The Dead Poets' Club - For Members Only

There are many ways to look at and study Australian Great War poets and poetry, and these ways will be, for the most part, looked at by AGWP, but one interesting way is by considering those Australians of the canon who died as a result of the Great War. The study so far has yielded nine poets, but I am sure that over the course of time, I will find others. For the time being, we will look briefly at these nine poets and see who they were and what they wrote.

We might also note, of course, that these nine poets represent the Australian branch of the Dead Poets' Club from around the world. A tremendously good book about such poets is Lucy London's 'Poets' Corners in Foreign Fields', where she notes a large number of, mostly British poets, writers and artists. But, AGWP has put together a small, but valuable listing of nine poets who fought in the war and died as a result.

The Dead Poets' Club is an unofficial name we might give to these wonderful men, and this small article may just be their only collective memorial. Indeed, the AGWP page is a memorial for all of those poets, men and women, who form the canon of AGWP.

1. Frank Vivian Searle ~KIA 30 August 1915 (Bullet in brain) – 1st Australian Casualty Clearing Station at Anzac Cove, Gallipoli, Turkey

2. James D. Burns ~KIA 18 September 1915 (Bullet in head) - Shrapnel Valley, Gallipoli, Turkey

3. Private W. M. McDonald ~Died Of Wounds 8 May 1917 - No. 14 Australian General Hospital, Cairo, Egypt

4. Geoffrey Wall ~KIA 6 August 1917 (Killed in Training Accident) – Nethervavo Aerodrome, Wiltshire, England

5. Ray Searle ~KIA 23 August 1917 (Bomb explosion) – Messines, France

6. Leslie George Rub ~KIA 23 September 1917 – Ypres, France

7. Oliver ‘Trooper Bluegum’ Hogue ~Died of Spanish Flu 3rd March 1919 - 3rd London General Hospital, England

8. Sydney Bolitho ~Died from tuberculosis while recovering from serious injuries in both legs 1st May 1919 - England

9. Tom Brennan (aka: ‘Brentomnan’) ~Died of Exhaustion 7 September, 1920 - Brisbane General Hospital, Australia

The poets of this club were normal people who found themselves in an abnormal situation. The Great War brought them out of a happy obscurity and thrust them into the bright lights of battle, where they fought and wrote poetry; some more than others, but they all found poetry as the best way to convey their thoughts. They were each missed and mourned by their friends and family, but also their country. Australia may have lost nine valuable lives, but also, Australia gained something incredibly valuable. The members of this exclusive club gave to Australian literature a voice from the dead. It is a voice born in battle, and fostered by their love of home. These poets, whose lives were filled with a love of Australia and family, were the very essence of Anzac sacrifice. Their deaths were both tragic and poetic, bringing to life, by their death, memories of the great Romantic writers of years past.

They stand together now as a reminder to us all that we should live our lives and value them. As the Latin saying goes: "Sum quod eris, fui quod sis" (I am what you will be; I was what you are.) The Dead Poets' Club gives all Australians a link to the sacrifice made by the 1st AIF. Through their poetry, they unite us with their thoughts and visions of war and home, and only by reading their words may we recognise the dread sound of poetic loss, in that soon after their words were penned, they died.

Sydney Bolitho (1889-1919) and Oliver Hogue (1880-1919) were both born in New South Wales. They died within two months of each other, from things which could be so easily fixed nowadays. Bolitho’s loss denotes another coincidence, in that he was born in Orange, which is where ‘Banjo’ Paterson was born, another Australian Great War poet. The loss of the most loved ‘Trooper Bluegum’ (Oliver Hogue) was a tragedy of unthinkable depths. He represents the most ironic death in Australian Great War poetry, because of one of his poems, ‘The Horses Stay Behind’. It is ironic in hindsight, because he was ultimately to also stay behind.

James Drummond Burns (1895-1915) and Private W.M. McDonald (1894-1917) were both born in Victoria. They both died tragic deaths in their own ways, and left behind a wonderful poetic legacy. Burns was hailed as Australia’s Rupert Brooke, and McDonald was remembered by Rev. William Fraser, Chaplain of the Forces, as “a lad of promise”. Both were loved and mourned.

Frank Vivian Searle (c1893-1915) and Ray Searle (1895-1917) were both from Tasmania. They were brothers who went to war for Australia. Another brother, Ned Searle, also fought in the war, but survived. Frank wrote several poems during his short life as an Anzac, and Ray wrote just one, but they both missed their lives back in Wesbury. Their tragic loss was something which broke their parents’ hearts, along with the close community of Wesbury.

Geoffrey Wall (1897-1917), Tom Brennan (1889-1920) and Leslie George Rub (1892-1917) were all killed by the war, whether instantly or slowly. Wall and Rub were both killed in action, while Brennan died from exhaustion just after the war had finished. For some, the war was never over. Wall, born in England, was also known by some as Australia’s Rupert Brooke. Brennan, born in Ireland, joined the 1st AIF like many of the Irish and died fighting for the greater good. Rub, born in Queensland, was a typical Australian from a big family of nine siblings, and was sorely missed.

A brief look at these poets, their deaths and an example of their poetry, will help us realise just what Australia lost during the war to end all wars.

The first poet we will remember from the Dead Poets’ Club is Frank ‘Viv’ Searle from Tasmania. He is the first, by date, to join this club and his death was a shocking tragedy to all who knew him. His mother said that she had cried herself dry when she got the sad news. Viv is marked as KIA, 30 August, 1915 (Bullet in brain). He had other grave injuries to his arm as well. He died in the 1st Australian Casualty Clearing Station at Anzac Cove, Gallipoli, Turkey. Viv was shot by a Turkish sniper. The doctors determined, sadly, that it was too dangerous to move Viv, and too dangerous to try and remove the bullet, so, in order to work on those who could be saved, Viv was put off to the side, where he fell into unconsciousness and died. Viv was born c1893, and died 30 August 1915: Westbury, Tasmania. The poem that follows is probably the most appropriate one to start off with, because of its subject matter. As you read it, remember Viv and his tremendous sacrifice for Australia and all future generations. + We shall remember him. +

To the Memory of a Dead Comrade By Frank ‘Viv’ Searle

Somewhere out in old Tasmania, Where the gums and apples grow, There’s a mother sadly waiting day by day. She is waiting for her darling boy, Who was her chief support. How it wrung her heart the day he went away.

Well may his mother mourn for him, Well may his sister weep, For their boy who proudly marched away to war. For now he’s lying stiff and cold, Beneath Egyptian soil. He’ll return to dear old Tassie never more.

He was one of the finest men, Who left Australia’s shores. A crack shot, and he stood full six feet high, But the grim pneumonia struck him down, And now he lies asleep. One of the best, and yet the first to die.

He was not killed by bullet, Or by the bayonet slain, And on the field of battle made no name. Though he fought not in the firing line And never won a cross, Yet he gave his life for England just the same.

He is gone but not forgotten By his comrades who remain. We will think of him wherever we may go. We will wish that he were with us, When we’re fighting on the plain, For his rifle would be handy then I know.

His end may have been easier Than ours will be – who knows? But God who orders all things for the best, Though his body lies in Cairo, May his soul triumphant rise, Where the weary soldier shall find perfect rest.

The second member of the Dead Poet’s Club is James Drummond Burns, from Newtown, Victoria. Like Viv Searle, he also died at Gallipoli from a bullet in the head, which just goes to show us how dangerous Gallipoli was, as well as the type of wound soldiers were prone to, as it was close quarters trench warfare, where a man could easily have his head blown off from snipers. When the Australian invention of the periscope rifle came into use, this sort of death was less common. He was in the front line on Gallipoli by 18 September, when Turkish troops suddenly opened fired on the battalion’s trenches. In the words of Lieutenant A.R. (Rowan) Macneil, a fellow old Scotch Collegian and member of the 21st Battalion, Burns’ ‘high sense of duty would not let him sit tight, and he told his section he thought it was his duty to reply to the hostile fire.’ On trying to fire back Burns received a fatal bullet wound to the head. He was reportedly the battalion’s first fatality – more than 870 would follow during the war. James is marked as KIA, 18 September, 1915 (Bullet in head) - Shrapnel Valley, Gallipoli, Turkey. James was born on 18 June 1895 at Braeside, Austin Street, Newtown, Victoria. The poem that follows became quite famous throughout the empire, and summed up the common sentiment of Australians at the beginning of the war. As you read it, remember James and his tremendous sacrifice for Australia and all future generations. + We shall remember him. +

The bugles of England By James Drummond Burns

The bugles of England were blowing o’er the sea, As they had called a thousand years, calling now to me; They woke me from dreaming in the dawning of the day, The bugles of England – and how could I stay?

The banners of England, unfurled across the sea, Floating out upon the wind, were beckoning to me; Storm-rent and battle-torn, smoke stained and grey, The banners of England – and how cold I stay?

O England, I heard the cry of those that died for thee, Sounding like an organ-voice across the winter sea; They lived and died for England, and gladly went their way- England, O England – how could I stay?

The third member of the Dead Poets’ Club is Private William Michael McDonald from Hawthorn, Victoria. William was an Australian who was very much liked. He wrote a book of poetry, and in it, he praised the Australian bush with tremendous affection. It is quite clear from these poems that he loved the Australian bushland. He was wounded a few times, the first in the arm in Egypt, in 1916, but the last time was to prove his death. It was in Gaza, in Palestine, in 1917. Rev. William Fraser, Chaplain of the Forces, noted: “[I] stopped a moment to ask how he [William] felt, and his reply had been “All right, sir.” Within two hours he received the last rites of his Church, and it was to the angel’s reveille that he next responded. Trooper W. M. McDonald, or “Mac” as we called him, was a bright lad, and ‘a lad of promise.’” We aren’t told what his wounds were, but they were enough to end the young poet’s life. He is marked as Died Of Wounds, 8 May, 1917 - No. 14 Australian General Hospital, Cairo, Egypt. William was born 5 April, 1894, in Hawthorn, Victoria. The poem that follows, demonstrates his love for Australia. As you read it, remember William and his selfless sacrifice for Australia and all future generations. + We shall remember him. +

The Gum Leaf By Private W. M. McDonald

It brings me the scent of my own native bush; And the gum-trees and wattles afar; And the mystical charm of the bushland at night— The dark sky and the myriad star.

Oh! the gum leaf has charm for the man of the South, For it grows in the land of his home, And it brings back his mind to the happy days spent In the times ere he started to roam.

It will carry him back to his old folks at home, For he cannot say no to its lure, And it helps him to follow the rough weary road— Ay! it helps him to hope and endure.

The fourth member of the Dead Poets’ Club is Geoffrey Wall from Cheshire, England. He migrated to Australia in 1907 when he was only 10 years old. He has been referred to, along with James Burns, as Australia’s Rupert Brooke, as he died a young poet. Harold Hunt said of Geoffrey that “This one true friend, we stand and face the end; / And yet the certainty of him! That seems more sure / Than Death itself. I know he will endure.” Geoffrey was obviously liked by his peers, and his death came as a tragic shock. He is marked as KIA, 6 August, 1917, (Killed in a Training Accident) – Nethervavo Aerodrome, Wiltshire, England. He was just 20 years old when his plane crashed into the ground the same year he gained his wings, just three months before his death. He was born 3 March, 1897, in Cheshire, England. In the poem that follows, Geoffrey prophetically writes perhaps his own epitaph. A sad loss to poetry, but a sadder loss to Australia. As you read it, remember Geoffrey and his selfless sacrifice for Australia and all future generations. + We shall remember him. +

Requiem By Geoffrey Wall (June, 1915)

For those who in the turmoil of the fight Have paid the price of victory, and died, Who lie upon a distant shore, wide-eyed, Beneath the mystery of an Orient night, We mourn. Yet ne'er their service can requite, That they should lightly set their lives aside So others might in heedless safety bide, And never know the ravening War fiend's blight.

The fifth member of the Dead Poets’ Club is Ray Searle from Tasmania. To my mind, his story is very sad, because he desperately wanted to prove himself to his family as the equal of his brothers, Viv and Ned, but also to make his mother proud. When he died, his mother said that she had no more tears to give, as she had cried herself dry when Viv died two years earlier. She had only pity for her sweet boy Ray. In truth, the Searle family history from the war is a very sad tale, and I highly recommend reading Stephen Dando-Collins’ book, ‘Crack Hardy’. Ray is marked as KIA, 23 August, 1917, (Bomb explosion) – Messines, France. At 4AM on the front line, the Germans started shelling the line, and Ray, along with six others, was covered in mounds of exploded earth. The six men were dug out, but no Ray. Chaplain Blackwood was the first to cry out, “Where’s Ray Searle!” They finally found him; lifeless and limp. Ray was dead. A boy, like his brother Viv, full of potential, now lost to God knows where. In the letter to Ray’s parents, Chaplain Blackwood wrote the following: “It is with deepest regret that I write to tell you of how your fine boy, Private R.V. Searle, of our battalion, met his death. It was a great blow to me to find him taken on the very first night in the trenches after he had rejoined us.” After telling how Ray died, he went on: “I do feel so for you, for he was a lovely boy, a noble soul.” Ray was born 1895 in Westbury, Tasmania. In the poem that follows, we can see how Ray, representing all Australian boys away from home, loved his mother and longed to be with her again. Ray joins his older brother, Viv, as a poet of the Dead Poets’ Club. As you read it, remember Ray and his tremendous sacrifice for Australia and all future generations. But also spare a thought for Ray’s and Viv’s little grey-haired mother, Elizabeth Annie, who spent the rest of her life in unthinkable grief. + We shall remember him. +

A Little Grey-Haired Mother By Ray Searle

When other chaps are talking by the light Of the campfire, of the girls they’ve left behind, Some with golden, some with hair as black as night, Each the prettiest and the sweetest of her kind, I am thinking of a cottage in a little country town, And a little grey-haired mother who is waiting for her own.

At night time when I cough upon the ground, With no other roof above me but the sky, Or with shells and shrapnel bursting all around, In the trenches full of water I must lie. Even then my thoughts like homing birds will fly across the sea, Where a little grey-haired mother prays both day and night for me.

The sixth member of the Dead Poets’ Club is Leslie George Rub from Queensland. He was one of nine children of a pioneering family, and his trade was carpentry. Leslie was obviously a very typical Australian soldier. His sense of irony is characteristic of the AIF, and he slings great shyack at the military big-wigs. His words are prophetic and eerily disturbing when you read his poem, ‘Christmas Day on the Somme’. The second last stanza shows this with terrible portent. The last stanza is a killer though, when you remember that his parents and eight siblings would have also wished for a prosperous New Year. When we stop and really look at these men, we realise that their stories are so utterly sad, that, not to feel anything is humanly impossible. Leslie was hit in the kidneys by shrapnel while building a road between Broodseinde Ridge and Westhoek Ridge one night in Ypres. He died the following morning at the 1st Australian Ambulance clearing station. He is marked as DOW, 23 September, 1917 – Ypres, France, and was 25 when he was killed. Leslie was born in 1892 in Drayton, Queensland. The poem that follows is filled with irony, but as you read this poem you should realise that its author never came home, never celebrated Christmas, never saw his eight brothers and sisters again. Leslie endured all the soldierly hardships with a cheerful heart, and he did so for Australia and his family. As you read it, remember Leslie and his selfless sacrifice for Australia and all future generations. + We shall remember him. +

Christmas Day on the Somme By Leslie George Rub

’Twas Christmas Day on the Somme The men stood on parade, The snow laid six feet on the ground Twas twenty in the shade. Up spoke the Captain ‘gallant man’, "Just hear what I’ve to say, You may not have remembered that Today is Christmas Day." "The General has expressed a wish This day may be observed, Today you will only work eight hours, A rest that’s well deserved. I hope you’ll keep yourselves quite clean And smart and spruce and nice, The stream is frozen hard But a pick will break the ice." "All men will get two biscuits each, I’m sure you’re tired of bread, I’m sorry there’s no turkey but there’s Bully Beef instead. The puddings plum have not arrived But they are on their way, I’ll guarantee they’ll be in time To eat next Christmas Day." "You’re parcels would have been in time But I regret to say The vessel which conveyed them was Torpedoed on the way. The Quartermaster’s got your rum But you may get some yet, Each man will be presented with A Woodbine Cigarette." "The Huns have caught us in the rear And painted France all red, Pray do not let that trouble you, Tomorrow you’ll be dead. Now ere you go I wish you all This season of good cheer, A very happy Christmas and A prosperous New Year."

The seventh member of the Dead Poets’ Club is Oliver Hogue, better known as ‘Trooper Bluegum’ from Sydney, New South Wales. Trooper Bluegum was a very much loved Australian writer, and he wrote many stories and poems. He had a love/hate relationship with his camel, but absolutely loved his horse. His death, to my mind, is probably the most tragic of them all. It is filled with irony and an unthinkable omen, when we read his poem, ‘The Horses Stay Behind’. This poem tells the sad truth about the Walers who couldn’t come back to Australia after serving the men and the country so faithfully. Trooper Bluegum’s love for his four legged friend was indicative of all those in the Australian Light Horse and the Camel Corps, but the sad fact is that only one Waler (Sandy) ever came home after the war. The sadness of Trooper Bluegum’s own story is also terrible, as he died just prior to returning to Australia from influenza (the Spanish Lady). He is marked as died of Spanish Flu, 3rd March, 1919, in the 3rd London General Hospital, England. He was born on 29 April, 1880, in Sydney, New South Wales. The poem overflows with a retrospective realisation that Trooper Bluegum will never leave his horse. At his funeral, his coffin was pulled by a solitary horse, and flanked by Australians who would soon see home. When we read the first stanza, where he says, “In days to come we'll wander west and cross the range again; / We'll hear the bush birds singing in the green trees after rain; / We'll canter through the Mitchell grass and breast the bracing wind: / But we'll have other horses. Our chargers stay behind”, we can see that he had hopes of going home. But he didn’t want to leave his four legged friends. The irony is that, in the end, he didn’t. He never came home again. He never wandered west across the range; he never heard the bush birds singing in the green trees after rain; he never cantered through the Mitchell grass and breast the bracing wind, but instead, died in the pandemic that swept the world in 1919. My own great uncle John also died from the Spanish Lady in Sydney, 19th June, 1919, one of the 11,000 Australians who died because of the flu epidemic after the war. (Over 40 million people worldwide had died by 1919.) As you read it, remember Trooper Bluegum and his selfless sacrifice for Australia and all future generations. + We shall remember him. +

The Horses Stay Behind By Oliver ‘Trooper Bluegum’ Hogue

In days to come we'll wander west and cross the range again; We'll hear the bush birds singing in the green trees after rain; We'll canter through the Mitchell grass and breast the bracing wind: But we'll have other horses. Our chargers stay behind.

Around the fire at night we'll yarn about old Sinai; We'll fight our battles o'er again; and as the days go by There'll be old mates to greet us. The bush girls will be kind, Still our thoughts will often wander to the horses left behind.

I don't think I could stand the thought of my fancy hack Just crawling 'round old Cairo with a 'Gyppo on his back. Perhaps some English tourist out in Palestine, may find My broken hearted Waler with a wooden plough behind.

NO; I think I'd better shoot him and tell a little lie: "He floundered in a wombat hole and then lay down to die." Maybe I'll get court-martialled; but I'm damned if I'm inclined To go back to Australia and leave my horse behind.

The eighth member of the Dead Poets’ Club is Staff Sergeant Sydney Bolitho from Orange, New South Wales. Sydney was yet another ordinary Australian soldier, but he happened to write poetry. His only known poem, ‘Gallipoli’, is dripping with a patriotic belief that the Anzacs would prevail on the peninsula. History has shown a different story, but Sydney had faith. He believed in the courageous Australian heart that couldn’t be beaten. In many ways, he was right, because no matter how bad things were for the Australian of that era, they could always smile through the gloom. The poem was written by Sydney while he was serving in the trenches at Gaba Tepe, Gallipoli, on 25 May, 1915. During an action, he was seriously injured and finally evacuated all the way to England, such were his wounds. He is marked as died from tuberculosis while recovering from serious injuries in both legs from a bomb - 1st May 1919 – England. The sadness of this poem is found in the fact that Sydney believed that Australia would prevail, and that Sydney would be part of that victory, and yet he never saw it. He would also never know that the Anzacs would be forced to surrender their toe-hold on the peninsula. Would Sydney have cried at this reality? Yes. This is clear from the final stanza: “Upon the Graves of those that sleep, / Upon thy wooded slope and vale, / We shall avenge. Remember then, / Australians cannot, will not fail, / Gallipoli! Gallipoli!” As you read it, remember Sydney and his selfless sacrifice for Australia and all future generations. + We shall remember him. +

Gallipoli

By Sydney Bolitho

The new dawn lights the eastern sky; Night shades are lifted from the sea, The Third Brigade with courage storm Thy wooded heights, Gallipoli Gallipoli! Gallipoli! Australians tread Gallipoli.

Thunderous bursts from iron mouths - Myriad messengers of death, Warships ply their deadly fire Watching comrades hold their breath Gallipoli! Gallipoli! There's hell upon Gallipoli.

Serried ranks upon the beach, Courage beams in every eye These Australian lads can face Giant Death, though e'er so nigh, Gallipoli! Gallipoli! There's death upon Gallipoli.

On they press in endless stream, Up the heights they shouting go; Comrades fall; but still press on They press the now retreating foe Gallipoli! Gallipoli! The Turks flee on Gallipoli.

One by one the brave lie low, Machine Guns, shrapnel do their work; Brave Australians know no fear, Never have been known to shirk, Gallipoli! Gallipoli! Their names carved on Gallipoli.

Reduced, cut up, there numbers show The murderous fire that swept thy field; But still victorious they stand, Who never have been known to yield Gallipoli! Gallipoli! Thick dead lie on Gallipoli.

For days they hold with grim set grip, Their feet firm planted on the shore, Repelling every fierce attack And cheerfully they seek for more Gallipoli! Gallipoli! Their trenches line Gallipoli. For thirty weary days they fight, For Britain's sake they give their best; With uncomplaining voice they stand And neither look nor ask for rest Gallipoli! Gallipoli! They've conquered thee, Gallipoli.

The waves break on thy wave swept shores, The breeze still blows across thy hills; But crosses near and far abound, A sight that deepest grief instils Gallipoli! Gallipoli! Their graves lie on Gallipoli.

For those brave hearts that died to show Australia's worth in this dread war, The far off tears and sighs for those Who sleep beneath the cannons roar Gallipoli! Gallipoli! Thou still, shalt pay, Gallipoli.

The few that valiant still remain, War worn but grim and anger yet To hurl full vengeance on the foe. Because they never can forget Gallipoli! Gallipoli! They ask the price, Gallipoli.

Gallipoli I warn you now, Australia's sons and Turks shall meet Once more, and then our onslaught yet Shall sweep the ground beneath your feet Gallipoli! Gallipoli! Thy end's in sight, Gallipoli.

Upon the Graves of those that sleep, Upon thy wooded slope and vale, We shall avenge. Remember then, Australians cannot, will not fail, Gallipoli! Gallipoli! Thy doom is sealed, Gallipoli.

Our last, and ninth member of the Dead Poets’ Club is Tom Brennan (aka: ‘Brentomnan’) from Kilkenny, Ireland. He and Joseph, one of his brothers, migrated to Australia prior to the war, and lived in Brisbane, working as a clerk. A tragic soul, and a man of great capabilities. During the war, Tom served as a stretcher bearer with the Australian Light Horse Brigade Field Ambulance, initially at Gallipoli, then in Egypt and Palestine. In August 1916, he was mentioned in dispatches for his actions at Romini, and he was subsequently awarded the Military Medal for gallantry at Bir-Al-Abd. However, by war’s end Brennan developed a severe psychiatric illness, and during 1919 he spent several months in English military hospitals, before being returned to Australia as a convalescent. He died of ‘exhaustion’ at Brisbane General Hospital in September 1920. He is marked as died of Exhaustion 7 September, 1920 - Brisbane General Hospital, Australia. His brother Joseph served as a private with the 9th Battalion AIF, and was wounded at Gallipoli and died in hospital at Alexandria soon afterwards. The tremendous toll the war took on Tom, being a stretcher bearer, living through the hardships of the war from the very beginning and losing his brother Joseph, was simply too much for him. He suffered mental neurosis, or shell shock, and finally succumbed to exhaustion. He left behind, in Ireland, his parents, John and Mary, and another brother, Anthony, who fought with the Royal Irish Rifles. Tom was born 6 October, 1889, in Kilkenny, Ireland. He was a prolific writer of poetry and articles, and very popular among the AIF, who read his work in such soldier magazines as Kia-Ora Coo-ee. In his poem, ‘God’s Baksheesh’, Tom shows that he was a thinking man, not unlike all the Great War poets, but Tom was filled with the theological virtues of faith, hope and charity. He recognised the gifts he was given, and wanted to give something back. Sadly, Tom gave his life, but he also gave us a gimps into a beautiful mind. As you read it, remember Tom and his selfless sacrifice for Australia and all future generations. + We shall remember him. +

God’s Baksheesh By Tom Brennan

God gave him ‘baksheesh’ of a sunlit soul, A vision clear, to see ‘out past the cloud’, A path, unconscious in it’s festive goal Of all the ‘narrows’ of the sordid crowd, A sense of mateship that was strong and true, With sympathy, unrecking all it’s sway; And guileless ‘plannings’, with the will ‘to do’, In faith untarnished to the close of Day.

God gave him ‘baksheesh’ of the ‘noble chance’, The ‘call’ to ‘harvest’, in the ‘hunger-year’, The load to lighten and the wound to ‘stance’, The need of ‘cheering’ and the heart to ‘cheer’, The quiet daring of the hero-kind, To smile at ‘death’ tho’ ‘death’ had called the ‘game’, The sacred shyness of the soul-strong mind, With ‘deeds of good disclosed’ it’s only ‘shame’.

God gave him ‘baksheesh’, and in turn he gave To God, threefold the ‘talons’ of his ‘trust’: The ‘Faith’ that sanctifies his lonely grave, The ‘Hope’ that rings the triumph of his dust, The ‘Charity’ that little prized it’s worth But rend’ring ‘all’, made ‘all’, it’s only span, And in it’s last great blood-gift, welling forth, Proclaimed him ‘God’ to ‘God’ and ‘Man’ to ‘Man’.

Having seen these nine poets, it remains that we might give honorary mention to one other Australian Great War poet, George Watt, who seems to have a strange and unique claim to membership.

One poet might be given honorary mention in the Dead Poets’ Club, and this is because of a quite unique set of circumstances. You see, according to his records, he was dead for nine days in London, probably as a result of server mustard gas injuries on 11 November, 1917. George Watt was marked as DOW – 18/9/1918 (Died Of Wounds) in his medical records, but later, was marked as “Not Dead” – 27/9/1918. For 9 days, it would appear, George was classified as dead. Imagine his family receiving the dreaded telegram. His service records note that on 30 September, 1918, a cable was sent. His father, Thomas, was noted as George’s next of kin. As was normal practice, the next of kin (NOK) was informed when information about the son, husband or father was made available. Because of some strange date irregularities, it would seem clear that the medical people weren’t communicating with each other so well, but this may have something to do with work load and the understanding that mistakes can happen in time of war. In his enlistment record, George is noted as being born in Williamstown, Victoria, but in another source, he is noted as being from Oakleigh, Victoria. This is not contradictory, as people don’t usually live in the same town they were born in. It may also be noted that Williamstown and Oakleigh are less than 30kms by road from each other. His enlistment records also show his father, Thomas Joseph Watt, as living in Oakleigh, which is obviously where the family home was. George was an electrical engineer before the war. During the war, he was a Gunner in the 11th Battery. His only known poem is ‘Picardy’, George demonstrates his love of nature, and how we may witness God’s hand in nature. George’s marrying of blood and poppies is not new, but his approach is certainly unique. Picardy is a beautiful poem, and it’s written by a man who clearly loved nature. He is a typical Australian in this respect, but a fine poet, and one who was officially dead for nine days. As you read it, remember George (an honorary member of the DPC) and his selfless sacrifice for Australia and all future generations. + We shall remember him. +

Picardy By George Arthur Watt

In the spring of the year in Picardy, The fields are robed in green; And, far and near in Picardy, The hand of God is seen; And ‘mid the green is a flame of red Where the crimson poppy gleams And gracefully bows her drooping head In the dying sunlight’s beams.

‘Tis the spring of the year in Picardy, But the fields are torn and scarred; For, far and near in Picardy, God’s works by man are marred, Still are the fields stained deep with red – The marks of a great price paid By the blood of the ever-living dead Whose laurels ne’er will fade.

For there’ll ne’er be a year in Picardy When peace again holds sway, And, far and near in Picardy, The fields with flowers are gay, But the poppy will bloom with the deeper red Of the blood of a hero brave Where she reverently bows her drooping head As she mourns o’er a lonely grave.

The loss of these poets for Australia was hard to bare, but they will live on in our remembrances, because of the poetic legacy they left behind. They have given a unique voice to the Australian Great War literary canon, because they knew death. Each of them knew the reality of which they fought, and their poetry now speaks with a strange presence, not unlike the strange, near mystical presence found in the Anzac Day honour guard, where each soldier in the guard is not a living man per say, but the very embodiment of all those soldiers who have paid the ultimate price for freedom. The Dead Poets' Club have a similar feel about them.

Frank Vivian Searle, James D. Burns, Private W. M. McDonald, Geoffrey Wall, Ray Searle, Leslie George Rub, Oliver ‘Trooper Bluegum’ Hogue, Sydney Bolitho and Tom Brennan (aka: ‘Brentomnan’), are nine Australian Great War poets who spoke about life and death, and each one of them knew life and death. They longed to go home, but death stopped them. They speak with a unique voice, because we know what they didn't. We know that they would not see Australia again - except for Tom Brennan, who died in an Australian hospital. He, like the others, would never have the chance to grow old and see the sunset of his years with those he loved. The poignancy of the Dead Poets' Club poetry is that it has hope in it, but the reality is that this hope was not ever to be fulfilled. It was a tragedy beyond the mere words, but made all the more poignant by the existence of these words.