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A Soldiers Thoughts from the Second World War - the Poems.
INTRODUCTION
My oldest sister Erica obtained these poems from our Aunt Luenda (Dads sister), and subsequently typed and distributed them to family members. They were written during the Second World War while Dad was in training at Paekakariki Camp, and during action in Egypt and Italy. I felt they deserved a bit more attention, and collated them into a "book". I have tried to return the poems to their correct chronological order.
To give background to these poems, I have pieced together a chronology of events and a glossary. These facts & dates have been gleaned from discussions with my father (50 years after the events detailed) and from the Official War History book "ITALY, Vol 1, The Sangro to Cassino" by NC Phillips.
Since the "first edition" of this book, I acquired more information regarding 'Ians war' - in the form of copies of the 23rd Battalion History Chapters 12 &13 relating to the action in Italy up to and including Cassino. I recall Dad had a copy of this, but I didn't read it back then, and now it is gone, so this copy was very welcome. It nicely fills in some gaps and confirms or clarifies some of my presumptions made in the first edition chronology. The story here comes from this source. I am indebted to Mr Windsor Jones, Archivist of QEII Army Museum, Waiouru for this information. A copy of these poems was forwarded to the Museum and Mr Jones indicated that they were keen to use some of them for their school children tours.
George McNeur
Ians 2nd son
SOLDIERS REVERIE
A silver moon, a deep dark sea,
Silver surge upon the strand,
Offshore the bushclad Kapiti
A rugged, mystic, purple land;
A night suffused with fairy charm,
And fringed with pulsing murmuring foam.
A night for lovers arm in arm
And here I am - alone.
Alone upon a silver strand
With all the longing love can lend,
Longing for a woman's hand.
Alone among a thousand men;
The tender glance, the soft caress,
The thrilling touch of soft white hand.
How sharp the knife of sacrifice
That cleaves us from our native land.
This & the next 2 poems were written near Westport, while recovering from a broken collar bone sustained in a truck accident, prior to departing NZ.
GOLDEN BELLS
A rumpled riot of kowhai gold
Skirting the amber stream,
A hundred tolling bells that shade
The splendour of a dream.
For tuis amid that sunny glow
Sipping the nectar'd flower,
Repay with gold of pealing song
The gold of a sunny hour.
Cling, clung, clong,
We tuis do no wrong.
We sing our bell toned song
And feast the whole day long.
Clong, clung, cling,
Of nectar'd flowers we sing.
We dart on muffled wing,
And honeyed raptures fling.
Cling, clong, clung,
From gold massed branchlet hung,
I dip my feathered tongue
Ambrosias cups among.
Clong, clong, clung, clong, cling,
In a thousand tones
The golden matins ring
From blaze of kowhai gold
That ushers in the spring.
There's gold in sun and note and flower.
There's gold in everything.
SUNSET ON THE SEA
Have you ever spent an hour at dusk
Down by the silver sea,
And seen the hues that come and go
In sky and air and sea?
Have you seen the sunset, cherry red
Above the azure blue,
As the molten ball slides down the dome
To kiss that sea of blue?
Have you seen the highway of the sun
Across the sea to shore,
And the running fire that flecks the waves
That break upon the shore?
Have you seen the flame of the western sky
Pale to a glow of gold,
And the shimmering change from blue to grey
Beneath that rim of gold?
I have seen this wonder
Of colours that paint the sky,
And watched with a quiet rapture
The change in the sea and sky.
It's beauty becomes a part of me,
'Tis a feeling I cannot name.
'Tis something so sweet yet strangely remote
From things of mortal fame.
The calm and peace of the restless sea
As it pales to silver from gold
Brings joy to the very heart of me
And peace into my soul.
And to rest on the shore of the tireless sea
After the glow has passed,
To absorb the peace of that cold, grey sea
Is a joy that will ever last.
TO A BELL-BIRD
Hidden in the leafy denseness
Of yon lofty forest tree,
The chime of silver bells condenses
Into a sea of mystery.
What can form this ghost carillion
Ringing clear it's silver bells?
'Tis a song among a million
Such sweet joy and freedom tells.
Little green bird, perky green bird,
With such power of voice and song,
Come thee nearer little green bird,
I'll not do thee any wrong.
Come thee nearer, let me watch thee,
Watch thy throat so small, so strong,
Swell, contract and choke and gurgle
As thou chimest out thy song.
Come not down, oh little minstrel,
Stay thou in the realms above;
'Tis the sunshine, little minstrel,
'Tis the joy of life and love.
'Tis the nectar of the flowers,
White or red among the green,
'Tis thy nest midst leafy bowers
Gives thy song it's ectasy.
Frisking on yon utmost branchlet
Pour forth thy hymn of praise.
Thy clear notes so pure and mellow
To the highest heavens raise.
Fill the forest sweetest songbird
With thy chime of silver bells,
Though a drab and dingy green bird
From thy throat an anthem swells.
MOONLIT OCEAN
A living stream of silver
From the heart of the silver moon
Through the heart of the ocean's midnight
Glinting the spray flecked gloom.
Whither oh sparkling river
Do your 'chanted waters flow?
Straight to my feet my river
To banish my burden of woe.
What is your source, oh river
Giving birth to thy magic stream?
A voice spoke: Follow, follow,
Seek ye the source of this stream.
Take your canoe of adventure
Your paddle of faith and hope,
Provision with joy and laughter,
Then wield your paddle of hope.
Ride o'er that wide horizon
To the wondrous lands beyond,
With faith and your guide Ambition
The world is yours to command.
Oh take the road of gleaming life,
Leave all your troubles and woes,
And yours will be the daring life
That only the dreamer knows.
DESERT SANDS
The sands of the desert are piled on high
With memories of men who have passed us by.
Broad shoulders and solid tread
Indomitable bearing of tousled head,
Muscles of steel and lean brown hands,
These have passed o'er the desert sands.
These grey eyes laughed, these cracked lips sang
Till the blazing air of Egypt rang
With the cheery tune of a marching throng,
Swinging along to right a wrong.
This rugged face, these toil worn hands,
Are buried now 'neath Libya's sands.
The sands of the desert are hallowed
With the blood that our heroes have shed.
Our friends, our sons and our husbands
Who died that oppression on earth might end.
They gave their lives in a foreign land,
But their souls are not buried beneath those sands.
Can hearts so brave, so strong and free
Lie beneath the soil of a strange country?
Their spirits come home to spur us on,
But their souls to dwell in heaven have gone.
Greater love hath no man than this -
They died for their friends, their land - all this.
SAILING TO WAR
Grey masts loom through deepening gloom,
In blazing desert cannons boom.
A wake of foam - behind it Home:
On desert sands our wounded moan
Beneath the silver tropic moon
Parted, we are not alone.
Though strange stars shine, our hearts entwine
Across the seas we still are thine,
With desert sands we link our hands
And bridge the blue to New Zealand.
Though far o'er the heaving wastes of brine
Our hearts are in our native land.
Across the blue you will be true,
You're helping us to see it through.
By power of prayer our loved ones share
The hardships we may have to bear.
Where'er we go, whate'er we do,
Hearts will be strong because you care.
ITALIAN HOLIDAY
Morning sun on olive groves,
Sparkle of rose red wine,
The thrush's song that wakes the dawn,
Wild cyclamen and thyme,
The scent of earth in the twilight mist,
The joy of autumn time.
Autumn - apples, almonds, figs,
Pomegranates and fruit of the vine.
The soldier looks on the wine when it's red
In Italy in autumn time.
A few days north, a different scene.
Olives are blasted and torn.
The thrush but chatters in sleepless fear,
Relief of another morn.
There shell smoke reeks the winter air,
There men are shattered and suffer and die,
And guns roar on through the dawn,
Through growing gold of early light.
Can love of destruction be born?
ORSOGNA INTERLUDE
underlined words link to a glossary if you don't know what it means
Blue night, black night,
Cold gold of heartless stars,
Damp earth about me,
The present threat of Mars.
A ground sheet my blanket,
A wisp of straw my bed,
My tin lid the pillow
To rest a heavy head.
The air is hard and icy,
My sleep is as the dead.
Eighty eights and mortars
Spandaus and tommys too,
Burn the crashing darkness,
My rest is sweet and true.
The field phone rings beside me;
I reach a weary hand
"OK Exchange, I'm happy,
We are a weary band.
But others are beside us,
Linked by that copper strand."
"Stand to!" Jerry's coming.
Hear that tommy there.
Heads down, grenades are ready,
The Sigs. are on the air;
The call is "Arty stonk him.
Four Baker - you OK?
Four Able, wipe that spandau",
Old Hermann's had his day.
The arty's got him running,
Sleep boys, that's the lay.
see chronology see story
A LETTER
Today I met you,
Strolling lunch hour streets I talked with you
And laughed and joked and we were company
In my thoughts.
You smiled.
The laughter warmed your voice
And fired your sparkling eye
In my dreams.
We spoke of yesteryear.
Of friends and comradeship full proved,
Heart shares with heart it's thoughts
In my dreams.
I smiled.
For joy of comrade true,
In friendship's clasp I was content
In my thoughts.
For company,
Inkling weak scawls upon this heartless sheet.
I hope that you will understand
My thoughts.
LAST NIGHT
The story of Dad's wounding at Cassino - the only way he could talk about it.
This poem has been used by various different people/organisations for educational purposes. Anyone wishing to use this poem in the same spirit as it is presented here should feel free to do so, however credit to the author should be given, and I would really like to hear about it! Mail me if you have any queries.
Tonight's the night the word runs
Into the line once more;
Maleish! The game's a grim one,
But such is life in war.
Ammo and iron rations,
The wireless, that's enough.
Just feel the weight, your back will break
Carrying all that stuff.
But still, a man might need it
If Jerry cuts up rough.
Jolting through starry blackness
Smoke tips point the dark.
Cobbers all and merry
As on a boyish lark.
Stillness! "OK, you've had it"
From here on boys, it's feet.
Gear on, we hit the roadway
The moonlit night to greet.
Ahead the grim Cassino
Where Hell and soldier meet.
Heft the pack, tommy alert,
Finger the ready grenade,
Along the track who knows what waits.
Life is of seconds made.
Down the track, we're in it now,
Into the stinking smoke.
He's shelling too, duck, duck me lad
That one's much too close.
Faster boss, this place is hot.
Down! Up and on again.
OK? No - duck, he's on to us;
I'll get ducks on the brain.
Another close, a big 'un too,
Came whistling like a train.
Turn left, that building there,
A hundred yards to go.
What - ? uuh! - you've had it lad
You're hit. Still living though.
Now what is wrong? The head's OK
Brain clear as a bell.
My eye! The thing can't see
May work - time yet will tell.
But wait, it's just some blood.
It can see fairly well.
Left hand is crook, two fingers bust.
That shrap did quite a job.
The groin is numb, right leg still works.
Must crawl and join the mob.
But first a prayer, it's courage lad
You'll need before the dawn.
And thank's be, you're still alive
And still in working form.
Thus in the very shade of death
The gates of Hell are torn.
Now pull that strap across your head.
That buckle sure is tight.
Gear off and now the thing's to crawl,
Right arm, both legs, you're right.
Another foot and then one more,
And now to cross this hole.
This iron bar - must go round it.
That mortar made you roll.
And now the building to get through
A doorway or a hole.
They're cutting the gloves your mother made
To get at the wounded mit.
Your trousers too and the tunic now -
They were a lovely fit.
Your clothes are off except the shirt
And your wallets are there me lad.
Your wounds are dressed, but boy, you're weak,
Still, they don't feel bad.
The stretcher's here, now to the jeep,
And you've started home me lad.
see chronology see story
WE FOUR
This poem relates to Ians sister Areta giving birth to Robyn prior to his return to NZ.
Near you
In your hour of pain,
Yes, true,
You search in vain.
Spirit,
My hand in thine,
I'm near.
This life
Creation new
For strife
And I through you
Will gaze
In those sweet eyes.
My life,
Your joy,
My fullness too,
Your love,
My love for you,
And so
I'm thrilling through.
My joy.
Though far
Across the world
A bar
Holds wings still furled,
Ere long
In life and flesh
We meet.
We four
In happiness
And more if heaven bless
The lasting joy
Of peace.
The "bar", and "wings unfurled" are a metaphor for the Army keeping him from being totally free, and his pending "freedom" on release/discharge.
HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS
Home is where the heart is, where the heart lies, that is home.
This heart renders homage yet to my young self alone.
No ties have I to stay me, though the seas I roam,
The live seas surge beneath me, strange countries beckon on.
Ahead, thats where my home is, my heart is full of song,
Crying, follow, follow, come loved one, haste along
To new lands and new people where strange adventures throng.
But strangeness cloys the palate, old joys come flooding back,
As memory is quickened - those ties were merely slack.
As heart strings slowly tighten I take another track,
Free winds may soothe my pillow, but home - I'm coming back.
A PASSING THOUGHT
There's enough of sadness
In this world of ours,
So bring a bit of gladness
To cheer the lonely hours.
A little bit of comfort
To dry another's tears,
A little bit of courage
To drive away their fears.
HEROES
The only poem here not written by Ian.
I stood at 'Rest of Arms' today
For heroes from past times;
Survivors of those wars marched past
Lone trumpet chills my spine.
Brave men marched from their homeland,
Brave families left behind;
What hardships for their bodies?
What horrors for their minds?
What outlook for those pawns of power?
What price for innocence lost;
A life of pain? of memories?
Or a trumpet call - Last Post?
How can I write their story?
Only simulated war for me;
But from my glimpse of a life in arms,
Heroes they will always be.
Those who would go forward
With only gloom a'fore,
Would real life's true heroes be
Whose deeds we ought recall.
George McNeur
Sergeant R.N.Z.A.F.
Proud son of WWII heroes
April 25 1994
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