Viet Nam Verse 2

Young man, you ask me who I am,
and why I wear this faded yellow ribbon...

I am the woman, who held your dying uncle's hand,
and wrote a letter once that broke your grandma's heart.

I am she, who met the 'Dust-Off' at the door,
and carried bloodied, broken bodies through to triage.

Then cut through muddied boots and bloody combat gear,
and washed away the blood and fear and jungle.

I kept the faith when even hope was lost,
and cried within, as young lives ebbed away.

Those hours when death, frosted dying eyes,
mine, was the last smile many young men saw.

I have the voice, that blinded eyes remember,
and the touch of reassurance through the pain.

In darkest night when combat would return,
it was my name that many soldiers called.

I have dressed their wounds, and wiped away their tears,
and often read them letters sent from mum.

I hugged them close, and willed each one my strength,
and smiled and prayed that each boy made it home.

And here today, you ask me who I am...
I am the Nurse, who served in Vietnam.

(Tribute to Pam M-T and all the Kiwi Nurses)

Mike Subritzky 2001

Verses on this page

• The Nurse
• Anzac Exchange
• Anzac The Legend
• The Last (Kiwi) Anzac 
• Bill
• C'ya Mate
• Troubled Scenes
• Pastures Green

Mike Subritzky, 

who takes his poetry seriously, lives life to the full and is a good bloke....even if he is a Kiwi.

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.

Mike Subritzky 1997

The quick release catches never lived up to their job.
It seemed to take forever for the bloody things to move.
But move they finally did and we took the radios out.
I raced to get the litter while the blokes refuelled the craft.

We took off in a hurry, loaded with ammo, a litter and fuel
and headed east to Diggers Rest - towards the clearing patrol.
When we raised them on the radio, we told them to throw smoke.
They confirmed the smoke was thrown. God! We hoped it was a joke.

The smoke was red which meant that a winch job was required
and the pick-up area was insecure. We were likely to come under fire.
Robbo, the pilot, asked us all if we were prepared to take the risk.
We all agreed! Well we were there. It’d be a piece of piss.

So Shippy lowered the litter but it hung up in the trees.
The jungle canopy was too dense - we’d have to try a free release.
I held onto the litter while Shippy released the drum.
When forty yards of cable looped I threw the litter down.

The message came from down below that the first bloke was dead and cold.
The poor bastard that they’d strapped in was raised to create a hole.
But that didn’t really matter, the guy was just dead meat.
He’d received a burst of bullets from left shoulder to right cheek.

We lifted the covered body and shoved it behind the pilots’ seats
then sent the litter down again. So far - so good - no sweat.
The second bloke came up and we hauled him into the craft.
Five bullets in one thigh and three in the other calf.

He screamed as we lifted him from the litter to the floor.
“Hurry up you bastards! I can’t take no more!”
Shippy sent the litter down again to pick up the third guy.
But the second guy had fainted. I wasn’t about to let him die.

I took off my flack jacket and covered him with my vest
then sat on the floor of the chopper cradling his head upon my chest.
Up came the litter with the third bloke but it was swinging out of control.
Shippy leaned out and grabbed it and hauled it through the door.

Just as the litter was half way in we started taking fire.
“We’re out of here!” the skipper said, “Before we’re a funeral pyre.”
I grabbed the hand of the bloke I held and wiped his face with my sleeve.
His eyes turned up and looked into mine “I can’t die mate - save me please.”

I cradled his head in my lap and stroked his sweaty hair,
and gently squeezed his hand in mine. But all he did was stare.
A burst of seven rounds had come up through the floor.
Five had got him in his back, through my foot, the sixth had torn.

We found the seventh bullet lodged in the litter frame.
I’ve still got it somewhere and somewhere it can remain.
I can clearly hear the words and still see the metal tags
of Bill who died in my arms and went home in a body bag.

But my friend Bill, who I met just once, is a large part of my life.
I’ve dreamed and screamed and smelt and felt the pain of inner strife.
And now he is immortalized inside my heart forever.
For now I have exposed myself to the reality of his power.

Other powers still infect my mind from since I was just a boy.
And when I can cope with countless more...

...my mind may sing with joy.

©Anthony W. Pahl
26^th July 1995

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