Mid muffled drums, bugle calls, sobs and cries

We fondly recall his soldiering days gone by

Weep not for him as we bid a fond farewell

There are so many proud deeds of his to tell

In peace and war he was always there

Standing tall and never reluctant to dare

Always were his thoughts for others

He was a leader, patriot, soldier and brother

Now he leaves to join old comrades far, far away

Yet his spirit still lives with us, forever and a day

Marching alongside us as we seek tomorrow

All in step together, with Duty First as our proud Motto

George Mansford ©

The Power of Dreams

For soldiers at war, dreams are a powerful way to escape the reality of danger, death and misery which continually linger at their side.

There are dreams they share with each other and some they do not.

The odds are that their visions are of peaceful times at home and what they will do on return to their beloved land. Such thoughts, even if for a brief time, shut out the surrounding fear and madness.

Dreams are not restricted. They are captured by all ranks from the highest of command to the most junior soldier.

Such medicine is readily available in many circumstances including short rests on a muddy track while huddled in soaking rain or resting in a tent far distant from the rumbling guns, yet never on sentry duty or when danger is close by. Even the most precious dream can be shattered by a “Dear John” letter and its scattered torn pieces signal despair and moroseness. Such circumstances impact on all the team.

Dreams are free, be they of long or short duration. Such a tonic can provide sense of purpose, confidence, hope and remove thoughts of futility. They can be shared in whispered conversation or remain forever secret.

Many of their dreams they cherish, others are forgotten and for too many veterans, their dreams are lost, stolen or destroyed by broken promises which slowly but surely become nightmares.

So many of our hidden wounded still seek understanding and support.  They are out there among us even if you can’t see them

George Mansford February 2017

               Not All Dreams Come True  

Soldiers have been dreamers from way back

Be it on an angry sea, a dangerous sky or a muddy track 

It’s true that weary warriors seize every chance to dream

By night or day to steal a secret glance at more pleasant scenes

A sandy beach or camp fire with flickering shadows mid the coals

At the local pub or watching as a footy team kicks the winning goal 

For many, the thoughts of sweet gentle love in warm embrace

For the less romantic, winning on a long shot in the last race  

For a youngster seeking love, there are visions of a girl yet to meet

Shivering with cold, a wish for warmth between crisp clean sheets

Dry mouth and a parched throat slaked by Mum’s cold lemonade

With empty bellies, cravings for a home cooked meal freshly made

No more the terrible sounds of battle all around

Sweet silent peace under a shady tree with cool green grassy ground

Gone the snarl of hungry metal shards seeking flesh and pain    

Drowsy at a friendly fireplace and above, the soothing sound of rain

No more the unknown threats and doubts with each morn 

To be safe and sound, thankful to kind fate with each new dawn

Gone the sight of misery and blood and wondering what was it for

Oh, to seek deep restful sleep without the sounds of war

So many dreams of hope planted which in time would flower

Yet on return, for many, these past thoughts slowly turn sour

Sleepless nights, anger, imagined guilt, shredded flesh and broken bone

The long sightless stare, restless, seeking old comrades or wanting to be alone

Who would have thought of such ills when overseas far away?

These hidden casualties of war who pass by, each and every day

False promises from those in high places who yawn as they talk and talk

While old soldiers with hidden pain still chase dreams wherever they walk

George Mansford © February 2017     

   My Tough Father and Spoilt Me 

My dad lived in the rugged outback a long time ago

Where cruel drought was followed by rivers in flooded flow

His kitchen was a campfire with dampers in coals still red

A rocky mattress on hard ground softened by grass for a bed

His clock and compass was the shifting searing sun

Always an open camp with no door to lock when the day was done

Swagmen passing by were invited to join him at a fire burning bright 

To share a battered blackened Billy of tea and yarn into the night 

A firm handshake was his word and accepted by all as right

You could call a mate a mongrel baxxxsxrd and not cause a fight 

Help for a fever or broken bones so many days’ ride away

Sleep often broken by a distant dingo howling gidday

A land where failure and then trying again was part of life’s scene

In the bush beneath a bright blinking Southern Cross so easily seen

                                      ***

Today, there’s tar and cement where that well-worn track used to be

Bright lights and sign posts for travelers to readily see 

Fast foods at roadside cafes and quick car repairs as well

Queen size beds, air-conditioning and room service by pressing a bell

Satellites advise location, time, weather and directions for any fool 

Security cameras, doors locked and “be wary of strangers” are rules

Careful what you say or you’re off to the Politically Correct School

Failed again? Don’t get up, seek help from any government station

Forget friendly chatter; text a screen as does all our yawning nation  

Alas, in our space age, smog can often mask God’s starry creation 

Promises are no longer valid unless with paper, pens and fees 

Ring a doctor at any hour for a mild cough or sniffle to ease   

No more is the familiar sound of a lonely dingo’s howling cry 

Just noisy indifferent wheels and numbed rubber speeding by

                                          ***

Has time eroded those national values of what used to be? 

Respect, pride, unity and other disciplines which were our legacy

Long gone is the swagman, drover plus the horse and plow

The question is who and what we are now?

Today it’s political correctness where it’s sinful for truth to speak

Thanks to politicians we are paddling up that dreaded creek

Surely we must find that lost and forgotten track once again

Now hidden by time, it too has survived famine, flood, fire and rain

We must remind the world of who we are and what we can be

We’re linked with our mountain, deserts, forests, reefs and Coral Sea 

Be it the convict, pioneer, bushman, the ANZAC or you and me 

Ours is a special land where the air is still fresh, clean and free

Time for us to roll up the sleeves, square shoulders and stand fast

Tell the world with a loud coo-ee; we’ve found that old track at last 

George Mansford©January 2017

During the Vietnam War there were many bloody battles involving Australian troops. One such battle occurred in Operation Bribie (named after Bribie Island in Qld) during which diggers encountered a well dug enemy of significant strength.

History records that elements of B company were given the order to attack the entrenched enemy. No easy task for exposed infantry under heavy fire yet they did so without hesitation. In one rifle section, the corporal gave the order with a final shout of “I‘ll see you blokes on the other side” The assault failed with heavy loss.

It was an engagement at close quarter against a very determined and aggressive enemy in well prepared defensive positions. In such an engagement the casualties could have been heavier if not for the company’s battle drills combined with sound teamwork and personal bravery of the highest order. 8 soldiers were killed and 28 wounded

The question is “In such circumstances what is it that creates such determination, bravery and discipline?”

I wasn’t there thus I do not know the completer answer. However what I do know is that unit pride, battle discipline, trust in each other and the powerful weapon of camaraderie and not letting your mates down would be essential elements of the answer. These qualities were slowly developed from the very first day each soldier took the oath to serve his country.

Their training gradually became more demanding physically and mentally and each day the confidence and pride grew as did the bonds of brotherhood. Thus in time they were committed to operations as tough disciplined infantry ready to face a brave and determined enemy. Each year, old comrades gather at Bribie Island to honour their fallen mates and those who have gone since…If you happen to be passing by, salute them with a wave or a cooee in recognition. . They surely deserve it.     GM

                      Proud Memories

Was it so long ago when they were sent to war

That final wave to loved ones watching from the shore   

The beginning of a brotherhood forged in blood, sweat and tears

Still so strong to be seen as they assemble each and every year

Aging veterans who had risked all for a nation; theirs, yours and mine

Reliving fond memories never be stolen by the trickling sands of time

Flashing Images of their youth while soldiering in a hostile place

Courage, fear, love, hate, joy and sadness in Mars’ cruel race;

Always was the duty to country no matter heat or rain

Of steamy jungle, swamps and mountainous terrain 

Facing the unknown together each and every day

Sharing, caring and grins despite the pain was always their way

Above all, they recall with bursting pride, the sacred names in gold

Those of their ranks who never did grow old

Who charged into a fiery hell as one, for they were all brothers 

Right to the very end, proud young warriors with trust in each other

For the fallen, gone were their dreams that all young men share

Of being home with loved ones and never again to dare

To love, to laugh and seek normal life again 

To seize each and every day, no matter sun or rain

Yet their spirits are here this very day as the roll is read

You can hear their retorts to authority and the banter said

See once more smiling young faces and hear the laughter  

Such is the brotherhood and its memories, today and forever after 

George Mansford © December 2016