The Dinkum Oil

According to proof sheets of the British War Office official history of the Dardanelles campaign, the Anzacs were ill-trained and ill-led, and had herded together on the beach while a few adventurous spirits braved the heights

“Too right” the one-armed Digger said.
“The truth’s come out at last.
Our number’s up when this is read
An’ glory’s in the past.
Although we kep’ the secret well,
I knew some flamin’ nark would tell.

I knew some interferrin’ skite
Would show us up complete.
But say; we spun a tale all right
An’ pulled yer leg a treat;
Made you believe — that’s where we score —
That we was reely in a war.

“Ah, well” the one-armed Digger said.
“We had our bit of fun,
An’ if you swallered — hook, line lead—
That little yarn we spun,
You only got yourselves to blame
An’ we ‘ave earned a fleetin’ fame.

That little picnic on the beach?
Aw, well, ferget that stunt.
Take it from me, it was a screech
To call that spot “The Front.”
Kiss-in-the-ring is wot we played
To show that we was not afraid.

Fightin’? Strange how a man forgets,
An’, dinkum, I’ve fergot.
I don’t recall no bayonets,
I never heard a shot.
Some poppin’ noises? Yes, But, ‘ere—
Strickly in privit — that was beer.

There was some horseplay, I’ll allow,
Good-‘umored — no reel harm,
Not reely wot you’d call a row
Or vi’lence . . . Wot? Me arm?
Missin’? . . . Why, blimey, so it are! …
Wore off with leanin’ on a bar.

Oh, yes. Some others lost their legs ….
Birdnest’n’. Silly mugs.
Reel keen they was collectin’ eggs
An huntin’ fancy bugs.
An’ some few blokes done in their eyes
On thorns while chasin’ butterflies.

An’ decorations? Jist a whim,
The padre handled them.
A bloke had jist to learn a hymn
To git a D.C.M.
An’ they was handin’ out V.C.’s
For passin’ Colonels’ ladies teas.
But wot’s this talk of facin’ death
An’ stormin’ dizzy heights!
Why, climbin’ puts me out o’ breath
An’ only rough coves fights.
An’ simply at the sight of blood
I faint fair off; me name is mud.

Now, look; it’s no use gettin’ hot,
You got the story straight.
Official, ain’t it? Well, that’s wot.
An’ you can ask my mate ….
Where is he? Why, I ain’t seen Jim
Since …. Why, me mem’ry’s gettin’ dim.”

“C. J. Dennis”
Herald, 7 October 1927, p4