Vengeance Mountain 1943

[Stephen Whiteside]

This is a poem I wrote many years ago. I have a feeling that I may have posted it on the forum before, but I might also be imagining that. No matter.

I love the idea of recording aspects of Australia's history in verse (as some of you have already noticed). I don't think we do this nearly enough. I feel it can really bring history alive. This poem has never been published, but I did include it on my album, 'Back Door Ballads', in 1983.

For those who want to find out more about the story, you can find it here:
http://trove.nla.gov.au/ndp/del/article/68820393

and here:
http://freepages.genealogy.rootsweb.anc ... w41_52.htm (the story starts about a third of the way down)

First snowfalls in Victoria this week!


Vengeance Mountain 1943

© Stephen Whiteside

A month of heavy falls of snow was August ‘43,
Of howling blizzard, fog and freezing cold;
Buried huts and snow-poles, massive cornices and drifts,
And they who skiied through this were sure and bold.

Monday, August 2nd, and a sturdy group of eight
Huddled close and warm in Bivouac,
Waiting for a respite in the raging, pounding wind,
To launch upon the summit their attack.

None came. But even so, there were a fit, determined three
Who figured they could match it with the fray;
Experienced and wily, strong as bullocks, tough as nails;
Ted Welch, Miss Georgine Gadsden, John McRae.

They checked their gear and donned their packs, proposed this sketchy plan.
If they were not forced back, the rest should follow,
Then they bid their brief farewells, and stepped on out into the storm,
And the fog their frail forms did quickly swallow.

Several hours later, and the others did step out,
But the driving winds and snow soon forced them back.
The next day, too, brought failure. The next, they chose to rest
Within that damp and frail little shack.

Thursday, August 5th, and the blizzard eased a little.
They ventured out once more. Their pace was slow,
But they battled ever forward. Four hours later they encountered
Three pairs of skis abandoned in the snow.

Ian Lenne, their leader, inched ahead now, tense and weary.
His eyes perceived, within their grim survey,
Emerging from the swirling mist three stiff and frozen corpses;
Ted Welch, Miss Georgine Gadsden, John McRae.

Saturday, August 7th. Ian Lenne had left the mountain
And walked throughout the valley pastures green
To form a band of volunteers to fetch those lonely bodies.
He was back now, with a group of seventeen.

But when they finally reached that lonely, God-forsaken scene,
Two bodies lay upon the frozen ground.
The sky was blue. The view was clear. The grim, appalling fact,
Miss Gadsden’s corpse was nowhere to be found.

Wednesday the 11th, and they found Miss Georgine Gadsden
Resting by the banks of Doorway Creek,
For the sun had come. The body down the ice wall had tobaggoned,
And had waited quietly there throughout the week.

In Easter ‘45, a simple cairn it was erected.
It’s tough. It’s made of stone. It’s there to stay.
If you’re climbing up the Staircase, then I urge you, spare a thought
For Ted Welch, Miss Georgine Gadsden, John McRae.

[Neville Briggs]

That's a new story to me Stephen. Reminds me of why I don't go skiing.

[Dennis N O'Brien]

A good one. I agree with you 100 percent about recording history in verse and it's good to see you doing so. Will try to do my little bit as well.

[Stephen Whiteside]

Thanks, Dennis. Goodonya!