106 Field Battery - Tardus et Definitus


 Welcome to the 5th edition of the Gunners Gallery - Published March 2012.

The first four editions of the Gunners Gallery have been archived and are still available to be veiwed by clicking the following links:

www.106secondtour.org/gunners_gallery_1st_ed.php (published September 2010)

www.106secondtour.org/gunners_gallery_2nd_ed.php (published October 2010)

www.106secondtour.org/gunners_gallery_3rd_ed.php (published February 2011)

www.106secondtour.org/gunners_gallery_4th_ed.php (published Apil 2011)

                                                                   DEVIL’S MARBLES
                                                                      by Roger Hall
      by David Drabble
It all started one night in the tent lines at the Battery’s position at The Dat.
While sitting around after work and tea one evening, Franc Edwards, Bill Walker and Dave Drabble were discussing how good it would be to be able to taste a good old Bakewell meat pie, some Samboy BBQ Chips and a few cold Swan lagers.
Of course, meat pies and potato chips never found their way to Vietnam and we all thought the Pogos at Vungers probably intercepted the Swan lager as it never seemed to reach The Dat.
We felt that we might be able to put some sort of begging to the relevant companies and see if they could find fit to send us over some goodies.
Now, we all know that Franc has really got some musical talent, Drabs is a fair to middling bullshit artist, and Bill, well he could come good with some sound effects and keep the beer up.
So, the trio retired to the tent lines with the necessary refreshments, not very kosher by the way, but we were not sprung and Drabs proceeded to write the verses to send off to the companies, Franc played accompanying music on his guitar, sang the backing vocals, and Bill, well, he keep the beer flowing and when required, put his 2 bob’s worth in.
The ditties were recorded onto cassette tape for forwarding on to Swan Breweries, Bakewell pies and Samboy chips. Of course we all know the tapes were never forwarded and just fell into obscurity until resurrected about 12 months ago by Franc, got some air time on Queensland radio, and was heard by the Mrs Mac Pies people who were in fact the follow on from Bakewell pies.
The top man at Mrs Mac’s, Iain MacGregor (part of the family), got wind of all of this and interviews were done by The West Australian Newspapers and an article appeared, with the story in the paper.
None of the trio could make the interview so they were represented by Alan Johnston and Ron Fritchley.
To hear the original tapes click on the AUDIO link at the top or bottom of the page 

                                               WHERE MAN HAS BEEN
                                                  by Allan Hutcheson      

                                                   By Rob van Wageningen

    by Ric Liddelow
Autumn leaves, and so do I,
We have no place in mind.
The Butterflies when I make toast,
Each other they may find.
The clouds pass by, as I pass wind.
Wind always is so slow.
A Robin warbles in the tree,
A Bat-man Storks below.
The sun was rising in the East,
The yeast was rising fast.
Born and bread by fields of wheat,
Then loafing in the past.
The Wattle’s flirting with the bees,
What’ll bee? We’ll never know.
The wind doth drone, the rain doth sting,
But Drones are stingless so
Grace feasted on the golden corn,
Her mother tatting lace.
And when she knelt to give her thanks,
Bells pealed, “A- Maize- in-Grace”.
I lay beside a babbling brook
And find my inner sole
I must have left it here last time
I ventured past this hole
Autumn leaves and I must too,
The time is drawing nigh.
But we all know that time can’t draw,
And drawers can’t tell the time.
                                                                HIDDEN ANGST
                                                                                    by Joan Parkin

               by Michael Berriman
A Kookaburra feathered in brown and cream
A deadlier hunter you have never seen
Never moving an inch, just the blink of his eye
And down he drops, like a sword from high
The branch may move in the wind, up or down
And the hunter’s eye stays still and brown
Movement he sees, a quick dash, a mistake
An insect, a lizard and often a snake
He can see his meal move from far away
With eyesight so keen, he feeds every day
The Eagle matches in height and perception
But the Kookaburra is King of the bush, every direction.
                                                                            by Ann Hall

handcrafted by Kay Pranevicius
                                                        WE ARE BROTHERS
    by Michael Berriman
From the kerb you see on ANZAC day
Blazored men marching side by side
Not just a march that brings them here
It’s an expression of brotherly pride.
How do you explain to those who haven’t
Been conscripted to a far off place
To live and fight, suffer and hurt
And on return, have it thrown in your face?
Do you remember those hot, smoke heavy days?
On The Horseshoe, when the sun had died
The nights were lit with the coloured trace
The green AK’s and friendly’s red fire.
Playing cards and spinning yarns
Smoking, joking, waiting for the call
Fire Mission would break our humdrum
The tannoy barking and summonsing all.
Our crews were quick to arm and lay
And quiet tension filled the air
Then a bark, the gun fired off
Raising both sand and dust and hair.
We fire to support our mates, the grunts
The tannoy tells us true
Contact is a bunker complex
And now they’re in the poo.
We know our drill, it’s by the book
Some grunts are down, some fit
We check the charge, back to our post
Three rounds, we pray will hit
Davo stands three paces back
A grey round in his hands
Waiting still for the FO call
And he spits on the driving band
Cop this he yells, and he punches it in
His fist clear, from the menacing slide
This is for the blokes in section 3
He quips with a gunner’s pride.
Today grunts and gunners are brothers in arms
On leave they slag and defame
Gunners bear the brunt of any tiny error
One mistake is a gunner’s real shame
The warm air is full of drift from the guns
Mission over, then we stand down
The results of a busy 25 minutes of work
Wooden faced, no smile, not a frown.
We flattened the bunkers, good firing gunners
So, rest a while, a dust off’s on the way
The tannoy barks out orders and news and updates
And marks the end of another gunner’s day.
These contacts we shared at the start of a decade
Made us brothers in arms for all time
So united again, we march on parade
And surrender to the drum beat and rhyme.

by Joan Parkin
    by Ric Liddelow
There’s nothing like a lazy day
Just roaming in the outback
Many miles from civilisation
And just nature for the soundtrack.
A century old, the tall oak tree
Its autumn leaves were dwindling.
It took me nearly 15 hours
To cut it up for kindling.
The cuckoo sounded in the tree,
In time with an antique clock.
I got it right between the eyes
With a great big f****n’ rock.
I lay beside the stream at dawn
Whilst ducklings waded by.
I stuck my saucepan on the stove
And had them in a pie.
A fluffy bunny hopped on dew
I didn’t want to scare it.
It went into its rabbit’s hole
I got it with my ferret.
The ‘gater basked upon the banks,
Beside the tangled tree roots.
I slit its throat and it became,
A lovely pair of ski boots.
The cheeky pair of squirrels
Mingled playfully with the doves.
Until I caught the little pricks,
And turned them into gloves.
A skulk of motherly vixens
Were prancing, loving life.
They made a really nice fur coat
To take home to the wife.
It was a great day in the bush
With skill I plied my craft.
That was until I tripped and fell
Down a fifty foot mine shaft

by Alan Johnston

                                                  JON (Doc) PRANEVICIUS
writing his memoirs on his recycled work station

EDITOR’S APOLOGY: In the first edition of Gunners’ Gallery I published a stirring and reflective poem by Jed Taheny entitled “To My Wife Brenda”. Unfortunately, I made a silly, typographic error. Worse still … Jed noticed it. I sincerely apologise to Jed for making this mistake and for taking so long to correct it. The original poem, (as penned by Jed), is printed below.
    by Kerry (Jed) Taheny
To my wife Brenda,
            P.T.S.D. is about SELF-LOVE;
It is about BEING
            confident         then    shattered
            whole                then    maimed
            wanted            then     rejected
            chosen             then     cast aside
            well-trained      then    scrapped
            built up              then     broken down
            human             then     inhuman
It is about FEELING
            confident          then     shattered       
whole               then    maimed
wanted            then     rejected
chosen             then    cast away
well-trained      then     scrapped
built up              then    broken down
happy             then    sad
courageous      then     guilty
important         then     forgotten
Is it any wonder then that I have become inhuman, sad, guilty and forgotten in my eyes?
I need someone to HELP me CHANGE from BEING
            shattered          into    confident
            maimed            into    whole
            rejected             into     wanted          
cast aside         into    chosen
            scrapped           into    well-trained
            broken down    into     built up
I need someone to HELP me FEEL
            and renewed
Only then will I begin to BE human again.
Only then will I begin to FEEL happy, courageous and important again.
Only then will I FEEL loved and forgiven.
Only then will I BEGIN to love and BEGIN to forgive.
Only then will others have relevance in my eyes.
Thank you for the years of loving me through all this change.
Today for the first time, I look on myself with love; my love, your love, God’s love.
            Thank you.
Taheny, Kerry Eugene Gnr 4720894 0223hrs 30 June 1997

                                                     MARK and INGE
Porcelain: Anne Cruse
                                                    Words: Colin Montfort

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