Peace Poem by Stephen Hall

Speaker 1 00:00

Brainwaves. Hear the world differently. Bringing community mental health to you, raising awareness and challenging stigma. Tune in to 3CR Community Radio, Wednesdays at 5pm.

Speaker 2 00:13

A radio program, featuring community organisations, powerful stories and information. Find us at www .brainways .org .au. Proudly sponsored by Wellways Australia.

Speaker 3 00:27

I would like to begin by paying my respects to the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin Nation, who are the traditional custodians of the land on which I am coming to you from today. Land where at brainwaves we tell our stories, and land where the traditional custodians have told their stories for many, many years before us, and continue to tell their stories. I would like to pay my respects to Elders past and present, and acknowledge all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander listeners who are listening today.

Speaker 4 01:01

Hello and welcome to Brainwaves on 3CR, show where we try to minimise the stigma around mental health and talk to people with lived experience of mental health distress about various topics and issues that they experience. And today we have Stephen Andrew Thomas Hall with us, who is a artist who uses his lived experience of mental health distress in his work. He does drawing, painting, poetry. He's a coppersmith by trade and he's done some amazing poems about the Anzac Day Parade and World War I in general. He is an interested bystander about World War I and II and all war really in general. 

His formative years were around when the Vietnam War was occurring and his grandfather served in World War II and would tell him stories about his experience in the war. That was quite formative as well for him growing up. He went to his first Anzac Day Parade in 1968, middle of the Vietnam War, and he remembers that quite vividly as well. So welcome Stephen.

Speaker 5 02:13

Yeah, you don't, really good. 

Speaker 4 02:16

It's like, lovely to have you here. So I thought we might just start the show with giving you a chance to read the poem that you've written and then afterwards we can talk about it a little bit. Okay. Yep. So when you're ready and take your time.

Speaker 5 02:29

Right, well it's titled ANSAC 1915. 

You ever been outback? There are so many stars they can shine the way. Better than a hard slog through a stinking hot day. We stay in the light, not in the murk, where you never know what might work. Anyway, it's been far too long since I've slept under those stars as they really are. Far past the black stump and bill of bongs, where we'd ride the outback bush tucker and gear in a green gunny sack, way out back a burk coated with all that clinging red dust, Uncle Royce, a backtrack and a heap of my trust. The deepest trust of my life and so much more, like with all that strife when we went off to war. 

The great war was on when we made a pact, 10 bob a day so we committed to the act. We joined up to not miss the fray, baffled by it all, up to this very day. We were Lord Horseman, brand new clobber and bonzer cobbers from all over. Plenty a tucker, the whole kitten caboodle, topped off with an ostrich plume slouch hat, mates drills and duties and all about that. We could keep our own horses or break in a brumby for our imperial forces. New 303 rifle on tight new tack. I shook Royce hands solemnly. Sure we'd come back. When we were shipped from the rigors of Egypt, it never even crossed my mind that we'd have to leave all our horses behind.

I heard that all but one got shot to save them from their awful lot. I often grieve for those thousands left in the dirt and oh god I still hurt. Scared, crikey we were scared bloody shitless taken on the Turk. We nudged and scraped gliding among the corpses where the enemy'd done their work. We owned a certain honour in going completely berserk. To die I was never more sure. To die in this hellscape called war. Storming through that deathly hail of roaring horror and awkward pull, diggers slump, falter or jerk as they fall. We know there's just no way to turn on back, but far, far better than a frontal attack was the hard yacker of dirt and rock we'd hack. With the fervour of knowing we could go no further, except in faith. 

As the Turk picks us off in the machine gun strafe, the order came in to dig, dig, dig till you're safe. Frantically pulling oars with all our might, we're betrayed by the coming daylight. We drifted to the wrong bloody beach to find Johnny's big guns were just out of reach. Not his damn machine gun so. The bloke right next to you, you'll never get to know. I'd much rather be out, way out, passed back o' Bourke. Instead we set to work against Johnny Turk. Six hundred Anzac died within the first six minutes. Every Wernthog's assault torn, scream, groan, or not even a whisper. We'd shone far past the ends of our limits to all it seems. Lowering war clouds ends all our dreams and our lives, maybe. I'll just have to wait and see. 

We were still at the water's edge, hiding behind some poor chaper under a low rocky ledge. Faced by a labyrinth of cliffs, our whole bloody world became what ifs. That hot bloody war cost Johnny ten to one more. Even so, we lost a full six to Kiwis and us. We Anzac got hounded for every yard of ground, upright into the teeth of lead and steel. Shrapnel, warning all around. We were fully rethink autumn, bully beef and boredom. Biscuits like stone. This would set our minds on home. Maybe pen and poem, so it's known. But even in the toughest spot, we're having a good day.

So don't worry, my dearest. I'm doing my best to come back to you someway. Every so often we'd fire in the Turks general direction to satisfy Birdwood's suggestion. We mainly wondered what we hid, but we all did our damned little bit. As the word was passed, we knew it wasn't a furphy just as fast. So I left all my keepsakes behind. My last will and testament considered witnessed and signed. Faces pale, we run icy cold as that dreaded order looms large. Fixed bayonets for another deadly charge. Our sad sergeant's whistle sounded as we all cast about in doubts. So out of our trenches we bounded to storm the Turk redoubts. 

Claiming ground seems further we find, raising a blood-curdling roar we bolt for their line, running the gauntlet with all we had to bid, tripping or skipping over all the debris no man's land hid. Our battle cries die as fast as we did. There wide-eyed terror our furies fill. Bullets like scythes lay our commas out still. They stay there, killed as a matter of course. Hot blood spilled, but that wasn't the worst. Cold steel clashed, flashing as we cried out in cursed. Hand to hand in the gloom of covered trenches. Spells to doom to all we wretches. Dark shot through with chaotic flailing. Killing for our lives.

No digger's sacrifice failing. Until gory hands, rays and weapons clatter down. Shows the mellows over. Yeah come, now known. Until the next time. After weeks the brass called a ceasefire. So we rip putrid bits of mates off all the barbed wire. Most of us figured we'd all soon die. Not one of us knowing when, where or why. But, oh Johnny's not such a bad sort of bloke. Head's low, we share the smoke and nods of, I know. We shared treasured photographs of loves and wives to bury those who'd lost their lives. Less stench and swarming flies. But still blood soaked beaches and political lies. With cries of grief and grim resolve, we went back to fight with little belief in our goals. 

Corporal Beechie gave us a hope. Snapped his shaving mirror, took up his rifle and fashioned a wood periscope. We made one each just to be sure to keep our heads in the trenches of war. Then we were down. Low as we could get. Down. Down beneath the parapet. On our push to Lone Pine, which was as far as we got, nothing was fine. We'd done our lot. But we had to last say when we beat him anyway. But Uncle Roy was curious to take a look. And that break from cover was all it took. Don't get up. I screamed up at Roy. Get the hell down. As his face got destroyed in a shock sort of frown. He flopped in my lap as a dead person lay his gory tin hat. I see every day I had to leave Roy to his fate with no drawing out the boat.

I just couldn't stop as we rolled out over the top. After so many months it was time to slink out. But Johnny's all knowing. We knew Johnny Turk thinking we're still about, but they just let us keep going. We all sneaked quietly away, so the doll who had lived could know another day. Dripping water set off each rifle shot echoing within those few tense nights, with not a one of us lost to that ungraceful flight. We dropped all our gear so as not to deli about. We knew all about fear. They'd probably be a route. When we'd gone out of the gloom of dark, the hush of dawn was all kind of stark. 

After rehab and repat, we made it back, made another Matilda from a green gunny sack. All we had left was out on the tracks. We'd had war, so time to relax. With Roy's wound, he couldn't sit a horse, so we roamed around by cart of course, waltzing out under our star. Sure we'd go slowly, but we'd get very far. Every April we visited town where Anzac is thick all around. Roy shows his disfigured face, still glowing. The withering ranks of Anzac keep going. A lot of folk wonder why, more and more. And ask me, what's it all for?
I answer, we'd show our broken shells as our protest against all war. Never a celebration, except for making it home. Always a solemn occasion, seeing long time mates we've known. So they mostly shuffle quietly away, not really knowing quite what to say.

Then, before long, after the pub and two up, we'd move along to light up a bill of bong with little care, laughter and song, resting in the arms of peace. When nothing seemed wrong, just a total release. Now I'm heading to Roy's wake. He took his own life the other day. Roy'd finally had more than he could take. While I was gone, he went his own way. So, never forget what others ultimately gave. I counted all within this life. How many lives does taking life save? Remember us all, racked with pain and strife, lest we forget to price, or our debt, or more of the same is what we'll get.

Speaker 6 15:39

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Speaker 7 16:12

Stand in solidarity with Palestine this Sunday.

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with the most devastating attack ever launched on the people of Gaza. It's time for all of us to stand in solidarity with the Palestinian people.

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Israel has waged war on the Palestinians for the last 75 years, the Nakbar, ethnic cleansing, occupation of the West Bank, East Jerusalem and Gaza. Israel has now imposed a total blockade on Gaza and declared war, stopping food, electricity and fuel, and launching an all-out attack.

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Speaker 3 18:51

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Speaker 4 18:59

Thank you so much, Stephen Hall. What an incredible poem. If you've just tuned in, we've been listening to Stephen Hall beside a poem he wrote about Gallipoli and ANZAC Day and the cost of war. Incredible. I just wanted to ask you a little bit about what inspired you to write this and where did this kind of passion come from?

Speaker 5 19:25

Well, I liked, what's his name, the guy who wrote [?Bandplot], Walzing Matilda.

Speaker 4 19:35

Yeah, I should know that, but...

Speaker 5 19:38

But anyway, he wrote a wonderful song, and I can't fault it, except for it was his first ANZAC Day, and he didn't quite know what it all meant. And there's a line in there, "the young people ask me what are they marching for, and I ask myself the same question." So, me having grown up with the Gallipoli legend as my echo chamber, I thought I'd answer that question for everyone if I could, to the best of my ability anyway.

Speaker 4 20:23

Fantastic. And using, you know, your knowledge of all the stories from your grandfather. Did you do a lot of research as well for this kind of...

Speaker 5 20:31

Over the years, and I have known a fair bit about the Gallipoli campaign, and there was a lot that was left out because of time constraints, I didn't want to make it too long, but what you've got to realise is that Gallipoli was a, it's been shown as an example, whereas it was to a great degree. I wouldn't call it a sideshow, but the main problems that we had, the main casualties that we had were on the, in Europe, and [?passion dial} and such. So the Gallipoli legend has its place, its folklore, but we should remember all the other wars as well and never ever do them again.

Speaker 4 21:41

Absolutely. And you said that your grandfather, I think, you know, once said, just avoid war at all costs. It's not worth it.

Speaker 5 21:51

That's in my other poems I wrote about Anzac Day in 1968. He said go to war never, a quiet life would be much better.

Speaker 4 22:06

Yeah, well spoken, two lines, that's all you need and you know the cost of war on an individual level on people's mental health you know is profound and you know I think you were saying that you believe everyone that has served in war would have probably PTSD and yeah.

Speaker 5 22:30

Yeah, and not only the people who were served, but the people who have been witness, like the general population of war-torn areas. So the world itself is heading to PTSD on a grand scale.

Speaker 4 22:48

Absolutely. And there's, yeah, the bystanders, the people who are directly involved. And then the intergenerational trauma of how that's passed on to, you know, future generations as well. It's really, really destructive. And it's, it's kind of, yeah, terribly sad to see that that's still, we're still having war around the world. It's still happening. You know, and I guess one of the things about Anzac Day and remembering is to remember the horror of that and so that we don't repeat it. Yeah.

Speaker 5 23:23

And I hope I got that across in the last few lines of the poem. Definitely. 

Speaker 4 23:30

Yeah, it was really moving, so moving actually. I was a bit, you know, I was really moved by that and there was another line in the poem that it was earlier on saying that the diggers were baffled by it all, you know, and up to this very day, you know, why are we here? Why are we dying?

Speaker 5 23:51

I had a different word than baffled and then I thought no, baffled because that's the way everyone must feel after being in war is... why what how?

Speaker 4 24:08

Is that what what is possibly worth this horror? You know, yeah?

Speaker 5 24:13

It's a, yeah. Yeah, absolutely. Exactly, it's horrifying.

Speaker 4 24:19

And what was it like sort of growing up with a you know grandfather who probably did have his PTSD or his own?

Speaker 5 24:26

He's a lovely guy. He's a popper, Bill. He was a radio technician in the Second World War in the Signal Corps, fighting in North Africa, Palestine, and then he was repatriated after Greece, the debacle in Greece, and he was starving on the beach for two weeks in Greece. So he was repatriated and worked on radios in Sydney to make them less susceptible to mold and mildew in the Pacific. Really interesting. So I'd get down into his workshop where he'd be working on radios. That was what he did after the repair thing. He was a repairer and he'd tell me his things about getting strafed by Mesha Smits. He got that truck blown out from underneath him. He got stookered. Yeah.

So it was a way of him dealing with his PTSD and a way of teaching me to not go through that. He wanted to be in the First World War. He was born in 1897, but he was just a little bit too young to go away. His father wouldn't let him because he wasn't 21 yet. So he put his age down to get into the Second World War and that was the worst thing he could have done.

Speaker 4 26:21

So he was actually quite enthusiastic about serving, and there was a lot of serving country, you know, it was quite a big, that was a rhetoric at the time, and that's what, you know, there's a lot of pride and honor in that, so I can see why he...

Speaker 5 26:36

And why didn't you serve in the First World War, you rolled enough?

Speaker 4 26:40

Yeah.

Speaker 5 26:40

And so he had that hangover for 20 years, so he wasn't going to miss out that second time, but he wishes he had. Yeah, absolutely.

Speaker 4 26:54

Can imagine. My grandfather served in World War II as well as a pilot and it certainly affected him for his life. He was an alcoholic and died quite a young age. So I never got to know him very well, so I didn't hear those stories.

Speaker 5 27:12

There was another thing about the furphy, you know, we knew it was a furphy, like the furphy was the beer truck, because they wouldn't drink the water. It was furphy beer, so they'd gather around the beer truck and swap stories. And that's where the term Furphy came from, it's a furphy.

Speaker 4 27:37

I did not know that. This is at Gallipoli. I was doing some reading this morning as I was telling you about the conditions and how terrible they were, not enough water, really poor provisions for food, flies swarming.

Speaker 5 27:56

Well, I think I put that bully beef and boredom and biscuits like stone and less warming flies.

Speaker 4 28:05

I know you got it all in there. It was so emotive, the poem and descriptive, but informative as well. And I could really, I had a picture in my mind of kind of what you were describing, which I think is a good, a really good sign of a, you know, a poem. That's what you want. You want to be able to envision it. Yeah, incredible poem. I really feel honored to be able to listen to that. Thank you. I'm glad I was able to listen.

Speaker 5 28:31

Happy to be able to do it. It was excellent. Fantastic.

Speaker 4 28:34

That's so great. Well, thank you so much for coming in. Thanks. Love it to have you. I hope you continue to write poetry and do your art. And, you know, you're welcome to come at any time and share future works of yours. We would love that.

Speaker 5 28:48

Okay, lovely.

Speaker 4 28:49

Wonderful. So thank you so much. And thank everybody for listening to Brainwaves. I've been talking to Stephen Hall, a writer and artist who wrote a moving poem about Gallipoli and Anzac Day. And this is, of course, to commemorate Anzac Day, Gallipoli, tomorrow's Anzac Day. And we just wanted to pay respect and tribute to those who have served. You can get the podcast at www.3cr.org.au to listen anytime you like. And remember to keep tuning in to 855AM - 3CR Digital Radio. We'll see you next week for another episode of Brainwaves.

Speaker 10 29:31

You've been listening to a 3CR podcast produced in the studios of Independent Community Radio Station 3CR in Melbourne, Australia. For more information, go to allthews.3cr.org.au