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. Author Unknown
The soldier by Antoine de Saint Expury <CENTER></CENTER> 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.
IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow Between the crosses row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.
<TABLE width="80%" border=0><TBODY><TR><TD width="100%" bgColor=#ffffcc>MATE </TD></TR><TR><TD width="100%"> I've traveled down some lonely roadsSome crooked tracks and straight And I've learned life’s noblest creed Summed up in one word MATE! [*] And thinking back across the years A thing I do a lot of, of late This word sticks between me ears You've got to have a MATE! [*] Me mind goes back to 42 to slavery and hate One man’s chance to stay alive Depended on his MATE [*] You would slip and slither through the mud and curse Your rotten fate Then you'd hear a quiet word Don't drop your bundle MATE [*] Although it’s all so long ago This truth I have to state A man don't know what lonely means Until he‘s lost his MATE [*] If there’s a life that follows this If there’s a golden gate The welcome I just want to hear Is just 'Good on yer MATE' [*] And so to all that ask us why We keep these special days Like ANZAC DAY, I answer Why we're thinking of our MATES! </TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>
<TABLE width="80%" border=0><TBODY><TR><TD width="100%" bgColor=#ffffcc>Grandpa, What Did You Do In The War? </TD></TR><TR><TD width="100%"><BASEFONT>I’d been mowing the lawn and pulling some weeds, and slipped inside for a breather I picked up the paper and turned on the news, not paying attention to either When my grandson came in with a look on his face and a question that hit me full bore An innocent question, no intention to hurt, “Grandpa, what did you do in the war”? My skin went all creepy, I had sweat on my brow, my mind shot back fifty years To bullets that thudded and whined all around, to terror, to nightmares, to tears I was crawling through mud, I was shooting at men, tried to kill them before they killed me Men who had wives and children at home, just like mine, just like my family. “What did you do in the war?” he had asked, a question not meant to cause pain But it brought back the horrors I’d left far behind in a deep dark recess of my brain I remembered the bombs being dropped from the planes, the explosions, the screams, and the loss Of a friend - or an enemy - but a life just the same, replaced by a small wooden cross. The visions attacked me of tramping through jungles, hot and stinking, with leeches and flies Of orders that seemed to make no sense at all - of distrust, of suspicions, of lies I lived once again all those terrible storms, the dysentery, fever, the snakes, The blisters that lived with me month after month, all those blunders, and costly mistakes. But how could I tell the boy all about that, ’Twould be better if he didn’t know It’s a part of my life that I don’t talk about from a good half a century ago So I gulped, took a breath and tried to sound calm, and bid him to sit at my side Then opened my mouth to say a few words, but the tears welled up and I cried. He cuddled to me with a look of concern, and I mumbled of feeling unwell Then took hold of myself, blew hard on my nose, while I thought of some tales I could tell “What did I do in the war,” I began, then the stories began tumbling out And they flowed with such ease I felt better again, and got over my pain and my doubt. I told him of how I had made many friends, how I’d trained and had gone overseas Made a joke of how seasick I’d been on the way, almost dirtied myself when I’d sneezed I told of the joy of the letters from home, of the hand-knitted socks and the cake That I got for my birthday but three weeks too late ’cause it went somewhere else by mistake. We talked about mateship and what it had meant to trust someone else with your life And of when I came home to my family again, to my kids, Mum and Dad, and my wife Of the crowd on the wharf, the bands, and the pomp, and the pride I felt in the parade But I’m not ashamed that I hood-winked the boy, a decision I’m glad that I made. He can grow up without seeing fear in my eyes, or know of the terror I knew For he’d not understand - and neither he should - all those memories that hit me anew But maybe some day when he’s older than now, I will tell him what war did to me But with luck he won’t ask me ever again, about wars that never should be. </BASEFONT> </TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>
<TABLE width="80%" border=0><TBODY><TR><TD width="100%" bgColor=#ffffcc>The Final Inspection Dedicated to all that served........ </TD></TR><TR><TD width="100%">The soldier stood and faced 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 to 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. </TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>
Vergissmeinnicht Elegy for an 88 Gunner Three weeks gone and the combatants gone returning over the nightmare ground we found the place again, and found the soldier sprawling in the sun. The frowning barrel of his gun overshadowing. As we came on that day, he hit my tank with one like the entry of a demon. Look. Here in the gunpit spoil the dishonoured picture of his girl who has put: Steffi. Vergissmeinnicht in a copybook gothic script. We see him almost with content, abased, and seeming to have paid and mocked at by his own equipment that's hard and good when he's decayed. But she would weep to see today how on his skin the swart flies move; the dust upon the paper eye and the burst stomach like a cave. For here the lover and killer are mingled who had one body and one heart. And death who had the soldier singled has done the lover mortal hurt. Keith Douglas (Killed in Normandy 1944)
All the blooming way. <CENTER></CENTER> 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 " <CENTER>D Hunter of 2/12th Bn, 18 Bde 7th Div, who fought at Shaggy Ridge 1943</CENTER>
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
The following made the rounds of the 8th Airforce in Late 1943 CORRESPONDENCE Anonymous Can't write a thing - the censor's to blame- Just say that I'm well, and sign my name. Can't say where we flew from, can't mention the date; Can't even mention the meals that I ate. Can't say where I'm going, don't know where I'll land. Can't even inform you if I'm met by a band. Can't mention the weather, can't say if there's rain. All military secrets must secrets remain. Can't have a flashlight to guide me at night, Can't smoke a cigarette except out of sight. Can't keep a diary, for such is a sin, Can't keep the envelopes your letters come in. Can't say for sure now just what I can write, So I'll just close this letter and tell you good-night. I'll send you this letter to say that I'm well, Still hoping and praying, and fighting like hell. RESPONSIBILITY By 1/Lt David F. Berry If enlisted men meander And indulge in rape or slander, It's their airplane commander they defame. If his officers are lazy, Or alcoholically hazy, And, in fact, a little crazy, he's to blame. If they don't salute their betters, If they fail to pay their debtors, Or write censorable letters, or get stewed; If they get back late from passes, Or decline to go to classes, You can bet it's not THEIR asses that get chewed. For the pilot has his uses. He's the one that makes excuses, Answers charges, takes abuses from them all; Though a flyer of acumen, He's considered less than human If he cannot keep his crewmen on the ball. When a gunner's finger freezes, Or the navigator sneezes, Or unprintable diseases ground the crews; It's the pilot's fault they're dying. (If they aren't, they should be flying.) And don't argue - for you're lying in your shoes. If, returning from a sortie, When the gas is down to forty, And three engines abort, he brings them down, Is the crew more understanding? Sympathetic? Less demanding? No! They criticize his landing with a frown. Yes, it certainly is tough For the hero of this ditty, But don't waste your tears of pity on this fool; For although he's nurse and mother To Joe Blow and Joe Blow's brother, He'd trade places with no other, the dull tool! LIGHTNINGS IN THE SKY By a radio gunner before a mission over Italy Oh, Hedy Lamar is a beautiful gal, And Madeleine Carroll is, too. But you'll find if you query, a quite different theory Amongst any bomber crew. For the loveliest thing of which one could sing (This side of the heavenly gates) Is no blonde or brunette of the Hollywood set. It's an escort of P-38s. Yes, in days that have passed, when the tables were massed With glasses of Scotch and Champagne, It's quite true that the sight was a thing to delight us, Intent upon feeling no pain. But it isn't the same nowadays in this game, When we head north from Messina Straits, Take the sparkling wine - and just make mine An escort of P-38s. Byron, Shelley, and Keats ran a dozen dead heats Describing the view from the hills Of the valleys in May, when the winds gently sway An array of bright daffodils. Take the daffodils, Byron; the wild flowers, Shelley; Yours is the myrtle, friend Keats. Just reserve me those cuties - American beauties - An escort of P-38s. Sure, we we're braver than hell; on the ground all is swell. In the air it's a different story. We sweat out our track, through the fighters and flak But we're willing to split up the glory. Well, they wouldn't reject us, so heaven protect us, And until all this shooting abates, Give us courage to fight 'em - and one more small item - An escort of P-38s.
My personal favourite... High Flight Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I’ve climbed and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hovering there I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air. Up, up the long delirious, burning blue, I’ve topped the windswept heights with easy grace Where never lark, or even eagle flew - And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod The high untrespassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand and touched the face of God. P/O Gillespie Magee Jnr. Of No. 412 Squadron RCAF. Killed on December 11<SUP>th</SUP>, 1941, in a Spitfire.
Let Them In Let them in Peter, they are very tired Give them the couches where the Angels sleep, Let them wake whole again to new dawns fired With sun not war and may their peace be deep. Remember where the broken bodies lie And give them things they like, let them make noise, God knows how young they were to have to die Give swing bands not gold harps, to these our boys. Let them love Peter, they have had no time Girls sweet as meadow wind, with flowing hair, They should have trees and bird song, hills to climb The taste of summer in a ripened pear, Tell them how they are missed, say not to fear, It’s going to be alright with us down here.
The Life That I Have The life that I have is all that I have, And the life that I have is yours. The love that I have of the life that I have Is yours and yours and yours. A sleep I shall have A rest I shall have, Yet death will be but a pause, For the peace of my years in the long green grass Will be yours and yours and yours. Leo Marks. I believe this was used in the film 'Odette'.
HIS MATE There’s a broken battered village Somewhere up behind the line, There’s a dug-out and a bunk there, That I used to say were mine. I remember how I reached them, Dripping wet and all forlorn, In the dim and dreary twilight Of a weeping summer dawn. All that week I’d buried brothers, In one bitter battle slain, In one grave I laid two hundred. God! What sorrow and what rain. And that night I’d been in trenches, Seeking out the sodden dead, And just dropping them in shell holes, With a service swiftly said. For the bullets rattled round me, But I couldn’t leave them there, Water-soaked in flooded shell holes, Reft of common Christian prayer. So I crawled round on my belly, And I listened to the roar Of the guns that hammered Thiepval, Like big breakers on the shore. Then there spoke a dripping sergeant, When the time was growing late, ‘Would you please bury this one, ‘Cause‘e used to be my mate?’ So we groped our way in darkness To a body lying there, Just a blacker lump of blackness, With a red blotch on his hair. Though we turned him gently over, Yet I still can hear the thud, As the body fell face forward, And then settled in the mud. We went down upon our faces, And I said the service through, From ‘I am the Resurrection’ To the last, the great ‘adieu’. When a sudden light shot soaring Silver swift and like a sword, We stood up to give the Blessing, And commended him to the Lord. At a stroke it slew the darkness, Flashed its glory on the mud, And I saw the sergeant staring At a crimson clot of blood. There are many kinds of sorrow In this world of Love and Hate, But there is no sterner sorrow Than a soldier’s for his mate. Padre G.A. Studdert Kennedy M.C., C.F. (Woodbine Willie)fficeffice" /><O:p></O:p>
This was written by Eric Bogle, a Scot in 1971, who wrote this after watching an Anzac Day march in Australia. If you want to hear the audio of this lovely ballad about ww1, check out the sight below. Download is right hand side bottom. http://www.nla.gov.au/epubs/waltzingmatilda/5-sound.html And the Band played Waltzin' Matilda <CENTER><TABLE width="80%" border=0><TBODY><TR><TD width="50%"></TD><TD width="50%"> </TD></TR><TR><TD width="50%"></TD><TD width="50%"> </TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE></CENTER> <CENTER><TABLE border=0><TBODY><TR><TD>When I was a young man I carried me pack And I lived the free life of the rover. From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback, Well, I waltzed my Matilda all over. Then in 1915, my country said, "Son, It's time to stop ramblin', there's work to be done." So they gave me a tin hat, and they gave me a gun, And they marched me away to the war. And the band played "Waltzing Matilda," As the ship pulled away from the quay, And amidst all the cheers, the flag waving, and tears, We sailed off for Gallipoli. And how well I remember that terrible day, How our blood stained the sand and the water; And of how in that hell that they call Suvla Bay We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter. Johnny Turk, he was waitin', he'd primed himself well; He showered us with bullets, and he rained us with shell And in five minutes flat, he'd blown us hell, Nearly blew us right back to Australia. But the band played "Waltzing Matilda," When we stopped to bury our slain, Well, we buried ours, and the Turks buried theirs, Then we started all over again. And those that were left, well, we tried to survive In that mad world of blood, death and fire. And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive Though around me the corpses piled higher. Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head, And when I woke up in me hospital bed And saw what it had done, well, I wished I was dead -- Never knew there was worse things than dying. For I'll go no more "Waltzing Matilda," All around the green bush far and free -- To hump tents and pegs, a man needs both legs, No more "Waltzing Matilda" for me. So they gathered the crippled, the wounded, the maimed, And they shipped us back home to Australia. The armless, the legless, the blind, the insane, Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla. And as our ship sailed into Circular Quay, I looked at the place where me legs used to be, And thanked Christ there was nobody waiting for me, To grieve, to mourn and to pity. But the band played "Waltzing Matilda," As they carried us down the gangway, But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared, Then they turned all their faces away. And so now every April, I sit on my porch And I watch the parade pass before me. And I see my old comrades, how proudly they march, Reviving old dreams of past glory, And the old men march slowly, all bones stiff and sore, They're tired old heroes from a forgotten war And the young people ask "What are they marching for?" And I ask m'self the same question. But the band plays "Waltzing Matilda," And the old men still answer the call, But as year follows year, more old men disappear Someday, no one will march there at all. </TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE></CENTER>
You beat me to it spidge! Waltzing Matilda done by either June Tabor(best) or The Pogues(lively) is my favourite depressing/uplifting song. Nice one.
You beat me to it spidge! Waltzing Matilda done by either June Tabor(best) or The Pogues(lively) is my favourite depressing/uplifting song. Nice one. This is not the actual/original Waltzing Matilda but that "poem" to the music of.
This is not the actual/original Waltzing Matilda but that "poem" to the music of. Fullly aware of that mate. both versions above mentioned based word for word on Bogle's Pome.
Grass PILE the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work I am the grass; I cover all. And pile them high at Gettysburg And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun. Shovel them under and let me work. Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor: What place is this? Where are we now? I am the grass. Let me work. Carl Sandburg (1878-1967). Cornhuskers, 1918.