George Mansford

THE BROTHERHOOD

No matter what war, soldiering can be Spartan and grim
Enduring hardships with him, him and him
Him being Blue, Jed, Snow, Gazza, Moff and Bill
And other wonderful bastards who trudged from hill to hill
Didn’t matter the genes, black, white or in between
Micks, Proddys, Atheists; even those who voted green
What ever your origins; the old world, bush or big smoke
If you wore the proud cloth, you were one of the blokes

You huddled together shivering in icy rain
Even shared spare socks, again and again
The last of water or a rusty tin of meat for a stew
Not forgetting risks and dangers more than a few
How often did you swap letters as well as dreams too?
Caring and protecting each other and showing new blokes how
Holding a dying mates hand or cooling a fevered brow
It wasn’t the Queen or Canberra suits that made you fight
The reasons were the mates beside you, by day and by night

Whatever the odds, more often than not, you stood fast
And when it seemed a few of your mob couldn’t last
There were some who thought God had forgotten for others
Yet his greatest gift was that he had made all of you brothers
That helping hand or comforting word, a shared smoke and tea
A wag who cracked a joke and tension gone while mirth ran free
And so the question often asked is why such mateship never dies?
Well, I guess you have to be one of the mob to understand why