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this terrible cloak of war.
    They lay back and reclined, resting their weary minds,
    Looking upward to where their future path would wind.
    G Bowles
----

    The Night Patrol
    It’s zero hour, there’s a hushed command
    As out of the shadows move a band,
    Each man knows of the task ahead
    As he moves to the wire with a stealthy tread.
    There isn’t a sound or glimmer of light,
    Only the stars to guide them right;
    A thousand yards to reach their goal,
    A race ere the rising moon unfolds.
    To hesitate would be too late,
    For the moon-lit rays seal their fate;
    So on through booby traps and mines
    On ’til they reach the enemy’s lines.
    A clattering stone someone spoke,
    A burst of fire from the stillness broke
    As the shadowy forms of a dozen men
    Sprayed hot lead from rifle and Bren.
    Forward they rush, like men insane,
    To take and hold all they can gain.
    They won’t face steel is the Aussies’ boast
    And they find it so when they reach that post.
    There’s a quick check up, a note or two,
    Then back to their lines for some warmed up stew,
    A dixie of tea or a noggin of rum,
    A smile from their mates for a job well done.
    Then down in the dust of their holes they creep
    Like desert rats, they are soon asleep
    And dream of parties and folks at home,
    Of the girls they have loved — or a mutton bone.
    The sun is up, there’s a harsh command,
    It’s five hundred hours don’t be alarmed!
    Yesterday’s gone. Now call the roll.
    I want twelve men for tonight’s patrol.
    Anon
----

    Isle of Tarakan
    From afar I saw this lovely isle,
    It looked a romantic, exotic pile,
    And I thought I’d like to stay awhile,
    On lovely Tarakan.
    But the longer I live upon its shore,
    My interest decreases more and more
    And I long for the good old days of yore —
    To hell with Tarakan!
    As the rain pours down, my temper sours,
    It’s the dinkum stuff, not April showers,
    And I’m up to my ruddy neck for hours,
    In mud on Tarakan.
    When the clouds roll on and the day is fine,
    With an azure sky and bright sunshine,
    The sweat will cascade from my spine,
    On humid Tarakan.
    But when I walk it makes me boil,
    I’m up to my blinking knees in oil,
    And I can’t thrive on the oily soil,
    On greasy Tarakan.
    I even tried to learn Malay,
    But I find my efforts do not pay,
    The dumb cows dunno what I say,
    On ignorant Tarakan.
    I’ve stood the sight of hill and glade,
    And I’ve heard the sound of the war’s tirade,
    But when the Japs start crashing a mess parade,
    I give you away, Tarakan.
    If I had five hooks on my sleeve,
    I tell you straight, and you must believe,
    That I would neither howl nor grieve,
    On leaving Tarakan.
    Anon
----

    Souvenir Poem
    We are nearing the end of our journey,
    A trip we were eager to take,
    For a chance of a joust in the journey,
    For our own and the Motherland’s sake.
    We know nought of what may be lurking
    Ahead and we care not a damn —
    We’ll just take the chance without shirking
    Any job we’re assigned in the jam.
    So here’s to what may be before us,
    Whatever the cost we will gain,
    The deeds of our Dads will immure us
    To hardship and physical pain.
    And our wives and sweethearts and Mothers,
    In their worry and sorrow and pride,
    Will reverence the memory of ‘others’,
    Who are left on the other side.
    Anon
----

    â€œSayeeda”
    When first we landed on these shores
    To do our bit and help the cause,
    In busy street and passing throng
    We heard one word, most all day long,
    â€œSayeeda”
    It followed us where’er we went,
    And seemed for every purpose meant,
    â€œGood day!!”, “Good night!” and “How are you?”
    Upon our tongues it almost grew:
    â€œSayeeda”
    Through dust and heat and burning sun,
    Through pelting rains and work and fun,
    At every hour of day and night,
    It came to haunt us like a blight —
    â€œSayeeda”
    And when we