Deathly Detachment

Tags

7th Division 2nd AIF, Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, New Guinea Campaigns, Owen Stanley Campaign, poem, poetry, World War 2

Deathly Detachment

You doubt this tale told to me long ago?
But wait! I heard it from their very lips.
Cruel circumstance may bring the noble low;
It’s bloody war sometimes the balance tips.

Was rendered then without embellishment;
No hint of sentiment — matter of fact.
No judgement; none had reason to repent;
And words once said, they never would retract.

I write it here as best I can recall.
Three men agreed it was at Butcher’s Flat.
They drove them up against a lethal wall
Of spitting guns, they died, and that was that.

The jungle floor a stinking sea of mud.
Like islands were the bodies of the foe.
The biting tropic sun soon dried the blood.
And where the victors sat no one would know.

Detachment was the normal state of mind;
Exhaustion of the body and the brain.
So seated, on a Spartan meal they dined —
Arose, and left the shambles to the slain.

— D.N. O’Brien

Imita Ridge

Tags

7th Division 2nd AIF, ANZAC Day, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, Imita Ridge, Kokoda Trail, Owen Stanley Ranges, Papua New Guinea, poem, poetry, World War two

An ANZAC Day post:

𝐈𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞

The letter, from my father to his mother, my grandmother, and baby brother, is written on a biscuit pack wrapper, as he had no writing paper. It is the 21st of September 1942 and he and his fellow soldiers of the 2nd/31st Battalion 25th Brigade of the 7th division 2nd AIF, all volunteers, are bivouacked on Imita Ridge, in the ranges behind Port Moresby — they have begun to drive the Japanese back over what will become known as the Kokoda Trail of the Owen Stanley Ranges — he will be one of the first to find the village of Kokoda deserted by the retreating Japanese.

He is 21 years old, a platoon sergeant, and a veteran of the Syrian Campaign, where he was severely wounded. He will suffer more wounds, internal parasites, starvation, exposure to the elements, and cerebral malaria from which he will come close to death, but will be one of the 56 soldiers of the original 800 strong infantry battalion who will stand to parade at the end of the campaign. This poem is a tribute to him, sergeant Allen Noel O’Brien, and his fellow soldiers.

(The letter was found at the bottom of a drawer some 45 years after it was written, following the death of my Grandmother.)

The night was drifting closer — the rain a misty veil.
They’d gained this slender foothold by a steep and muddy trail.
The soldier glanced to westward — a weak and fading light,
And overhead the sullen sweeping clouds— a mournful sight.

His uniform was wet and stained, the air was turning chill.
His boots and socks were water logged and leeches drank their fill.
The unfurled flimsy groundsheet, his head and shoulders cloaked,
As his half blanket he unrolled — it too, was sodden — soaked.

He scanned the gloom around him — saw the ghostly forms of men.
He wiped the rain streaks from his face, and lifted up his pen.
His precious ink he opened, and with care the pen he dipped.
The paper for the letter, from a biscuit pack he’d ripped.

He knew that he must hasten, very soon there’d be no light,
And once night fell a feeble glow would draw the sniper’s sight.
For in the dark the enemy would climb the highest tree,
And should a digger strike a match, then home he’d never see.

So with his slouch hat held to shield his letter from the rain,
He penned the loving words: “Dear Mum, I’m writing home again
To say that all is well with me and hope that you are too,
And hope the little one and Sis are not too much for you.

I’ve not received a letter from you yet but pray I will;
I know you will have written Ma, so I am hopeful still.
How is my girl who waits for me? Tell her I’ll not be long.
This business will end soon I think, meanwhile we must be strong.”

He asked for news of relatives and friends since long ago;
Of younger brothers who would soon be joining in the show.
Then finished off the letter with a reassuring line:
“Don’t worry for me Mother, for your son is doing fine.”

He folded up the letter, and he slipped it in his pack
When chance arose he’d hand it to be taken down the track.
But while he could, he’d try to sleep, for come the morning light,
“Advance!” would be the order; very soon would come the fight.

— D.N. O’Brien

After Giarabub

Tags

18th Brigade 7th Div 2nd AIF, 2nd Australian Imperial Force, 7th Division 2nd AIF, Battle of Giarabub, Cyrenaica, Giarabub, Giarabub Fortress, Giarabub Oasis, Italians in WW2, poem, poetry, Siege of Giarabub, Tamma Heights

𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐆𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐛

Over silent sons blows the desert dust.
Over guns long stilled — over rifles’ rust.
To a sacred God the Sirocco moans
Of the sacrifice — of the shared bleached bones,
Where the Roman raised a defiant hand,
And is buried deep, neath a shroud of sand.

Was a victory — a first glimpse of Hell,
As a battle won — as a fortress fell
By an emerald grove and a sapphire jewel
In the great Sahara — a precious pool.

And the ones who fought and the ones who died
They have met perhaps on the other side —
The Australian boys from across the sea;
The reluctant soldiers of Italy.

— D.N. O’Brien

Australians of the 18th Brigade 7th Division raise their colours over the fortress of Giarabub 21st march 1941.

The Syrian Hill

Tags

2nd AIF, 7th Division 2nd AIF, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Hill 1054 Syria, poem, poetry, Syria, The Levant, Vichy French, Vichy French in Syria

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐇𝐢𝐥𝐥

In the cruel Levant lies the Syrian hill,
And the men who hold it have strength and will.
And two of the men who would take the height,
Mere boys when they landed, now men who’ll fight
The French and their vassals, the Senegalese.
From the distant south — the Antipodes,
They are seen once more in an ancient land
Where the blood of their fathers, it stains the sand.
And soon will theirs flow on this rocky mound;
But now do they dig in the blasted ground.
And the shells fly near and the air it groans
As they shake the hill and the buried bones
Of the countless soldiers who here have died
For a sultan’s dream or a far king’s pride.
Now their bayonets fixed for the last mad rush
That will seal their fate or their dark foes crush.
One looks to his right and his mate looks back,
As the air explodes — then a shout:”Attack!”
One looks to his right and his mate lies there,
And glazed are his eyes and there’s blood in his hair.
But the charge is on and the scene’s a blur.
There are shouts and shells and the bullets whir.
At the Senegalese do their officers scream,
But it is the end of a mad French dream,
As the Frenchmen flee and the French flag falls.
And the Vichy French from their towering walls,
Now their last hope gone, fly surrender’s flag.
And upon the hill with a Frenchman’s rag,
With the tricolour is a bandage made
For a soldier wounded — his mate is laid
With the others who on that day had paid
With their bright young lives for a barren mound.
Now I think of them when I hear the sound
Of a bugle blown — of the boys who fell;
Of the wounded soldier I knew so well.

— D.N. O’Brien

{𝘐𝘯 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘧 2/25𝘵𝘩 𝘉𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘰𝘯 7𝘵𝘩 𝘋𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 2𝘯𝘥 𝘈𝘐𝘍 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘏𝘪𝘭𝘭 1054, 𝘚𝘺𝘳𝘪𝘢 8𝘵𝘩 𝘑𝘶𝘭𝘺 1941 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘕𝘰𝘦𝘭 𝘖’𝘉𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯 — 𝘣𝘢𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘺 — 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘺 𝘍𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘯 𝘚𝘺𝘳𝘪𝘢 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 12𝘵𝘩 𝘑𝘶𝘭𝘺}