P.ARCHIVE2

NIGHTMARES

Did you ever hear the sound of a bullet which missed.
Or a ricochet as it whines between the tree’s.
Have you ever felt so useless tasted the bitter bile of fear
As it rises in the gut from God knows where

Have you ever heard the rattle of a mortar on it’s way
And the crashing sound as it hits the roof above?
Have you heard the screams of men as they meet a horrid death,
Or smelled the stench of cordite mixed with urine guts and blood?

Have you ever reached a point in life, when nothing really matters
That death would be a welcome peaceful thing?
Have you ever looked in awe at the bloody useless body
Of a comrade or a friend as before your eyes his life’s blood ebbs away?

Did you ever pray to God, then find he wasn’t there
and in desperation cry out for mum or dad?
Have you ever fought a one sided useless fight
betrayed by those you thought that you could trust,
Then be taken prisoner by a bestial Japanese?
1 was! and 1 wish I never had.

Arthur Lane

PTCSD

POST TRAUMATIC COMBAT STRESS DISORDER

We are the secret casualties,

the walking, talking wounded~

No visible scars,

missing limbs,

or sightless eyes;

just sudden starts,

wakeful nights,

mood-shifts,

and numbed emotions.

We cope with life

as if it’s just milk spilt,

mopped up,

wrung out,

then swilled away.

We carefully unwrap old memories

as if they are too fragile,

or too awful,

to examine.

Victimised by our own dreams

we forever re-live old horrors:

cherishing life,

yet unafraid of death.

Somehow, dead

while still alive.

AN AUSTRALIAN VIETNAM VETERANS LAMENT

The hurt and pain stilt lingers on

For years we were told

That we did wrong

When we were twenty

we were carefree and game

Now we’re past fifty

We feel nothing but shame

Such is the legacy we bear

Borne to us by bastards who didn’t care

Our wives and kids they suffer too

The wrongs being righted by those too few

But still we battle and stick together

Probably now and the rest of forever

For in our mates who shared this horror

We can stilt feel proud and just an ounce of honour

But we’ll fight on and meet the battle

Kick some arse and a few doors rattle

Although today our numbers are dying

For them and our mates we’ll keep trying

To right that wrong we inherited those years

That have meant nothing to us but heartache and tears

So to al1 those soldiers I write this for

On their behalf and for our cause

You can shove your battles and so called wars

Just keep our children from those alien shores.

Sid Pearce Returned Vietnam Vet.

I was that which others cared not to be. I went where others feared to go.

And did what others failed to do I asked nothing from Those who

gave nothng. And reluctantly. accepted the thought of eternal loneliness-should I fail

I have seen the face of terror. Felt the chill of fear, warmed to the touch of love

I have hoped. pained, cried. But. Foremost , lived in times others would say were best forgotten at the very least I will be able to say with greatest pride.

That I was indeed a soldier

ONE TIME OUT OF HISTORY’S CALENDAR

I had slept, not long, the Soldier’s fractured sleep that parked its arse upon the razor’s edge of my taut nerves. Dawn was not yet in the making in God’s black opal eye; night coalesced the sky with the uncharitable earth and the inhospitable mountains, making one great dreadful black of darkness. Then, from my raw-ragged sleep, to stark-naked awakeness - mortars have that habit of - ripping vulgar clutches from the earth’s bone-dry crust; and arms and legs; I wondered who had bought it, in my instant packaged hell, as all around me cries of wounded Fusiliers gnawed away at the edges of my sanity.

Peering out of the sparse sanctuary of my hole’s inside, my eye travelled along the snatches of tracers, which were busy sewing seams along the edges of the night’s darkness - looking for a carcass to bury their bright lights in. And flares which, otherwise, on another occasion, might well have passed as a display of illuminated revelling, mushroomed their brightness into the great black cavern of the night; punctuated by gregarious, rattle-tattle sounds, which battles make about themselves. And their bright ignescence, like semicolon punctuations, mortars and hand-grenades exploding in the night make, seemed quite superfluous.

Screaming, whistling, bugle-playing, ‘Banzia’-yelling ‘Gooks’ - like raving lunatics doing a demented morris-dance - reminding me of fireflies on a balmy summer’s night - thrashed the obscene loops and strands of barbed-wire ignominy; halting long enough to be stilled by the Fusiliers’ Brens and Vickers, ending their mad morrising. Yet, still more came, and the more we shot those Chinese lads, the more there seemed to be to shoot, in a never-ending parody of insanely stupid, terrible worthless, but quite courageous acts of raw courage. Or, was it opium? we asked. When it comes to courage, which of you can separate the stupid from the brave? How can we take away from one Soldier - because he serves the other side - that which, otherwise, we would see as being nothing less than heroic in our own; in battles so intense and infamous as to earn themselves a place in history - joining Battle Honours on a Regiment’s Colours.

God forbid that you should spend one day of your life with the ‘Shitdiggers1 of the Infantry - writing history!

NO TITLE

In my mind’s flitting out of time from historical event to historical event, • misjudge me not because I can’t forget the heaped horror of memories no-one sees behind my eyes.

Should I appear in your distraction, to neglect the time I live in - this time which history, tomorrow, will make of today - condemn me not that I should seem to squander all my thoughts on yesterday’s gaunt memories, which war has etched upon my mind.

Chide not my writings of War’s abhorrence, my mind recalls; unlike the dead we have left behind, we could not to their graves our memories inter. ’Tis not a simple matter of abandoning the one time for another; nor is it possible the historical event to smother.

When you have seen, as I have seen, into a Soldier’s soul - in that time-capsuled moment when Life takes wing - then the Soldier to his earth’s-torn hole commit; of what is objurgation? Thank God you know not of these things!

NIGHT TERROR

I dreamt last night of hate-filled eyes

In a twisted snarling face,

And a voice that bellowed, hoarse with rage,

And knew I was back in that place.

For the blood and the brains and the slivers of bone,

And the pitiful stares of the dead

And the last bubbling gasps in a dying child’s throat,

Are all locked away in my head.

All under control, and quickly subdued,

Not meant for casual ears;

Yet, still today, I know the taste

Of bitter salty tears.

Scalding tears of rage, that men

Could do that to a child;

So when we found them later that day,

We let the boys run wild.

Training fought hate for control of my mind;

The race was very close-run;

Though later I came to admit we were wrong,

I refuse to regret what was done.

Those eyes, that face and that voice are all mine

There’s no other sound that I hear;

Except for that throat filled with blood at the last,

That always rings out loud and clear.

And I awake with a pounding heart,

Teeth clenched to keep from screaming

And wonder what I’ve done of late

To trigger off such dreaming.

Maybe there’s something in all of us,

However deeply hidden,

That makes us relish in our dreams

The things that are forbidden?

The most savage of beasts that stalks the world

Takes no delight in killing;

Except for the one that walks erect;

And that one’s always willing.

MOTHER DEAR MOTHER

Mother help me please I’m cold and hurt and bleeding, I’m all alone and lost, please take me home dear Mother.
It’s getting dark I’m in trouble now, I’m sorry Mother, I will eat my supper and go to bed, it’s hurting a lot dear Mother.
Don’t tell Father he will be mad, my trousers are ripped and my head is bleeding, please sing me a lullaby, I’m your
baby boy dear Mother.
My eyes are open but I cannot see, why do you leave me here to cry? I love you Mother.
The pain is so bad I cannot breathe, please bathe my wounds and make it go dear Mother.
I hear you Mother I knew you would come, please dry my tears, I love you so dear Mother.

”Sergeant you’ve missed a body over here”,
“OK bag it and tag it.”

Tom MacNally

LAST LETTER HOME FROM

PRIVATE ALBERT TROUGHTON

SHOT AT DAWN 22ND APRIL 1915

Dear Mother, and Father, Sisters and brothers, Just a few lines to let you know I am in the best of health and hope you are mother. I am sorry to have to tell you that I am to be shot tomorrow at 7 O’clock in the morning the 22nd April. I hope you will take it in good part and not upset yourself. I shall die like a soldier, so goodbye mother, father, sisters and brothers, if any left. Remember me to Mr Kendall and them who knew me. Mother I am very sorrv nothing happened to me at Ypres. I should not have went away and then I might have stood a good chance of being still alive, but I think they are paying the debt at the full rate. I thought the most they would give me would be about ten years. It is worse than waiting to be hung.

I hope you got my letters which I sent you while waiting for my court martial. It seems that something told me I would be shot, so I think the time has come for me to die ,.. I am only a common soldier and all civilians should know that I

have fought for my country in hail, sleet and snow. To the trenches we have to go. All my comrades have been slaughtered which I think everyone should know. When our regiment was captured the Colonel loudly strained

‘Everyone for himself but on an on I fought and got clear of the German trenches …This is the punishment I get for getting clear of the Germans.

I have wrote my last letter to you all at home so mother don’t be angry with me because I have gone to rest. and pray for me, and I will pray for you. Remember me to Mr Newbold and tell him about it... I have been silly to go away but if you knew how worried I was and almost off my head. Think how we had been slaughtered at the beginning of the war ... You think they would have a bit of pity for those who are living and dying for their country. Good bye to all at home. Goodbye, Goodbye.

Albert.

Just Another Job

Move forward just a little more, young man,

and your position will be perfect.

No, don’t look up;

I don’t need to see your face.

It’s nothing personal, young man,

it’s just easier if I don’t see your eyes.

Just stay anonymous;

I don’t care who you are,

it’s what you represent that counts.

Breathe in, half out, and hold it.

Squeeze gently; there, it’s over.

I’ve done you a favour, in a way,

for you didn’t have time to be afraid.

I don’t feel glad, I don’t feel sad,

as your dying body hits the ground;

just a craftsman’s satisfaction

at another job well done.

In the mind

I’m happy and sad
Compassionate and bad
Can’t sleep at night
Can’t do anything right
I wanna be alone
But not on my own
I’m in love but I hate
I’m a burden on the state
I’m possessed by the war
I killed what for?

I see shrinks
I see doc’s
Remember my arctic socks
I’m disloyal cause I’m ill
Is it right to kill
I can hide in a crowd
My face a grey shroud

I cry for no reason

My country shouts treason
All the pills and the booze
Make bad memories ooze
I was 19 in June
Under a bright crystal moon
I died that day
But I’m still here to say
For the brave and the free
My award PTSD.

Author Tony McNally.

I dedicate this

anthology of poems

to Fusiliers -men of

Khaki -who have returned

to live the long memory of

those who stayed: the ones who

lie, even in death, in their

disciplined uniformity in soldier-holes

Ashley

HEROES AND KILLING FIELDS

So you think you are the countries hero.

Having done what you have done.

Made a young bride a widow.

Deprived a woman of her son.

Killed a baby’s father.

May’be all three in one.

Have you ever wondered why you did it.

Was it for pride, or just for fun,

Did you think of all the glory,

When that miserable day was done.

Did you think of the shiny medal.

That your heroic deed had won

Pinned so firmly on your chest

Like an albatross on your army vest

Was it the shiny shilling they gave you

Or was it just your personal pride

At showing off a job well done

Have you ever thought just how you looked.

On that miserable day,

When like a child with his brand new toy.

You blew those young lives away.

Like a pig your face was bloated,

Your mind was in a whirl.

You were re-enacting a film you had seen

In a Hollywood fantasy world

Many years later,

Lonely battle scarred and done

Suffering the odd nightmare or two

Living on a government pension

Did they come to tend your wounds.

Whispering words of comfort

Or try to heal the pain.

Did they pay you compensation

Did they recognise you at all

Because you should know that after all,

You was only a national servant

Just like the rest of us all.

FULL MILITARY HONOURS

I wish now that I’d had the strength

to refuse them when they asked

to organise his funeral.

Their warm brown voices

ooze sincerity and sympathy for our grief,

but they are using him and us to justify their brutal trade.

Their stern, unmoving faces are not from grieving,

but to show the world at large that he was one of theirs.

Not one of them, but one of theirs,

to come here, or to go there, and do their bidding so.

This pomp, that flag, their ceremony and all,

are not to honour him nor us,

but to honour their own glory, their renown,

their own smug satisfaction

that yet another died for them.

That one told me that my son was one of their very finest,

yet I doubt he even knew the colour of his eyes,

or the way our name is spelt, until after he was dead.

I wish, I wish, I wish, above all, that they would go,

and leave those of us who loved him best

to grieve for the loss of yet another young life

so fruitlessly spent fighting for what

these heartless bastards dare call

“Peace”.

FROM THE TRENCHES: Reaching out for Love

Go or, reach out with your mind, and with your memory’s recollection of me, touch me! Inspire yourself, creature of my love, and with your inspiration, I beg of you, tantalise and torment my aching body’s need of you. Then those who look into my eyes will see your love; your face envy what is measured there - the dimensions of your love accounted for.

If I could reach you with my hand, right now, I’d contour every line and shape, with touch, that makes your face; down your throat my fingers would caress; my other hand, your buttons would undress. Your full areasts into each palm I’d take - the honey in your teats I’d draw, like nectar, with my mouth - perhaps you’d shout?

If I could separate your body’s nakedness from the clothes convention hides you in-disguising truth and form from my enraptured eyes - my hand I’d take to you - to your secret lover’s place - caress the warm, wet softness there, until you ached with love, then spread your thighs to invitation size and, ever growing, enter you.

Dedicated to Marie...where ever you are.

Ashley Cunningham Booth

TOO LONG DID I STARE AT THE NIGHT

Too long did I stare at the Night’s Tattered blanket, with its holes, through which the stars eyed us; Keeping out the Dawn’s enfilade of Night’s black dominance.