KILLED IN ACTION

Where the ranges throw their shadows long before the day’s surrender,Down a valley where a river used to tumble to the sea,On a rising patch of level rest the men who dared to tenderLife and all its sweetness for their love o’ liberty.In a thousand miles of ugly scrubby waste and desolation,Just that little space of level showing open to the sea;Nothing there to lend it grandeur (sure, it needs no decoration)Save those rows of wooden crosses keeping silent custody.There’s a band of quiet workers, artless lads who joked and chattedJust this morning; now they’re sullen and they keep their eyes awayFrom the blanket-hidden body, coat and shirt all blood-bespattered,Lying motionless and waiting by the new-turned heap of clay.There are records in the office—date of death and facts pertaining,Showing name and rank and number and disposal of the kit—More or less a business matter, and we have no time for feigningMore than momentary pity for the men who have been hit.There’s a patient mother gazing on her hopes so surely shattered(Hopes and prayers she cherished bravely, seeking strength to hide her fear),Boyhood’s dreams and idle memories—things that never really mattered—Lying buried where he’s buried ’neath the stars all shining clear.There’s a young wife sorrow-stricken in her bitter first conceptionOf that brief conclusive message, harsh fulfilment of her dread;There are tiny lips repeating, with their childish imperception,Simple words that bring her mem’ries from the boundaries of the dead.Could the Turk have seen this picture when his trigger-finger rounded,Would his sights have blurred a little had he heard that mother’s prayer?Could he know some things that she knew, might his hate have been confounded?But he only saw his duty, and he did it, fighting fair.Just a barren little surface where the grave mounds rise ungainly,Monuments and tributes to the men who’ve done their share.Pain and death, the fruits of battle, and the crosses tell it plainly,Short and quick and silent suffering; would to God it ended there.Harry McCann, Headquarters, 4th Aust. Light Horse.

Where the ranges throw their shadows long before the day’s surrender,

Down a valley where a river used to tumble to the sea,

On a rising patch of level rest the men who dared to tender

Life and all its sweetness for their love o’ liberty.

In a thousand miles of ugly scrubby waste and desolation,Just that little space of level showing open to the sea;Nothing there to lend it grandeur (sure, it needs no decoration)Save those rows of wooden crosses keeping silent custody.

In a thousand miles of ugly scrubby waste and desolation,

Just that little space of level showing open to the sea;

Nothing there to lend it grandeur (sure, it needs no decoration)

Save those rows of wooden crosses keeping silent custody.

There’s a band of quiet workers, artless lads who joked and chattedJust this morning; now they’re sullen and they keep their eyes awayFrom the blanket-hidden body, coat and shirt all blood-bespattered,Lying motionless and waiting by the new-turned heap of clay.

There’s a band of quiet workers, artless lads who joked and chatted

Just this morning; now they’re sullen and they keep their eyes away

From the blanket-hidden body, coat and shirt all blood-bespattered,

Lying motionless and waiting by the new-turned heap of clay.

There are records in the office—date of death and facts pertaining,Showing name and rank and number and disposal of the kit—More or less a business matter, and we have no time for feigningMore than momentary pity for the men who have been hit.

There are records in the office—date of death and facts pertaining,

Showing name and rank and number and disposal of the kit—

More or less a business matter, and we have no time for feigning

More than momentary pity for the men who have been hit.

There’s a patient mother gazing on her hopes so surely shattered(Hopes and prayers she cherished bravely, seeking strength to hide her fear),Boyhood’s dreams and idle memories—things that never really mattered—Lying buried where he’s buried ’neath the stars all shining clear.

There’s a patient mother gazing on her hopes so surely shattered

(Hopes and prayers she cherished bravely, seeking strength to hide her fear),

Boyhood’s dreams and idle memories—things that never really mattered—

Lying buried where he’s buried ’neath the stars all shining clear.

There’s a young wife sorrow-stricken in her bitter first conceptionOf that brief conclusive message, harsh fulfilment of her dread;There are tiny lips repeating, with their childish imperception,Simple words that bring her mem’ries from the boundaries of the dead.

There’s a young wife sorrow-stricken in her bitter first conception

Of that brief conclusive message, harsh fulfilment of her dread;

There are tiny lips repeating, with their childish imperception,

Simple words that bring her mem’ries from the boundaries of the dead.

Could the Turk have seen this picture when his trigger-finger rounded,Would his sights have blurred a little had he heard that mother’s prayer?Could he know some things that she knew, might his hate have been confounded?But he only saw his duty, and he did it, fighting fair.

Could the Turk have seen this picture when his trigger-finger rounded,

Would his sights have blurred a little had he heard that mother’s prayer?

Could he know some things that she knew, might his hate have been confounded?

But he only saw his duty, and he did it, fighting fair.

Just a barren little surface where the grave mounds rise ungainly,Monuments and tributes to the men who’ve done their share.Pain and death, the fruits of battle, and the crosses tell it plainly,Short and quick and silent suffering; would to God it ended there.

Just a barren little surface where the grave mounds rise ungainly,

Monuments and tributes to the men who’ve done their share.

Pain and death, the fruits of battle, and the crosses tell it plainly,

Short and quick and silent suffering; would to God it ended there.

Harry McCann, Headquarters, 4th Aust. Light Horse.

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