WW1 b

The BULLDOG of FLANDERS FIELDS
(Remembrance Day)
Ó 2003 by Daniel Atcheson

While strolling through fields of red poppy flowers
I laid down to rest, and nap for an hour
Softly I slept ‘till a voice broke my sleep
I sat up amazed, unable to speak

A bulldog walked toward me with hat made of tin
With ghostly appearance and expression grim
He said, “Don’t be fearful, I’ve come not to harm
But to tell of the horrors of World War One

It was the year of 1916
When I met with death at the age of three
A mascot assigned to the London Brigade
Killed with my master, by a German grenade

We thought that our world would have no ending
We were so young with life just beginning
We all thought we’d have our share of tomorrows
Until we were marched to this land of horrors

Leaving sweethearts and wives and sons and daughters
We went to this war as lambs to the slaughter
With shrapnel and bullets, our bodies were slashed
But worst of the worst, was the green poison gas!

Those seeking honor, and glory and fame
Were the first of the boys Mother Earth did reclaim
The smart ones laid low, knowing best they should hide
‘Till orders were given to charge, and to die!

Our trenches were sopped with filth and mud
And sewage and rats, and comrades’ blood
‘Twas bitterly cold and wet all around
No peace came with sleep, where demons abound

The whole Commonwealth took part in this war
And then came the Yanks, and took up the sword
This was to be The War To End Wars
But that hope was folly; Mars doth love encores

The guns all fell silent in 1918
But returned with a vengeance in Hitler’s regime
These wars will be fought, again and again
‘Till Christ reappears at Armageddon

The blood that was spilled has long washed away
Replaced with red poppies growing over our graves
These hills are now quiet, except for the breeze
Singing Flowers of the Fallen in Flanders Fields

Soldiers as I, we pray you’ll remember
When flying your flags on Eleven, November
And please buy a poppy in remembrance of me
And for others who fought so that you can be free”

Then I awoke and thought, “Was this a dream?!”
But then I saw paw prints where the dog had been
God bless this soldier of courage and peace
The bulldog whose spirit roams Flanders Fields

The Road to La Bassée

I went across to France again, and walked about the line,
The trenches have been all filled in - the country's looking fine.
The folks gave me a welcome, and lots to eat and drink,
Saying, 'Allo, Tommee, back again? 'Ow do you do? In ze pink?'
And then I walked about again, and mooched about the line;
You'd never think there'd been a war, the country's looking fine.
But the one thing that amazed me most shocked me, I should say
- There's buses running now from Bethune to La Bassée!

I sat at Shrapnel Corner and I tried to take it in,
It all seemed much too quiet, I missed the war-time din.
I felt inclined to bob down quick - Jerry sniper in that trench!
A minnie coming over! God, what a hellish stench!
Then I pulled myself together, and walked on to La Folette -
And the cows were calmly grazing on the front line parapet.
And the kids were playing marbles by the old Estaminet -
Fancy kiddies playing marbles on the road to La Bassée!

You'd never think there'd been a war, the country's looking fine -
I had a job in places picking out the old front line.
You'd never think there'd been a war - ah, yet you would, I know,
You can't forget those rows of headstones every mile or so.
But down by Tunnel Trench I saw a sight that made me start,
For there, at Tourbieres crossroads - a gaudy ice-cream cart!
It was hot, and I was dusty, but somehow I couldn't stay -
Ices didn't seem quite decent on the road to La Bassée.

Some of the sights seemed more than strange as I kept marching on.
The Somme's a blooming garden, and there are roses in Peronne.
The sight of dear old Arras almost made me give three cheers;
And there's kiddies now in Plugstreet, and mamselles in Armentiers.
But nothing that I saw out there so seemed to beat the band
As those buses running smoothly over what was No Man's Land.
You'd just as soon expect them from the Bank to Mandalay
As to see those buses running from Bethune to La Bassée.

Then I got into a bus myself, and rode for all the way,
Yes, I rode inside a bus from Bethune to La Bassée.
Through Beuvry and through Annequin, and then by Cambrin Tower -
The journey used to take four years, but now it's half an hour.
Four years to half an hour - the best speedup I've met.
Four years? Aye, longer still for some - they haven't got there yet.
Then up came the conductor chap, 'Vos billets s'il vous plait.'
Fancy asking for your tickets on the road to La Bassée.

And I wondered what they'd think of it - those mates of mine who died -
They never got to La Bassée, though God knows how they tried.
I thought back to the moments when their number came around,
And now those buses rattling over sacred, holy ground,
Yes, I wondered what they'd think of it, those mates of mine who died.
Of those buses rattling over the old pave close beside.
'Carry on! That's why we died!' I could almost hear them say,
To keep those buses always running from Bethune to La Bassée!'

A Digger’s Lament

I would not have missed it for the world, but I know that it’s not right,

To miss the thrill of being alive in battle, and to miss being in the fight.

I miss the fleas the flies and lice, the mud the blood and snow,

I miss standing to on the firing step, at dawn to “greet” the foe.

I miss that binding esprit de corps, when every ANZAC soldier is like a brother,

I miss that blind faith you have in mates, when you would trust no other.

I miss the taste of water from old petrol tins, and ships biscuits that would gag a cow,

I miss the ways you can cook bully beef, to disguise the taste when it’s gone sour.

I miss the sun baking and the swimming, when they think you have gone barmy,

I miss living in my shorts and slouch, and serving in the naked army.

I miss making home made jam tin bombs, because we had no mills grenades,

I miss the bent back and the stooping gate, to dodge the snipers enfilade.

I miss trying not to look important, because enemy ammunition might be low,

I miss digging graves with a bayonet, and planting crosses in a row.

I miss blokes like Simpson and Jacka; they broke the mould when they made those two,

I miss the barking cough from old Beachy Bill, and dodging the shrapnel that he threw.

I miss the target practice between the trenches, with 303 and periscope,

I miss the daily pint of drinking water, and washing without soap.

I miss the chilling trill of the peelers whistle that kicks off every stunt

I miss the chatter of the “Emma Gee”, and that nervous thrill before the hunt.

I miss that metallic taste of naked fear, that taste of copper in your mouth,

I miss the taste of Navy rum drunk neat, when you think your courage has gone south.

I miss those short softening up barrages, because we were always low on shells,

I miss the lonely run across no mans land, amid the battle cries and rebel yells.

I would not have missed it for the world, but I know to feel that way is wrong,

To miss the sight and smell, the touch and taste, and that sweet sound of a battle’s song.

SSC KELSEN “The Bunyip from the Bush Poets society”

Harold Begbie's "Fall In"

"What will you lack, sonny, what will you lack,
When the girls line up the street
Shouting their love to the lads to come back
From the foe they rushed to beat?
Will you send a strangled cheer to the sky
And grin till your cheeks are red?
But what will you lack when your mate goes by
With a girl who cuts you dead?
Where will you look, sonny, where will you look,
When your children yet to be
Clamour to learn of the part you took
In the War that kept men free?
Will you say it was naught to you if France
Stood up to her foe or bunked?
But where will you look when they give the glance
That tells you they know you funked?
How will you fare, sonny, how will you fare
In the far-off winter night,
When you sit by the fire in an old man's chair
And your neighbours talk of the fight?
Will you slink away, as it were from a blow,
Your old head shamed and bent?
Or say - I was not with the first to go,
But I went, thank God, I went?
Why do they call, sonny, why do they call
For men who are brave and strong?
Is it naught to you if your country fall,
And Right is smashed by Wrong?
Is it football still and the picture show,
The pub and the betting odds,
When your brothers stand to the tyrant's blow,
And England's call is God's!"