ROUTE MARCH
By
This narrative poem was awarded first prize in its section in the recent Services literary competitions. Out before Reveille Crying Hallelujah to the sun, With the ogres of the darkness Giving ground to dawn of day : Cursing if the water isn’t hot To shave the whiskery stubble. (To skip it doesn’t pay When the Sergeant’s on the blitz.) I was born a freeman with a mind of my own, and along comes a war that snatches me up and carries me in its wake like a piece of boxwood ; tossing, inanimate, ersatz boxwood
Till I forget I ever loved one woman Lived in one home ; ' Worked for a living, Learned not to roam, Because a rolling stone gathers no moss, and anything you own you sell at a loss to eat, to love the starry sky above . . . So along comes a war that snatches me up, makes me an automat with parades to attend Present, Sir : Yell it out louder, yes, sir. with a country to fight for while the tarts on the streets sneer and the moaning loungers leer and moan the more like an underpaid whore because they’ve been called in the ballot. But shave it is and clean your web and shine the brass till you wish you were dead dead dead ;
for we are the boys from way downunder sons of the Anzacs are we ! .... The crickets in the blue-gums behind me sing, and the birds in the nests in the blue-gums behind me wing their way freely, freely . as the Chaplain prays monotonously as a jews-harp our father which art . . . And then we turn, regiment will form column of route us leading and we march Up through the campground, (de-e-e-eep Ri-ver, I wanna cross ol’ jordan) straight through the gate past the guard turned out and onto the highway our way—my way if I and my mates have paid our rates ; with the automobiles swishing by using gas, while my soul sings in thankfulness for liberty
and my spirit wings its way freely in happiness as I march. Change direction left, left wheel along a Class 111 road, into a farmyard ankle deep in the dung. I dream of the days when I did as I wished, wrote and said my will, but still I know deep down, I would not change my place . . . Cow dung on my boots cow dung on my soul. March while your feet are cold, march while your eyes can see trees and rivers, skies and mountains ; drink your fill because they’ll soon be gone these things . . . March while the wind trembles past the columns ; march ! march ! March ! sing, you beggars, sing ! This is the life that makes us men, not the drudgery we knew. Up at seven ham and eggs, work by nine, tea at ten at the “ Corner House ” working to speed a nation on its way to glory. Standing on the curbside chatting to your mates : popping in at five, handle, Jim ? I’ll take Speights. Sticking pennies in slot machines to see your true LOVE’s face ; squeezing through a friday crowd giving way with easy grace. Sticking pennies in slot machines to see your true-love’s face ; looking at the pretty girls mincing down the street, nosing the shop windows . .£. Oh Christ ! The memory of it all !
Oh Christ ! Don’t make me weep ! Ou sont les neiges d’antan ? I talk to my neighbour about anything that comes, and he grunts. That’s all you can do when your spittle gets dry as dust and even Wrigleys tastes like gall. Grunt-grunt-grunt. Halt ! ! ! What’s the trouble ? A fence to climb ? Old boy, how bloody fine ! And another ? It really doesn’t matter if you tear your leg wide open on the barbs. Let the blood spatter down your leg. You’re a man, now ! Yes Sir ! You’re a soldier, now. Yes sir ! You’ll see more blood than that before you’re through. Yes sir ! Yes sir ! Yes sir 1 Roll out the barrel : only one or two sing. It’s a thirsty song at any time but now it’s hell and they fade into the nothingness that is Absurdity. What should soldiers sing on a march right, left, right route march ? Bawdy ballads—Love songs, Ditties ? Oh, my God ! Peace ! For pity’s sake, don’t rake through all the past 1 there’s too much of it to remember . . .
Peace time . . peace time with trees and bulbs and picture shows ; squeezing hands in darkened parks : kiss me quickly let me go love me truly ? let me go ! Oh, darling Dear God, Pater Noster, Ou sont les neiges d’antan ? Land of Kauri Land of Coprosma, Land of Manaia, Land of Maui Land of Grey and Whaka-Nene, Sunshine, rain and sparkling, adult snow. Land of the fighting men of Anzac and Gate-Pa Maleme, Thermopylae ; Land of the peaceful men who work from eight to five and live and work and die for you. I greet you. With mine eyes cast down to watch my step through the slough of boggy earth, I sing alone to bolster up my spirits lest they fall to eternal damnation in the agonizing abyss of despair and thirst March while your feet are cold, march while your eyes can see : March while your feet grow boiling hot, march though your eyes cast down are blind, but march ! Cover off from front to rear, watch your dressing in threes ! They expect me to regiment my mind
to conform with the strophy of the gutter ? They expect me to qualify as a fighting man when my soul cries nay ? Who said “ Blame is on Hitler ” ? Whoever said it is wrong ! wrong ! He’s just a Man Ecce Homo, in trouble in high places : an agent-provocateur for a fallen Lucifer. Watch the jackals close. March march march though your boots are squeezing in. (I wish I’d brought a second pair of sox.) We have our rests ten minutes to the hour, but they are not enough to reinforce our weakened power , mere offerings to the Army’s God of Conscience and to let the M.T. through. Well may I sneer stuck back in the rear, with a Sergeant years my junior snarling like a whelp at my heels ! Once I dreamt of Lands beyond the Seaswhere folk like you and me lived without fear and blood and war : can it be that no such state exists, that the Kingdom of Heaven, too, is but a fable together with the allegorical Clausian Xmas ? Ake, Ake-Kia Kaha ! Remnant Maori forts stand aloof in their immensity and utter destruction. Where are those souls
that kept watch by night for foes unknown, undreamt, and mused awhile of far Hawai-iki ? Are they gone, destroyed forever as yet may I be Or do they Live and march rank on rank beside me yet ? spears brandished, carven visaged, joy of battle in their veins ? Grow cool, my feet my brairr, be calm—— you are shoulder to shoulder a friend allied to tremendous posterity ! ! Up I lift mine eyes To the very skies rested my feet strengthened, my soul calm, my brain Quicken the pace, shoulders back ! Okay, Sarge, have your day, I’ll have mine Glory—glory hallelujah ! “ Una Voce Poco Fa I wish I were a soprano to match the bird’s clear notes : my spirit soars as far as Galli-Curci’s trill and further. I am glad I am One ; a complete entity one above not absorbed in the sponge
of Martial regimentation a suicide. Back before five to stand again rigid at attention for retreat. Into the showers to wash off the sweat. Any fresh rumours ? What does H.Q. say ? We to-morrow, next day, next ? Who said the Army’s lousy ? Douse him, the skate, Wet canteen blown down ? Who cares ? We’ll pull it up and have a drink : blast the German army, let’s see how fast a Wop can run ! Feet sore ? You bet ! Who cares ? Not me ! Drink it up, and sing a song, for we are the boys from way down under sons of the Anzacs are we 1 Where are the Snows of Yesteryear ? The joys—the loves ambitions and desires : awhile yet and they’ll return with ever-increasing clarity ; clean, austere, beyond the callous grasp —— the vicious domination of Man, and we shall live whole and complete and entire in the World we know as Heaven, Utopia, Shangri-La, Home.
Permanent link to this item
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https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/periodicals/WWKOR19440911.2.16
Bibliographic details
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Korero (AEWS), Volume 2, Issue 18, 11 September 1944, Page 29
Word count
Tapeke kupu
1,386ROUTE MARCH Korero (AEWS), Volume 2, Issue 18, 11 September 1944, Page 29
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