BLOOD PACT

[Maureen K Clifford]

BLOOD PACT


Two larrikin lads from the outback near Bourke
one a ringer and one a gun shearer,
both shared the same mother but had different dads,
Get Mums ire up – they’d reason to fear her.
Two brothers, best mates, both were good in a stoush
pick on one be prepared to fight two.
Thick as thieves and like shadows this tearaway pair
were good blokes to have there in a blue.

The worst blue of all then came here to their country
and word went out over the land.
We need the strong young blokes to answer the call
to sign up and give a helping hand.
They came from the cities, the outback and scrub.
From the farms and the hamlets and towns.
All were willing to don uniforms of khaki
and head overseas, for Europe bound.

No prizes for guessing that Joe and Frank went
and both left Bourke with their Mother’s blessing,
She knew that her boys would not refuse the call
and would go anyway – no use stressing.
They sailed on the Aeneas from Circular Quay
on the twentieth day of December,
all full of high spirits and brave bonhomie
‘twas a day Aussie Mums would remember.

They’d been there a month in the thick of the fight
when one day Frank laconically said
“It’s not the adventure we thought it would be,
there’s a fair chance we might end up dead.
I’ll make a pact with you – you’ll know what I mean
when I say that should push turn to shove
we should do the right thing Joe – not suffer in pain;
meet our maker, the bloke up above.

I’ll do it for you. Will you do it for me
if we know there’s no cards left to play?”
Young Joe looked hard at him, gave a nod and winked
then said ‘‘ Mate you read my mind today”
So a pact was settled – no more need be said
they got on with the fighting and war.
Boys heartily sickened by what they both did
and the stench and the blood and the gore.

The cold was relentless, the rats and flies thick,
endless nights loud with onslaught of war
The Very light flares lit the battleground there
and it looked like a slaughterhouse floor.
Up and over the top, brother Frank led the charge
to the wire through the guns enfilade;
as round them men screamed, a harsh discordant sound
as they ran and they fell and died hard.

There was no time to falter, no time to look back
and no time to console fallen mates.
It was mayhem and murder and madness as well,
and each man there resigned to his fate.
But somehow despite all the carnage they saw
the two boys survived it, both unharmed.
They’d suffered from trench foot, were riddled with lice
but it seems that their lives were still charmed.

They never spoke much of the things they had seen
‘twas a picture that both men would bear
in silence, though both fought with their devils inside
and both men sought for solace in prayer.
They lived a good life in their country of birth
and married two sisters so I heard.
Both bought property somewhere outback near Louth
a quiet place where the wind barely stirred.

A trunk in an attic held letters to home,
faded photos of good looking blokes
in khaki and spit polished boots and slouch hats,
posed on camels, enjoying a joke.
A diary was found and the story within
bought a tear to the finders blue eyes
as he read of the war his Great Grandfather fought
and no words could his horror disguise.

He read of the slaughter, the terror, the fear,
of whole villages razed to the ground.
The shortage of food and medical supplies
and the mass graves for those that they found.
He read of the wire that cruelly entrapped men,
how they sometimes lay caught there for days,
with their cries getting quieter as weakened they died.
Each man fought his own battle malaise.

The clock now had moved on full circle it seems
ninety years have passed by - come and gone,
once more there were two lads from somewhere near Bourke
and one of those young lads was his son,
who wore the khaki and would follow the flag
to a country across foreign seas
Two cousins – best mates, who were good in a stoush.
Keep them safe God he prayed, on his knees

Maureen Clifford © 08/12

[Neville Briggs]

There's plenty of wind stirring out at Louth, Maureen Take yourself along to the famous Louth race day and you'll find out.

I take it, that is a true story ? I wonder if people to-day would be interested in pacts or be willing to stick to such things.

[Maureen K Clifford]

Not a true story Neville apart from the ship and the date but no doubt it could be - it came to me in the shower this morning - have no idea why or where the idea came from - the ending is a bit softer than what was going through my head though. It was a bit black U would suspect that pacts to end a mate's suffering were made in those dreadful war torn days. After all we put an animal out of its misery when suffering - it is our duty of care to do so, could we do less for a loved one or mate in similar circumstances when help to save them was not available, or the injuries so bad that you knew they weren't going to make it?

Weather at Louth a total mystery to me but I am sure they have days when nothing is stirring not even a mouse if not well chalk that bit up to poetic licence.

Thanks for reading and commenting

Cheers

Maureen

[Neville Briggs]

The famous English writer C.S. Lewis was a soldier in the First World War, he made a pact with his mate that if anything happened to the mate, he Lewis, would care for his mate's mother. The mate got killed, and true to his word C.S. Lewis cared for his mates' mother to the end of her days, through thick and thin, and there was a lot of thin .

[manfredvijars]

I wonder if people to-day would be interested in pacts or be willing to stick to such things.

.. do 'pinkey-swears' count??

[Neville Briggs]

a what ????

[Bob Pacey]

Oh Neville you have had a sheltered life don't tell me you have never ever sworn on your pinkies ?????



Bob

[Neville Briggs]

[quote="Bob Pacey"] you have never ever sworn on your pinkies /quote]

No.


Maureen , You seem to have kept up the metric pattern fairly well in that poem. There are some "elastic" bits, but who cares, unvarying beat becomes tedious.
The rhythm looks fine to me.

Just to be picky on detail again, houses out at Louth are unlikely to have attics tin roofs and big verandahs with fly wire are the go out there.

[Maureen K Clifford]

The family had moved from Louth to Lithgow taking their family possessions with them, but no one had thought to look in the tin trunk which had been stashed in the attic. For many years it mouldered there in the gloom under the slate roof and its secrets were kept in musty mildewed darkness, until one day the Great Grandson of Frank thought about doing a loft conversion and ventured up the retractable ladder into the cobwebbed, mousy interior of the ceiling.

Brushing dust and grime from the tiny window set in the slate shingled roof the first glimmer of light in generations infiltrated into the interior of the attic and a single wan sunbeam settled on the tin trunk sparking a faint glimmer of light from the dull tarnished brass padlock.


A diary was found and the story within
bought a tear to the finders blue eyes
as he read of the war his Great Grandfather fought
and no words could his horror disguise.


That's my story and I'm sticking to it

[Zondrae]

morning Maureen,

Congratulations. You have captured the pathos of such a situation. There are some passages in this poem that are real gems. I think your habit of writing, writing, writing is improving all our skills and yours in particular.

I like Nevill's suggestion of 'elastic bits' in the poem. These are the few spots where a word or two are included that puts the metre slightly out. I don't feel I should pick at other peoples poems at the moment as I haven't even tried to put a pen to paper for some time. (Well, not seriously anyway.)

My compliments to you, Maureen, for being able to maintain your daily additions to the site. Your dedication is to be admired.