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Graham E. McLoughlin
ServicePoems
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Marches
In memory of NX30953 Cpl Edward McLoughlin (1909 –1994)
My father joined the AIF; the year was thirty nine.
He trained and marched with spirit free; that dear brave Dad of mine.
They lined the streets of Bathurst town, to watch the parade march through.
The regiment marched tall that day; the spirit in them grew.
They then embarked from Sydney quay; for Egypt’s sunny shore.
They trained and marched and marched and trained, and then they marched some more.
And when the Germans came to play, they found their spirit willing.
But all the marching in the world didn’t help with all the killing.
When the battles, big and small, had finally been fought
The same men marched again in line; a march of the funeral sort.
For some were carried on that day, shoulder high and silent.
Their coffins draped in Southern Cross; their death was swift and violent.
But still the spirit, born in strife, marched in my father’s heart.
His spirit free, his body strong; he knew he’d played his part.
The Middle East was far away; his country knew no threat.
Until the fall of Singapore; a different foe now met.
Back on board, a Blackforce now, through Suez soon they steamed.
A yellow horde were pouring South, unstoppable it seemed.
No marches now, just fight and hide, in jungles, wet and rotten.
More men fell, no time for parades…Gone… but not forgotten.
Then the brass said “fight no more… the war for you has ended”.
How wrong they were…in Nippon’s hands the terror was extended.
Free no more, subdued by might, along jungle tracks they trekked.
March and work for yellow man, privation had effect
“Now march again!!”, at bayonet point, their savage captor cried.
They marched…. with spirit only free and now more good men died.
They marched and marched, with frames now lean, up Burma’s Hellfire pass.
Some they carried…some they left…their headstones only grass.
Their marches soon became a trudge, but still their spirit strong.
In hearts they marched with Aussie pride, a pride they held so long.
Bamboo cane nor rifle butt couldn’t stop their marching heart.
Sweethearts, mothers, daughters, sons… were there, although apart.
A second stripe now earned with blood; although he could never wear it.
His service drab was now long gone; he had no sleeve to bear it.
But still he marched, within his heart; His spirit never broken.
His mates, the same, formed up beside; their pain and fear unspoken.
Long years passed…and so did mates; but spirit still marched brave.
Bodies broken, starved and weak; captive… but no slave.
The road to hell was paved with blood, of friend, and mate and brother.
Their step was slow but soul marched proud; for these men knew no other.
When finally their freedom came they formed up in three abreast.
And marched again with heads held high, past where their comrades rest.
On board again, this time for home, to waiting wives and mothers.
This half dead band of marching men had left friends,,,. came home brothers.
Those brave men then marched yet again… the same day every year.
They talked of mates and deeds and laughs and often shed a tear.
For forty years my father marched, my ‘uncles’ by his side.
The men that blood had made my kin, together marched in pride.
And came my time to wear a badge of country and slouch hat.
The same pride that my kinsmen wore, upon my shoulders sat.
I learned to march, just like my Dad; and saw a side of war.
And we all marched… and some men died….. just like it was before.
And when Dad on his deathbed lay, his life here nearly through.
He spoke of men we had never known, in codes we never knew.
And in the hospital that day, his family by his side,
he marched again on Burma Road then called a halt…and died.
And now he sleeps in dappled shade, his victory now been won.
A burnished badge of rising sun states “herein lies a son”.
And from that day a truth came through…A legacy was had.
I, my sons and their sons too…will always march for Dad.
G. McLoughlin (c) 2013
This poem was written on the 24th of April 2006, on a roadhouse table in Murgon, Queensland. It was partly written in response to a call to ban families and descendants marching in memory of, or in support their ex-servicemen family members in ANZAC day marches. It was also written as a tribute to a man who I shall always aspire to be like…Corporal Ted McLoughlin, AIF…..My Dad.
Photo courtesy of Andrea McLaren 2013
NOT JUST ON ANZAC DAY
I stood a while this morning on a balmy Bargara shore.
And heard the clink of medals, my comrades around me wore.
I saw the sun arise, to greet this hallowed day.
Watched children sit and listen and heard a padre pray.
I heard a piper’s lament, a buglers call to rise.
I felt a collective humbleness, and saw tears in some eyes.
I remembered friends and close kin, no longer standing here.
Their memory strangely stronger, their presence crystal clear.
The thousands there with me, stood with all heads bowed,
as we silently remembered the hero’s debt we owed.
The legacy left for us was not a love of war.
But freedom, peace, prosperity... and perhaps a little more.
A way of life, a country...
with blood they had to pay...
So we could keep their dreams alive...
Not just on ANZAC Day
G. McLoughlin (c) 2013
The Digger and the Widow
A look that spanned wide seas and years, passed through the old man’s eyes.
His jaw set hard, his shoulders stiff... His ears heard dead mates cries.
His back erect, a soldiers stance, his hands turned into fists.
His mind had fled to battlefields where Gods had made their lists.
A lone piper , a forlorn lament , somewhere, a magpies trill.
The haunting bugle played last post, clear in the morning chill.
By the old man’s side a young widow stood, her sad eyes filled with tears.
She stood like him and set her jaw and thought of recent years.
The last time she had heard that played , was in black... by a grave.
Her memories not of battles but of the love she had come to crave.
Standing there together, so different... yet the same.
Their county’s debt a sorrow they will never ever claim.
The rouse now sounded, strong and clear, the flag rose to its peak.
His hand unclenched and cradled hers, there was no need to speak.
Though more than years divided them, that morning they were one.
With their strength their only armour, their victory has been won.
A smile exchanged... tears wiped away... the present time reset.
Lord, thanks for all who keep us safe... and Lord... Lest We Forget.
© G. McLoughlin 2013
THE DAY DARKIE SLOTTED BRUCE
A peaceful spot was E and T, where Smart and Hoole were staff.
But because the airframe flight was big, the class was split in half.
While ‘B’ Flight pulled a Wingeel down, ‘A’ Flight studied flight.
I think this had a bit to do with where Norm spent the night.
Now ‘Bing ‘ Hoole was a Crosby fan and quite a placid bloke.
But Darkie never ever sang, and sometimes gruffly spoke.
His manner was, as some would say,”singularly obtuse”
And that would be a factor , The day Darkie slotted Bruce.
While Bing had ‘B’ flight stripping down, Darkie took the rest.
Into the classroom we were called, at Darkie Smart’s behest
But Norm dawdled, when he was called, So Darkie thought “Damn Sprog”.
“If he won’t come immediately, I’ll call him like a dog!”.
“Here Brucey Brucey Brucey Boy “ he was heard to yell.
He jumped about and slapped his thigh and whistled him as well.
His dark complexion soon went darker, with fury we all thought.
His face turned red and then to black when he heard Norm’s retort
Now Norm was usually nice and polite, but shit he wouldn’t take.
No-one would treat him like a dog, and certainly not this ‘snake’.
He didn’t have much time to think, and did so with his heart
But what he said was just enough to upset Darkie Smart.
“Get stuffed you big fat Pommy Prick!” Norm was heard to utter.
“Breakspear… Raudonikis…Bruce!!!...Form up in the gutter.
“Hats on you two…Yours OFF Bruce!” “Now march him to the slot”
Bob and Tom were all at sea….It put them on the spot.
So off they went in single file, Breakspear at the lead
Darkie’s eyes were popping out, his ears began to bleed.
The rest of us just sat there stunned, not used to this abuse.
A spectacle that changed our lives…When Darkie slotted Bruce.
Up the main drag march the group, One man behind the other.
Bob and Tom were feeling bad…They had to ‘slot’ their brother.
“Run!” said Tom, Bob pleaded “No!”… He thought “There’s no excuse”
“for letting this Apprentice go” …the day Darkie slotted Bruce
And back at work we sat and talked….while Darkie had a fag.
Mick Conomos shook his head , said “Shit, that Norm’s a dag!”
“He’s in the pooh and that’s for sure” I heard Deloas state.
And we all thought that we had lost for good our big tall hairy mate.
Back to the block, when day was done and still no sign of Norm.
The rumour spread around the base that he’d caused quite a storm.
But the next day after breakfast… when we formed up on parade.
In overalls from the day before, a grand entrance Norm made.
A hero now, He’d survived the slot…and was smiling still like hell.
“They gave me blankets, coffee, tea and breakfast there as well”.
Then three days later he got called… up to the ’boss’s’ place.
Would he be charged and go to gaol… or be confined to base?
What a surprise when he got back…”No further action taken”
“The charge was crap, the sergeant wrong, obviously mistaken”.
You can’t treat appies like a dog…It makes you look a goose.
I think we all learnt lots of things… the day Darkie slotted Bruce.
© G. McLoughlin 2011
Even Though They Didn’t Die
Another ANZAC Day rolls ‘round again and my thoughts turn to my Dad.
To desert sands and prison camps and all the trials he had.
The mates he left along the way, the brothers he brought home.
The bond they had was only theirs... and will be where ere they roam .
There were no shrinks in forty six, to speak of P.T.S.D.
No panel groups to share fears with, no clinics to go free.
They leant upon each other then and shared their long nightmares.
They heard each other’s silent screams and gave their hearts to care.
This day was so important to a band now cleft by time.
So every ANZAC day they would into their Holdens climb.
And drive to meet the other men that blood had made their kin.
meet and talk and have a beer with the ‘family’ they were now in.
Because they all had learned at war... war’s family bond was needed.
With brothers by all different mothers, love strong and unimpeded.
For six long years they all had learnt, to depend upon each other.
When they returned they needed still the strength of every brother.
A single stick may well have snapped, in war... and then in peace.
A single mind but bonded hearts would see their strengths increase.
Their lives would be ‘normal’ , all year, you’d hear them say.
As long as they shared their bonded hearts on that one ANZAC day.
Times and lives are different now , with soldiers who return.
Their brotherhood still just as strong but society needs to learn.
That their need to lean on others is now shackled by the law
That excludes their right to associate with the colours that they wore.
Instead they're offered counselling.... Not now but in a year
A rehabilitation package... too long away I fear.
There could be pay from DVA, if you can prove you’re sick
“Just complete the applications right”... The forms are long and thick.
These men who gave their country blood, like Dad, just clench their teeth.
And hide their fears... their nightmares... and try to live beneath
a cloud of dark frustration that’s their alone to bear.
While pretending to be ‘normal’ and appearing not to care.
I think of Dad... and all men since, who’ve seen their share of hell.
Who close their eyes to block the pain as lonely memories swell.
The ones who try to stand alone... while politicians play
and give nice little soliloquies at parades on ANZAC day .
Today I wear Dad’s medals, proudly on my chest.
And march to help remember his mates and all the rest.
Those who’s lives won’t ever be the same, no matter how they try.
They gave their lives for country… even though they didn’t die.
© G.E Mcloughlin (2014)
The Basic Club
A teenager with time to kill, once found his way to Forest Hill.
Resplendent in his black beret, (which he still keeps until this day.)
He learnt to march with all his mates, Maddern, Rudder, Burrows, Bates.
He became the man that now is me, helped by an immaculate W.O.D.
Cleaning toilets, polishing halls, making beds and washing walls.
He survived this all without a grumble, even slept through the occasional ‘rumble’
The parade ground rang to a marching beat, “Arms shoulder high !” “Don’t shuffle your feet!”
“Attention!”, “Right wheel!”, “Stand at ease!” Dexter was quite hard to please
Maths and Science, and English too, although unprepared , he still got through.
A supplementary here and there. He began to think he didn’t care
He wasn’t here to learn just drill. and of schoolwork he had had his fill.
To make it through, now here’s the rub, He had to join the Basic Club
And what’s sort of fee should he bring along, For a club with honour and history so long?
Although misled by his squirrel peers, The cost would be measured in years
For that was the beginning of a trade... The decision that this ‘framie’ made.
To be a part of this hedgehog hub... You had to join the Basic Club
© G.E Mcloughlin (2010)
Poppies
In a field somewhere in Flanders, in a lane in Herleville Wood,
Red poppies bow their fragile heads where once brave soldiers stood.
Zephyrs waft through stunted trees where once cruel shrapnel tore,
And the poppies wave their fragile heads to remember those at war.
There on lapels more poppies sit, their wearers to remind
The sacrifice young men once made for those they left behind.
A silence spreads around the globe that lasts a minute long.
To honour those who gave their all to right another’s wrong.
The poppies can’t remember names, or ranks, or mother’s tears.
They don’t remember dying thoughts, or nightmares, pain and fears.
The gentle breezes can’t recall the loss of men who now lie still.
Breezes just make the poppies sway in time with bugle’s trill.
And those that wear them on their breast, in remembrance of the ‘peace’
Must search their soul to remind us all that all our wars must cease
In other fields, where no poppies grow, its happening once again.
Poppies can never take the place of the lives of our young men.
© Graham McLoughlin 2015
Just Another Nunga
Charlie was a Nunga and labouring was his thing,
when he thought to swap his shovel for a rifle and his king.
He joined the AIF, although the white man’s law said no.
Swapped his fedora for a slouch hat and off to war did go.
Shipped to France to stop the Hun, a rising sun was now his crest.
Private Runga, once just a Nunga, was now the same as all the rest.
In the winter of Nineteen Sixteen he arrived at Pozières.
And survived the bloody slaughter of his brothers with him there.
Wounded once near Passchendaele, he lived to fight another day.
Back to the front at Herleville Wood, giving up was not his way.
There, with “disregard for safety”, he stormed a machine gun nest,
showing Charlie wasn’t just the same...He was braver than the rest.
Days later he again succumbed to more wounds in the field
A military medal citation saw Charlie’s valour sealed.
As he waited in the old dart for a ship to carry him back.
He was an Australian hero , no-one thought of him as ‘black’
But nothing had changed in Melbourne for the ‘Australian’ Private Runga
A hero there in Pozières... At home... Just another Nunga.
Another twenty years went by and war broke out once more
And again men answered county’s call, as a loyal oath they swore
A ringer called Black Eddie swapped his stockwhip for a Bren
Changed the outback for a jungle and went off to war again.
He didn’t have to sign on, but when his country called, he went
Recognised by all his unit mates , yet not by his government.
He fought bravely there in Burma, then was interned in Singapore.
His Nippon captors saw no difference... As a slave he spent the war
His mates there on the Burma road, they saw Eddie as the same.
Just a broken, wounded brother, when repatriation came.
Few people cheered for Eddie, when his boat docked in the quay.
They just carried off his stretcher to where the wounded ought to be.
And when he passed on, in his humpy, on the fringes of the city
Nobody knew his story, they just looked down on him with pity.
He had always been a nobody...A bludger and a drunk,
‘Till they discovered those seven medals in Eddie’s old tin trunk.
A bronze cross inscribed “For Valour” on a crimson ribbon bar,
said the thoughts they’d had for Eddie had fallen short, by far.
And what of Eddie’s thoughts, as he on his deathbed lay
Was he bitter for his country’s debt ... A debt they’ll never pay?
Did he think that he was ‘coming home’ as they carried him off that boat?
Had he given enough to a country that didn’t even let him vote?
For five long years he lived with men who didn’t think of him as ‘black’
An equal man in Sandakan… ‘Just a Koori’ when he got back.
And even when the vote came and recognition came at last
Another day, another war, another milestone passed.
Again a young black digger answered his country’s call.
Top soldier in his battalion admired by one and all.
From his hometown there in Eidsvold to a tent in Nui Dat.
The safety of his Aussie mates now on his shoulders sat.
Vietcong tunnels, dangerous work, was not for everyone.
But Private Pope put away his fear and let his instincts run
For the first time in his whole life he felt ‘Australian’... Real ‘true blue’
He was jungle green, not black, over there an ‘Aussie’ too.
No difference seen by friend or foe while ‘in country’ he did roam
Yes Popey was a digger there... ‘Just a Murri” when he got home.
As a hundred years of remembrance comes on us once again
We think of fields and jungles where Australia lost its men
We hear stories from the battlefields... familiar ones we know
And now some we never heard, of those who didn’t have to go.
Our First Australian heroes, to whom we all owe a great debt
To remember words like ‘equal’... ‘reconcilliation’... ‘lest we forget’
© Graham E McLoughlin 2015
ONE HUNDRED YEARS
For a hundred years an ebbing tide has washed blood from Suvla Bay.
For a hundred years a lonely pine has snared the suns first ray.
For a hundred years the steep ravines echo now silent moans
For a hundred years tough Turkish grass has quilted ANZAC bones.
For a hundred years an outback town has mourned boys, young and fit,
When Turkish bullets found their mark, in the fury of Hell Spit.
And in cities, carts stood idle, their drivers now lie still,
In secret graves, with wooden cross, on the slopes of Lone Pine hill
For a hundred years grateful groups gather to greet the dawn.
To remember, laud and celebrate... To honour, pray and mourn.
In country towns and cities, on battlefields anew
To pay a nation’s homage to its blood soaked world debut
For a hundred years young nations grew from this legacy of strife.
A nation’s seed sown by young men when they laid down their life.
An ANZAC spirit further sown when their sons marched to war
And, they too, gave their precious gifts, just like those gone before.
A Hundred years have seen our lands mature into our own.
It’s seen our young men march away to defend both land and throne
A hundred years have sealed a bond across the Tasman Strait
An ANZAC legend, sealed with blood, of brother, son and mate.
For a hundred years an ANZAC corps marched proudly off to war
And many men have not returned, much like they did before.
On battlefields across the globe, their precious blood they shed.
A sacrifice of their nation’s youth... A country’s hallowed dead.
For a hundred years, no lasting peace, a promise they once heard
No lessons learned by all that blood... Peace now seems just a word
Do those that died now lie in peace because those left here shed tears?
Has it made our land a better place...This last one hundred years ?
(c) Graham McLoughlin 2015
The April 26th Digger
Alone again a stone Digger stands, on the empty dawn lit street.
Damp floral tributes to those now gone adorn the Digger’s feet.
The crowds now gone, the parade dismissed, he waits in dawn’s light clear
To stand his lonely vigil until that hallowed day next year.
Beneath him lists of long gone men, in stone, carved name on name.
Who wrote blank cheques to country, to fuel our eternal flame.
Freedoms debt, paid with their blood, a freedom they never saw
But paid in full by families, when their sons marched off to war.
No bugle’s call rings out this day… no crowd but me to hear
The flags are furled and packed away, to await another year.
The children’s speeches all read out, the prayers and anthem’s said
The medals back in boxes placed, the fine regalia shed.
In many towns a Digger stands to await another year.
To guard his mates and legacy of the freedom we hold dear
So wait he does, in solemn stance, his stony countenance set.
Still living in our grateful hearts, all year… Lest we forget.
© Graham E McLoughlin 2017
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