SURVIVOR

[Maureen K Clifford]

SURVIVOR

It was one of those days full of sunshine and showers, where you couldn’t make up your mind whether you should be inside reading a book or outside digging in the garden. An unsettled day...a bit like life.

The vines glistened. Raindrop diamonds on their leaves flashed prisms of fractured rainbow coloured light as the sun caught their eye. The grapes were sweet, plump, and full of moisture. Begging to be picked. Rows and rows of vines marched up the hilly slopes, backs straight. They invoked a lust for picking...a desire to hold their glossy globules and admire the symmetry of each individual fruit. Dark Purple with a blush of silver – fat, juicy with delicious sweet flesh.

The call of the vines won and grabbing a spade and the tractor keys he ventured out – put on knee high wellies just in case the odd Joe Blake lurked amongst the lush grass beneath the grapes. Once they had been picked he could turn the ergonomic lawn mowers out into the paddock. They thrived on the windfall grapes and the sweet grasses – it was a treat for them as well. Not baaaaad the girls would say as they contentedly chomped away.

It used to be so simple but over the years the shortage of pickers had made it less viable and one couldn’t compete with the invasion of the big vineyards, who now mixed his grapes in with theirs to make their high priced and prized wines...but that was OK ....it was all about living the simple life, and for the most part he was content.

But for now he picked his way steadily along the row seeing the trailer fill with the harvest, enough to fill him with satisfaction. He noted the odd vine that needed attention or perhaps replacing...a job for another day. Stood for a while to ease his back and watched an eagle flying high on the thermals above with a backdrop of clear blue sky. The rain was clearing, all the clouds moving out to the east now. It would be a cold night he could already feel a hint of chill in the breeze.

He loved this place. As he gazed across his land he knew he was blessed. He was a simple man – didn’t need the bright lights of the city and a gabfest of people around him. He had all he needed here. Peace, his music, good neighbours. He made enough to live on but lived frugally. Grew his own fruit and veggies, his flighty feathered friends kept him in eggs. He made a bit from selling the lambs and his dogs fetched good money. The last two he sold he had got over $1000 each for them. There was a bit of a cult following now for his trial dogs reputations were spreading and their pups were in demand. He went to town a couple of times a month to stock up on provisions and catch up on local gossip. He enjoyed having a beer with some old mates at the RSL. His heavy drinking and carousing days long past now...pushed to the back of his mind along with memories of time past...as best he could.

Sometimes he still had nightmares – waking in a lather of sweat even on the coldest night. He must have cried out for the dogs stood watchful beside his bed – confusion and concern apparent in their soft brown eyes. Ghastly dreams...War was not just a game, although as young blokes they thought it a great adventure. ‘ Nothing like a bit of a stoush’ his brother Toby had said, but his last memory of Toby was of his body lying with a glossy purple clot right between the eyes. Death instantaneous. No cry, no stagger – just very, very dead, and he could do nothing.

Anzac Day was just around the corner. Time then to honour the fallen, raise a glass and reminisce. Old men now, not the young hot bloods of fifty years ago, but they still marched in formation pretty well with the colours fluttering overhead and the little kiddies waving flags and cheering as they passed.

Bit different from when they came home from the war. They weren’t so popular then. That was a bloody shock. Here they were back from laying their lives on the line for Queen and country, Fighting a war no one wanted to fight in the first place and a lot of them had been conscripted, weren’t even regular soldiers. Six weeks training at Puckapunyal and ’ on ya bike Mate’; a bloody marble deciding whether you went or whether you stayed. He and Toby had drawn the short straws, Toby's obviously shorter than his. Come back into Australia and find that it wasn’t considered a war but a ‘civil action’ and they weren’t considered to be soldiers or heroes but were thought to be ‘baby slayers’. That was a bloody shock all right. Took the country a long time to realize how badly they had treated those blokes. Fifty years gone by and the ‘post traumatic stress disorders’ were surfacing thick and fast now.

But they weren’t wrapped in tissue paper in those days. The old ‘she’ll be right’ attitude and ‘get over it Mate’ were bandied about. Counselling was a beer with your mates at the local getting as full as a goog and falling down drunk and then nursing a humungous hangover the next day. Alcohol killed the pain and the liver and you forgot for a bit. He’d seen too many of his mates with grog problems and broken marriages, didn’t want to walk that path himself which was why he was where he was out here. He’d removed himself from temptation, and the angst of city dwelling. He’d found peace and security and himself again. He’d survived.

It was one of those days full of sunshine and showers, a bit like life.

Maureen Clifford © 04/11

[Jasper Brush]

G'day, Maureen.

Apt: tomorrow's the twenty fifth.\\

A lot of VV's became recluses.

I was only young when my cousin Jim, came home from WW11. He'd come home from Borneo.

He spent a lot his energy rushing out into the street, standing in the middle of the road, yelling out 'the Japs are coming' and telling all our neighbours to evacute.

They carted him away and gave him shock treatment. He would be in a daze for weeks. Then he would start all over again.

I did my Nasho's in 57.

I going to march, for the first time, tomorrow.

Not for me, two of my family died in WW11. For them and for Jim.

Regards,

John

[Maureen K Clifford]

Good on you John - Chin up, chest out and proud Mate - way to go.

I always think of my ex FIL especially on Anzac Day and feel great sorrow for a man I now suspect was a tormented soul
who took his own life. He fought on the track and never spoke of it. Another dear friend ex Navy gone 10 years now, and now another mate an ex vietnam digger being treated for PTS after he started having flashbacks bought on by the terrible floods we had here at the beginning of the year. The pain doesn't end at the cessation of the war.

You have a good day John and have a beer for Jim

Cheers

Maureen

[Jasper Brush]

Thank you, Maureen.

A wet day down here/25.
Yes for me a very rewarding day. Sort of a release.

The amount young people, young patriots, taking an interest in our heritage is quite an eye opener.

Yep. I had a few beers.

Cheers,

John

[Neville Briggs]

There's a lot of stories like that, as you alluded to Maureen. There was a time when soldiers went out to the battle field and engaged in the contest in a limited arena. Now , we have total war, everyone is involved , the war moves like the tsunami over every aspect of people's lives. I think that's why modern day soldiers are so affected. It's not just soldier combat, but all the other horrors of total war.

[Maureen K Clifford]

Hey John

I just re read your post here about Jim and though how bloody coincidental it was that around the same time that I wrote survivor I also did this one and the old soldier was Jim.


AND IN THE MORNING




He sat watching the morning sunrise, waving off clustering bush flies,
pulled a feathered lure and hook from his Akubras stained sweat band…………

He’d made his camp by the river in a green and grassy meadow
‘neath the boughs of casuarinas and the stately iron bark trees.
His blackened billy was boiling, with the steaming water roiling
and he threw in for added flavour a gum leaf with the tea.
There were mushrooms, bacon,‘taters, plenty left over for later,
if a quick snack was then fancied as the morning whiled away.
He could make a bacon sanger – even grill some extra bangers
with tomato sauce and crusty rolls - a feast, I hear you say.

‘Twas the long weekend of Easter – and this year it was a long one
for Anzac Day was in the mix, a day of national pride.
Old Diggers are heavy drinkers, but this one was using sinkers
on a line with bait attached and fishing out on the Callide.
In the west shire of Banana where Leith Hays – a local farmer
used an old dun coloured bullock to lure others to his side,
that was back in 1850 – a plan of action somewhat nifty.
The Bullock was called Banana, for the colour of his hide.

Old Jim the fishing digger – had his stubbies and a jigger
full of Bundy, that he planned to use to toast his long gone mates.
No longer a marching soldier, his old bones had got much older
Each year he honoured the fallen – saw no call to celebrate.
But he well recalled the summer,marching to a beating drummer
down the streets of Sydney to the quay. All the young men on parade
with many other blokes departing, leaving home, their plans imparting.
Every house across the country had maps of fighting zones displayed.

So today he sat there fishing, recalling the dead and missing,
thinking of his Brother Toby a young bloke lost to his home,
and country and dear ones, one of Australia’s heroes unsung
who rested on foreign shores now , in a different countries loam.
Then he felt the hand line jerking, and soon old Jim was working
pretty hard to pull the line in from the Callide waters brown.
He had caught a Yellow Belly – his old legs had gone to jelly
and he whispered ‘ Toby this one’s yours’ - whilst his heart settled down.

He raised his glass and toasted – all the men long gone, and boasted
to a brother long departed ‘this sure beats the one you caught.
But I’d gladly pass up fishing ‘cause it’s you Mate that I’m missing
and I guess you’d know that when Mum got the news – she was distraught.
The old fellow threw the towel in – found him behind the shed howling
like a baby, Mate I tell you that sure came as a surprise.
For a bloke as tough as leather who always held it together.
Well it fair shook me up to see tears falling from his eyes.

I drink a toast here to my Brother and my Father and my Mother.
all of you were bloody heroes'; Jim saluted with his hand.


Maureen Clifford © 04/11

[Jasper Brush]

Smart piece of poetry, Maureen. I think the internal rhyme is well done.

I do not know if you have read A L Gordon's ' How We Beat The Favourite'

Gordon, the forgotten poet. He was a smart poet: have a read.


Yes, Jim was a totally destroyed person. God knows what turned him into Psychotic shell of man. Borneo was a pretty bad place to be at the end of the war.

I was only young, maybe ten or eleven; I would go in and see him sometimes. He had a sparsely furnished bedroom at the front of my Aunties house.

He was in the Service Corps, drove all types of trucks. One story he released, one day as I silently slipped into his room, was this.

This is one thing that screwed him up.

The unit had an urgent message to evacuate. Straight away in the middle of the day. Everything was chaotic. Jim was assigned a Diamond T troop carrier. Infantry and some Company staff clambered on board. They were headed back down to Sarawak. A Japanese bomber came in low and dropped a load on the convoy, the back of Jim's truck was blown to smithereens, the front end himself and a passenger, a Army Captain, careened off the road into the jungle, the Captain was badly injured when the front cabin skewed through the roadside, Jim fell on top of him. A tuck following, pulled them both out. They were the only survivors. This was only one story Jim told me. Not good.


You are a very talented lady, Maureen.



Regards,


John