your quarter
nor your routines be run to the bell;
It’s now time to say “Stand easy old friend!”
for I know you have served us well.
Jack Aaron
(Ex POQMG)
HMAS. Warramunga
For grace and speed she had no par
Across the oceans deep
And on her we, who traveled far,
Adored her striding sweep.
From flaring stem to thrusting screws
And every plate between,
Her purpose spread its warlike news
Wherever she was seen.
A gentle shepherd she indeed
Or fearsome as a lion,
A friendly sight to all in need
Those others of her scion.
Seen from above, her clean slim lines
Was target made to miss,
Well worthy to those slanting eyes
Of anticipat’ry ‘Hiss-s-s-s’.
With agile swerve and greyhound speed
Her crew all well prepared,
She welcomed each assailant’s deeds
With snarling fangs all bared.
Her bristling weapons aimed on high
Defied their birds of war,
Hurling skyward flak and fire
A deadly reaching claw.
Her probing prow sought out the Jap
Defying all his cannon
To wipe ‘Australia’ off the map
And rename it ‘South Nippon!’
She braved each storm and shed each green
Flung from the briny main.
She swam the tropics like a Queen
In calm, or hurricane.
From North to South and back again
Wherever she was sent,
Her handsome hide oft showed the strain
But served with fierce intent.
She carried all who served in her
With confidence and strength —
No comfort, ours, in any berth
Along her spartan length.
She wasn’t just some ‘Lady Fair’
Although her lines were such
For she was but a ‘Dog of War’
Without the ‘Midas Touch’.
We love her still, our mem’ries bright,
Her every action marked,
Till we are gone far out of sight
We’ll live the love she sparked.
L. (Tarz) Perkins.
Destroyer
A gallant little ship sails the sea today,
Fighting for old Aussie and paving the way
For liberty and freedom
We know will come one day.
Her name is Warramunga,
A tribal ship by class,
Manned by young Australians,
Who will stand up till the last.
So hats off to the ship and men,
May she ride the sea and foam,
And God guide them back to the ones they love,
Back to home sweet home.
Leading Stoker F. J. ‘Shags’ Turner
1943
The Warramunga
The Warramunga is a destroyer
Built at Cockatoo;
When the shakedown trials are finished,
She’ll do close on forty-two.
Then whether we sail the Indian
Or the beautiful blue Pacific,
What we’ve got for Tojo’s boys
Is something just terrific
Three twin four-point-sevens
Backed up by twin four-inch,
If the enemy comes within our range
They are sure to feel the pinch.
The A. A. boys are watching,
Waiting for the day
That one of the Japanese bombers
Would fly across our way.
The torpedo men are waiting
For the detector to get a ping
So they can drop a water bomb
And teach those Japs a thing.
We are like the Aboriginal tribe
With a mission to fulfil,
So to keep up their motto
Warramunga ‘hunt to kill.’
A. B ‘Happy’ Fellows
1942–3
Never Forget Them
Through day and night our brothers marched
To a long-off desert town,
In a last ditch effort from the Allies
To bring the enemy down.
As they charged against the Turks
Their desperation was hard not to see,
In the trenches and behind the guns
The scared Turks, they did flee.
Although the task seemed impossible
The town they took that day,
Victoriously they raised the flag
Before the sun went down.
All these men are gone now
Their experiences left in the past,
But as long as there are blokes like us
Their memory will always last.
Other units in the Army today
To find their roots they’ve tried,
Most of them have nothing near
What we’ve got ‘Cavalry pride’.
So remember what they did,
These men you’ve never met,
Echo it through the generations
So that no one will ever forget.
L. Cpl. Michael Walburn