The Old Wallet
by Maddy Harris
The old wallet lay at the back of the dresser drawer, in the dark recesses where all old things went. If only he could talk…
I remember when I was new and shiny and had that wonderful leathery smell. Everyone admired me as I was presented to the young master as a Christmas present. I’d been useful on that very first day as all Christmas money received had gone straight into my sections – notes in the notes, coins in the coins, and later, photos in the pocket. The young master had been eighteen years old that Christmas.
In the following April, the master and I had gone overseas to fight the Hun. Life was terrifying but we managed to survive and even spent a few bob in London, then Paris. I’d been cleaned up and I shone, and life was good.
After Paris we’d gone to Flanders, a place that neither I nor the master referred to very much – too difficult.
Eventually peace was declared, and we went back home where the master settled back into some degree of normality.
On his first Christmas home, he was given a new wallet, as I was regarded as too ragged and worn.
He never threw me away but tucked me into the back of the drawer.
Sometimes when he’s alone he takes me out, holds me to his cheek and weeps silently.
Then he puts me back again, our memories just for each other.
Best Mate
by Terry Hayes
The Anzac stood at the top of the hill,
Muddy and bloody and cranky as well.
He’d come through it all with nary a scratch, So all was O.K. but there’s always a catch.
His best mate Bill was nowhere around,
He’d looked all over but no Bill had he found.
“The bugger’s gone AWOL” was his first thought, But then he reflected on how Bill had fought.
Uphill and down dale he’d crawled, and he’d run, Hooting and shouting and firing his gun.
So, Bill wouldn’t quit, he knew in his head, Then maybe the poor silly buggers got dead.
But Bill couldn’t die, it just wasn’t right,
They were planning to get on the booze tonight. Maybe he’s gone to the cookhouse for chow, Coz he too was hungry right about now.
Then up the hill came a wonderful sight,
Good mate old Bill and he was alright.
In one hairy fist, besides his big gun,
He’d found a great prize, a bottle of rum.
“Hey, my old mate” Bill then yelled out,
“Look what I found and it’s my bloody shout!”
Across the Sea
by Daniel Toia
(honorary member, age 13)
I was young when I went to sea,
When I went to fight a war,
Thinking only of the glory to be,
As I landed on foreign shore.
But when the guns had been fired, When the fight was all done,
My heart lay still, mired,
With my friends beneath the Turkish sun.
I watched red flowers blossom,
On my steadfast friends’ shirt,
Who now lie still as dead possums, Underneath the Turkish dirt.
I left my heart across the sea,
With my friends underneath the ground, Nobody is left, no one but me,
Horror, not glory, is all I found.
I was young when I went across the sea, When I went to fight, to war,
But the horrors and loss have aged me, I’m a young man no more.
