By Michael Shave

Remember how we’d rant and roar, The joyful days that went before? We didn’t care what well might be For

Comprised of three battalions and veterans every man, The brigade we sent from Moratai to occupy Japan Was professional, made

It is good to be proud of your service, Remembering what you have done; The trials and the tribulations, The

Everyone knows this song – but will they sing it? Australians all let us rejoice For we are young and

Soldiers do as they are told It isn’t fair that when they’re old Those well trained men (and so well

The Cushions of Saint George (and commemorations in general) There’s a little church in Ypres which commemorates our dead, So

In 1961, as a 17 year old, my service (REME) began amongst some very intelligent and witty National Servicemen. Against

Beside that track in jungle green (Bare the bayonet, beat the drum.), Sweat-soaked, dirty, thus unseen (Bare the bayonet, beat

Tap, pause; tap, pause; tap, pause. A lonely sound which echoes round an ancient hall. And to its beat In

I Remember Shouldn’t sauce for the goose should be sauce for the gander? When first I joined the Army they

When I was stationed at Enoggera, as a young platoon sergeant with 9RAR, a Merino ram was offered, and accepted,

The subject matter for this poem suggested itself very early one morning at the Battle Inoculation Range when I and

In this age when bullying is such an item of concern I cannot help smiling whenever I recall my youth

WARNING: GRAPHIC CONTENT   When hit by a high velocity bullet, The skull explodes and its contents spray Through shattered

Stand at ease; Attention; Move to the right in threes. Orders, orders, orders, Some of which were these. But really

You bastard Putin, what’s it for? Sending people off to war What reason gave you any right To send your

Just Infantry The Russians in Ukraine I feel for those Infantrymen Without the knowledge Of fire-and-movement; Who have been conscripted

After A Day at War (South Vietnam, 1969) In the gloom of each day when it’s dying Standing to is

The Obscenity of Conscription (and PTSD) He sits at the table nursing his beer, Scruffy, unwashed, a bit smelly I