Book by George Napier Sprod, 1942-1945 - Part 2

THE GUNNER'S DREAM
WRITTEN AT HOLDSWORTHY BY
Sgt T.H.E. SMITH & G.N SPROD
I dreamt that I sat in the
officers mess
With vassels and serfs by my
side
While lackeys and flunkeys with
dainties did fly
To replenish my bulging inside
But something was wrong in that
elegant place
There were only five courses to try
While nearby the gunners with gusto
did gorge
A delectable dinner of pie
I thought how ungrateful they were
for such treats
To complain in the way that they do
To sling off at salads, so sloppy
And wet
At beans and spaghetti and stew
While I was restricted to meat
soup, and sweets
With entree's and coffee so rare
The plates so enormous and

 helpings so large
I could not consume half my share
 

Cartoon illustration - see original document
And when I awoke from my
slumbers I found
To the gunners once more I 

belong
And guided my way to the 
other ranks' mess
By an odour uncommonly strong
The meat's a bit off" said the cook
"I'm afraid."
A fact unmistakably plain
So now with some tea, and a
few hunks of bread.
I live like a gunner again.
 

"AS YOU DISLIKE IT"
WRITTEN WHILE ON TREK AT
MONA VALE JUNE 1941
Now droops the storm-cloud in
the sodden sky
And driving darkness and
perfidious rain
Beguile the moistened gunner.
Now doth he,
The cry of "Mess Parade" smit
on his ear
Doth hasten to the hot-box, and
perceives
Within its yawning fastness,
opened wide
The pallid stare of lettuce and
the gaze
Of German sausage, insolent and
wan.
These do he gather in his tinny
plate
And murmuring, doth to the
piece repair
There to consume them in the 

icy air
When Phoebus from the brassy
arc of heav'n
 

Smites with his burnish'd
coronet the haze
That eye be-dazzles, and the
senses send
Flitting to things convivial, and
bright ale
Quaffed in the coolness of a leafy
glade
Or in the public houses welcome
shade
Yon stingy servers do the
rankers ply
With sizzling stew, that clogs
each jaded tongue
And sends frail appetite, that
timid maid
Flying to haunts where cooler
fate is spread
So do our masters on this earthy
sphere
Seek to subject us, and we
their slaves
As old Tantalus in his pool of

pain

Covet the grape-vine, and

invoke the rain.

Cartoon illustration - see original document

Lines inspired by Goldsmith's

"Scroggins" Changi Gaol 20.6.44

Now Stroggins 'stead of laurel

weareth chains,

And pap's the fuel to drive his

sluggish brains.

His muse, once "pregnant with

Celestial fire"

Doth flicker wan and feeble

Dare xx aspire

He to instruct his mates whose

common mind

To thoughts of "grub" and

leggies is confined

They tap their brows with pert

and knowing looks

Then pour once more invective

on the cooks.

The narrow cell, which on a 

former day,

Confined the erring son of old

Cathay,

Is where at night he lays his 

weary head

On what, for better name, is

dubbed a bed

A concrete slab as hard as

Siren's heart

When pretty Cupid aims his

amorous dart.

Soft-fingered Morpheus soothes

away each care,
 

 

And comrades three pollute the

turgid air.

Quite lately Inspiration, fickle

jade

Into his cell at midnight hour

hath strayed:

Then hath his talents blossomed

like the rose

With embryonic hits in verse 

and prose;

But having neither pen, nor pad

nor light,

He stored them in his head 'till

morning bright

Unhappy dawn! We see him

stamp and curse!

His mind as empty as a pauper's

purse.

Cast down, cast down, ye noble

muses mine,

Some pitying look on this poor

bard of thine,

And chide us not too harshly

when we say

"He meant no harm, but wrote,

and went his way."

SONGS 

of

SOLDIERING

Cartoon Illustration - see original document

and

BALLADS of

BOREDOM

THE DYING M.T. DRIVER

ANON.

Oh a poor M.T. driver lay dying

At the end of a bright summers

day

His comrades were gathered

around him

To carry the fragments away

The engine was piled on his

wishbone

A ramrod was wrapped round

his head

A spark plug stuck out at

each elbow

'Twas plain he would shortly

be dead

He spat out a spark plug and

gasket

And stirred in the sump where

he lay

And then to his wondering

companions

These brave parting  words he

did say,

"Take the manifold out of my 

larynx

And a butterfly valve off

my neck

Remove from my kidneys

the pistons

Theres lots of good parts in this

wreck

The crankshaft take out of

my stomach

The cylinders out of my brain

Extract from my liver the

dashboard

Assemble the engine again

I'll be riding a cloud in the

morning

With no rattle before me to cuss

So shake out the lead and get

busy

There's another lad wanting 

this bus."

So stand up your beer-glasses

ready

This world is a place full of lies  

Here's health to the men dead

already

And "Hurray for the next man

who dies.
 

 

NORTH OF SINGAPORE

ANON.

We landed in Malaya

The land of half-bred Chinks

Who live in filth and squalor

And everlasting stinks

At first our aim was fighting

But now we're not so sure

'Cause duty takes precedence

In the Second Fifteenth war  

The boys were keen as mustard

And they'd be hard to beat

But who can fight and do his best

With not enough to eat

Ther'es curried rice and onions

Boiled beef and onions too

With stinking butter out of tins

And half cooked Irish stew

Sometimes we get an apple,

Banana or a pear

But mostly fruit is pretty

scarce

And good things are so rare
⇒

We work at digging ditches

And filling trenches in

Or marching in the jungle

And sweating ourselves thin.

There's tinea, there's diseases

Leeches hanging from the trees

Big hookworms by the millions

And germs upon the breeze

The water's always treated

With chemicals and such

And now and then they pay us

(But not so very much)

One lady wrote about us

A lot of rotten lies

Her name is Adele Shelton-Smith

And she didn't use her eyes

I suppose she sat in comfort

In an officers' mess somewhere

And penned that flowing story

Away from the sun and

glare
 

 

If she had only seen us

All sweating in the sun

She'd know that we're not

glamour boys

Drinking and having fun

Our life is not a picnic

As Mrs Smith makes out

So don't take any notice

Of What she writes about.

ON HOLIDAY

ANON.

The sixth are being battered

The seventh copping hell

The ninth are on no picnic

They're getting theirs as well

While in a distant jungle

Some thousand miles away

The eighth are on a holiday

And all they do is play

Because there are no shells here

No bullets flying thick

We have the name of "Glamour

Boys"

The name will always stick

Every time we take a step

The sweat rolls from our brow

And if you only knew it

We have B.O. (and how)

We plough through virgin jungle

With mud up to our waist

When every step's a mouthful

And what a putrid taste

Fighting scores of cobras

And mossies by the ton
 

 

There is no use denying it

We're having lots of fun

And if you do'nt believe me

When I say its hellish hot

I'll state a native custom

To tell you what is what

Every man is buried

With his overcoat as well

Just in case he needs it

If ever he lands in Hell.

The Japs can have Malaya

It is'nt worth a zac

They would'nt keep it very long

Before they'd hand it back

Although we need the rubber

And find use for the tin

We won't stay here much longer

Before we're mighty thin

So send us to the Middle East

Where it is cold at night

So we can join our brothers

And help to win this fight

Now if they grant this favour

Miss Adele Smith ca'nt say

The Eighth Division Glamour Boys

Are on a holiday.

THE HAPPY SOLDIER

Got no matches, got no dough

Got no leave, no place to go

If I'd taken my wife's advice

I wouldn't be living on bloody rice

In the army, but where's the war?

I this what God made soldiers for?

Chased all day by silly mugs

Chased all night by hungry bugs

Can't go sick - I'll miss my pay

Can't miss that ten cents a day

Can't give lip, for if I do

It's days of extra fat-i-gue

Can't get bread at our canteen

Weirdest joint I've ever seen 

 - Latest news from B.B.C.

Does'nt sound so hot to me

If only I can get back there

I'll never winge again I swear

I'll help wash up, I'll chop the

wood

I'll do the things a husband should

And if another war should start

And I'm called on to do my part

I'll fall again, just like a dill 

I will - like bloody Hell I will!

 - GNR. C. WHITELOCKE -

 - 2/15 FIELD REGIMENT.
 

 

MY FRIENDS  THAT STAYED

AT HOME

(FROM THE Middle East - ANON)

I'm pulling off my colours

I've thrown my webs away

I'm going down to Cairo

To draw my blinking pay

I'm sick of eating biscuits

Of eating bread and jam

I'd like to try and find out

Where the bleedin' hell I am

I'm fighting blinkin' Dagoes

Out 'ere all on my own

And some times I start thinking

Of my friends who stayed at home
I bet theyr'e walking proudly

With chests puffed out with pride

And telling all the shielahs

They saved their worthless hides

And here's me in the desert

Afraid to raise me head

For fear some blinkin Dago

Will fill it full of lead

And when I told my mother

I'd volunteered to fight

"God bless you, son", she

answered

"And bring you back all right." 
⇒