Beneath Faded Word

<BODY BGCOLOR="#000000" TEXT="#F7F7FF" LINK="#FFFFCC" ALINK="#00039A" VLINK="#FFFFCC"> <div> <FONT SIZE="5" COLOR="#FFCC66" FACE="Georgia" >  </FONT><B>Beneath Faded Word</B><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id279.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE=" The Cost of War"><U>   The Cost of War</U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id282.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Harrys Diary"><U>Harry's Diary</U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id283.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="WW1 Book Indexes"><U>WW1 Book Indexes</U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id285.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="The Henderson Collection "><U>The Henderson Collection </U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id284.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="World War Two Photos"><U>World War Two Photos</U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id213.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE=" Lanchashire Fusiliers"><U>       ~Lanchashire Fusiliers~</U></A><B>   |   </B><A HREF="id325.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Items of Interest"><U>Items of Interest</U></A></div> <bR> <div> <TABLE BORDER="2" CELLPADDING="2" CELLSPACING="1" WIDTH="708" BORDERCOLORLIGHT="#003300" BORDERCOLORDARK="#999980" FRAME="BOX" RULES="ALL" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0" BGCOLOR=#003333 > <tR> <tD VALIGN=TOP HEIGHT= 1842 ><NOBR><div> <B>  Beneath the Faded Word</B></div> <div> <B><IMG SRC="a3d78780.jpg" border=0 width="120" height="120" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></div> <div> It sat out in the shearing shed for 30 years or more,</div> <div> With cobwebs, dust and binder twine, and sheep dung on the floor.</div> <div>  An old and rusted Lockwood kept its secrets from my eyes,</div> <div> A cabin trunk of leather there since 1945.</div> <div> I asked my dad who owned it and what we kept it for.</div> <div> He replied, "It's Uncle Basil's. that he brought back from the war. </div> <div> So don't you bloody touch it, or I'll tan your bloody hide.</div> <div> "But that only made me more intrigued to see what was inside. </div> <div> I wondered at its mysteries and the secrets that were hid.</div> <div> Beneath the faded word Tobruk, stencilled on the lid"</div> <bR> <bR> <div>           Near Wilcannia, where only hardy cattlemen will go. </div> <div>            Uncle Basil had a station, Baden Park, near Ivanhoe, </div> <div>              A strong and gentle man who once rode the 'Birdsville Track'</div> <div>                Just to prove he wasn't hampered by the shrapnel in his back.</div> <bR> <div> So I stood alone and weighed it up: which would I decide,</div> <div> Should I leave the memories undisturbed or take a look inside?</div> <div>  I knew I had to take a look, to see what it'd hold.</div> <div> Medals? Spoils from the war - silver, jewels or gold?</div> <bR> <div> The old man went off fishin' of a Sunday with Bob Gray,</div> <div> So if I was gonna do it - that would have to be the day. </div> <div> I started out determined - I was done by half past two.</div> <div> With half a broken hacksaw- blade. I cut the padlock through.</div> <div>  But even as I opened it the truth was plain and clear.</div> <div> The old trunk held no gold or jewels, there was no treasure here. </div> <div> Just a pile of letters tied with string, an old moth - eaten flag.</div> <div> A rusty metal helmet. a mouldy webbing bag, </div> <div> A cup made from a jam tin,an  emu feathered hat,</div> <div> A newspaper clipping with the title 'Desert Rat'.</div> <div>  Some photo's of the pyramids - a rusty bayonet,</div> <div> An IOU - Jack Carmody - 2 quid (a 2 - up debt).</div> <div>  I folded out a faded map as the dav began to wane </div> <div> Foreign places like Benghazi, Tobruk, El Alamein.</div> <bR> <div> Then I came upon a satchel and a little leather book</div> <div> And a photo of some blokes - so I took a closer look </div> <div> It was twenty young recruits, their faces tanned and worn </div> <div> From places like Cohuna, Moama and Bamawm, </div> <div> Farmers. shearers. stockmen off to fight a noble war,</div> <div> For the empire in a foreign land they'd never seen before.</div> <div>  And scrawled across the bottom, in writing rough and coarse </div> <div> Twenty names below the words, the Echuca Boys - Light Horse.</div> <bR> <div> I turned the photo over, and there upon the back</div> <div> Were words that sent a chill through me, and made my  mouth go slack </div> <div> A solem list of triventy - the fate of each the same</div> <div> Every one but Uncle Basil had a date beside their name. </div> <div> Some said April '43, some said June / July,</div> <div> A record from our history, the date that each one died.</div> <div>  I turned back to the photo and looked in every face</div> <div> And written over each one was a month, a year, a place </div> <div> A grinning <B>. </B>sun-bronzed soldiers face, each now with a name</div> <div> Like November 1943, the words El Alamein.</div> <bR> <div> I wonder - did they think as they sailed across the foam</div> <div> That amongst them only one - Uncle Basil - would come home?</div> <div>  Recorded in that little book - an' I remember to this day -</div> <div> A record of their actions and how each had passed away. </div> <div> A mortar shell out on patrol:     A sniper in the night:</div> <div> A landmine took his legs off - he died before first light. </div> <div> The death of each was brutal, the reality was stark</div> <div> 40 pages written there, I finished just on dark.</div> <bR> <div> I slowly- closed that record of the men who'd kept us free</div> <div> And turned to see my father, standing, watching, silently,</div> <div>  He didn't do his block, as I expected that he would, </div> <div> He just said. "Come on pack it up. I reckon that we should" </div> <div> So with love and care we packed away the treasures from the past,</div> <div>  When I came upon the photograph - it was put aside till last. </div> <div> And with new respect and love - I recorded his fate.</div> <div> Next to Uncle Basil I wrote April '68.</div> <div> Yeah, Dad and I we packed it up and put it back again</div> <div> And  wrapped it in a bit of tarp, to keep it from the rain. </div> <div> We never spoke about it or discussed what we had read</div> <div> I reckon that was his way, to respect those blokes long dead.</div> <bR> <div> There's a statue of a digger in most every country town.</div> <div> And a list of names of locals, who fought with great renown, </div> <div> And now  when I go by.    I remember what I read</div> <div> Sitting on the floor out there, in our old shearing shed, </div> <div> And I think of Uncle Gordon, lost somewhere on Ambon, </div> <div> Uncle Jack on the Kokoda, and in England, Uncle John. </div> <div> I remember still that photo, with sadness and remorse,</div> <div> That mob of grinning faces, the Echuca boys, Light Horse.</div> <bR> <div> In a cemetery near Ivanhoe lies a bloke who left his mark, </div> <div> Basil Thomas of Echuca. Tobruk and Baden Park.</div> <bR> <div> Written by </div> <div> Peter Thomas</div> <bR> <div>            <FONT SIZE="4" COLOR="#CC9900" FACE="Tahoma" ><B><IMG SRC="a6b916d0.jpg" border=0 width="145" height="109" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></B></FONT>             </div> <div> Copyright Photo</div> <div> Kate Blake</div> </NOBR></tD> </tR> </TABLE></div> <div>  <STYLE>  </STYLE>  </div> <bR> <bR> <div>   <script type="text/javascript" language="javascript">  </script> <script type="text/javascript" language="javascript" src="http://www.statcounter.com/counter/frames.js"> </script> <noscript> <a href="http://www.statcounter.com" target="_top"><img src="http://www.statcounter.com/counter.php?usr=anzacs&java=0" alt="StatCounter - Free Web Tracker and Counter" border="0"/></a> </noscript>   </div> <div>  <style>  </style>  </div> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> <bR> </BODY>