NEW ZEALAND

kusza@ihug.co.nz 

Death of a Peacemaker

With the courage of youth,
and in the company of his mates
he moved forward as the lead scout
to form a ring of steel
between the oppressed people
of East Timor and banditry
loyal only to the violence
of the parang,
 - and the politics of the machine gun.

At twenty four years of age,
he was under no illusions
as to the dangers he faced
when he placed himself in harms way
and probed silently forward
to keep his fated appointment,
 - with death and destiny.

Ambushed and caught in the killing zone,
he was unaccounted for
in the confusion of sustained
and overwhelming heavy fire,
reported as 'missing' only later,
 - after the "Re-Org".

During the Company sweep,
his mates found him
dead where he lay
in the heat of an Asian afternoon
weapon missing, ammo missing,
and body disfigured,
 - in the age old way.

And so in death, 
he journeyed back
that sad and cold
New Zealand winter's day
to the lush green fields
of his Waikato home
and the quiet streets,
 - of small town Te Kauwhata.

And tributes came,
and tributes glowed
as the politicians spoke
but the tears that flowed 
from his mates that day
as they bore him shoulder high,
said more than all the gallant words
 - as his cortege passed me by.

To the warriors chant,
and the Kuia's cry!
they slow marched through the town
and beat the drum with a solemn tone
as the left boot struck the ground,
they bore the broken body
of Private Manning upon high
to the wailing of the Kuia,
 - and the tears as soldiers cried.

His Tour of Duty's over,
and his body's laid to rest
he sleeps the sleep
of stolen youth
in the soft sweet soil
of a warriors grave,
 - and the Rangiriri earth.

In Memory of:
A997234 Private Leonard William Manning
Bravo Company, 2/1 Battalion RNZIR
DOB: 15 August 1975 - KIA 24 July 2000
U.N. Forces
East Timor

Soldiers Farewell

I've saddled up, and dropped me hooch,
I'm going to take the gap,
my Tour of Duty's over mates,
and I won't be coming back.

I'm done with diggin' shell scrapes,
and laying out barbed wire,
I'm sick of setting Claymore Mines,
and coming under fire.

So, no more Fire Support Base,
and no more foot patrols,
and no more eating ration packs,
and sleepin' in muddy holes.

I've fired my last machine gun,
and ambushed my last track,
I'm sick of all the Army brass,
and I sure ain't coming back.

I'll hand my bayonet to the clerk,
he ain't seen one before,
and clean my rifle one more time,
and return it to the store.

So, no more spit and polish,
and make sure I get paid,
and sign me from the Regiment,
today's my last parade.

The Last Anzac

They buried Doug Dibley today, 
a fine old gentleman who died in his sleep, 
at Rotorua on a hot December afternoon.
No warriors death for him on Walker's Ridge,
where the poppies fed on the blood and frozen dreams;
of good young men from Wellington.

A days leave and a seven year old son at my side,
we bore witness as six tall infantrymen in service dress,
raised him high from the gun carriage,
and quietly marched his flag draped casket to eternal rest;
among the trees and hills of his beloved Ngongotaha.

Volleys fired and mournful bugles call,
we shall not see his like again, 
no more grow old as yet no more remain, 
with living memory of that time,
when machine gun and bayonet did their awful work, 
and Anzac boys closed with desperate Turk, 
among the gullies and crumbling ridges;
of a foreign coast that was Gallipoli.

Remember this day my son, 
remember this hour and this place, 
for here and now they bury this nation's last lament, 
to a time of King and Empire.
And the poppies on the ridges grow,
and the scrub thorn in the valleys thrive, 
and the memory of young mates who died;
we sod this day with Trooper Dibley.

The Letter

Dear Mr Subritzky, sorry to be a bore,
but we're sending your son Danny to the Bosnian War.
Yes, we know you did Rhodesia, your cousin Bill did Vietnam,
but we're running out of soldiers and we need a few good men.

Sure, your uncle Jack the Anzac, was in the Battle of Chunuk Bair,
and Bob Subritzky caught a packet on the Somme.
But we need a few good men, to send to Europe once again,
and we'll kit them out and send them with a song.

Cousin Fredo got a head wound in the Monte Cassino fight,
and poor old Archi, he went crazy on the wire one stormy night.
Yes, your family's done its' bit, but it doesn't count for shit,
and when your son gets back, we'll give the lad a gong.

Now you know the bloody score, it's just another friggin' war,
and we're off in a couple of days, to the blood and smoke and haze.
Of course your boy should be alright, unless the Serbs decide to fight,
because the Moslems in his sector seem OK.

(This poem was written by Mike Subritzky, himself a veteran,
during a train journey  to farewell his son when he was posted 
on Operations to Bosnia in 1998, and served with B Battery, 
Royal Horse Artillery).

Sarajevo Haiku

Shape moved before me
Foresight laid central to mass
Pull trigger, girl fell.

Dead Girl's Tanka

You robbed me of life this day
My parents will always mourn.


In Memory:
The Sarajevo Siege
1992 - 1995

© All Copyright, 2000, Pan Michael Subritzky-Kusza.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.