By Michael Shave

So, being alive and because we can, Let’s raise our glass to the fighting man Of The Royal Australian Regiment.

Many years ago I trod lightly through the woods, Being careful not to crush the undergrowth with my feet. I

Rise up ye men of Essex. Come forth with me this day. For there’s Viking to be fighting, Their ships

This poem is for all those men and women residing in the Real World: – Stand at ease; Attention; Move

I thought “I’ll march this Anzac Day,” To Sydney thus I’ll make my way. But then, to set my medals

Beneath the jungle canopy all is quiet, and very still. The heat it prickles up and down my back, beneath

We of the Ninth in sixty-eight Embarking then for Vietnam; We lined the deck, we had such fun. You waved,

I was once a soldier smart, Learned to stamp my feet, the art Of calling out ‘The Time’, the thrill Of perfect, synchronising drill.

Keswick Barracks (November 2017) Being the 50th reunion of 9th Battalion The Royal Australian Regiment —————- Old soldiers never die,

Fighting needs a certain care, Its conduct ruled by those in place. But Righteous thoughts by those not there Ensure the fighters lose face.

All the way with L. B. J. Was what we said back in the day. But what it meant, if truth to tell, Was two years servitude in hell.

Last night I spoke with Caesar’s ghost. We’d quaffed a glass or two of wine. But then the bastard made a boast – his blokes would beat mine.

When tracer snarls about your ears Because the bastard knows your there. When so much noise explodes the fears And