READERS CONTRIBUTIONS

ANZAC TRIBUTE

THE JINX KITE

My first impression of the squadron was
A battle order on the notice board
And, next to it, the Melbourne Cup sweep draw.
I wondered which would give the better odds!
Then I saw Dalton, whom I'd known before,
Leaning on crutches, hurt on his first trip
By an incendiary from a plane above.

"Our fighters were not much opposed of late
Over the Ruhr." The briefing room was hushed.
"Dortmund today, our deepest daylight strike."
But they forgot to add "as fighter bait".
Our next was Merseburg, late at night.
I thought" Why did I leave that useful army job
Killing mosquitoes in malarian zones?"
I'd known the threat of instant death before
In skidding cars on Gippsland's soggy hills,
And, below decks, at sea, silent and tense,
Waiting the foe's explosive messenger;
But this was not a passing episode too brief
For fear. Death stalked us eight long hours.
Seeking our slightest lapse from vigilance,
Just as I'd seen him wait in Lebanon
At the big house to which the wounded came.
The day we got an aircraft of our own,"
Yours is the jinx kite, Easy Two," we heard.
"If you got G for George you'd have more hope;"
The last George, which got back from 90 trips,"
Flew to Australia just a month ago."
"But Easy Two -- we lose them all the time!"
The pessimists were right, for, all too soon
E2 was lost, but with another crew.

From the depth of winter to the equinox
We flew in fifteen raids in Easy Two,
Our second of that name.
The squadron lost
Ten crews on those same flights: seventy men
Who had been with us in the briefing room.
We had our moments. Jim gave "Starboard go!"
We rolled, nose down, rolled port and down again.
Then steeply up, still rolling. Radio gear
Before me vanished till we levelled out
And blood returned to my depleted brain.
We did another 'corkscrew', to ensure
The fighter Jim had spotted to our rear
Would go in search of a less wary prey.

Over Cologne, by day, another craft
Direct above us, opened the big doors.
His load, released, would intersect our path.
We held our course into the aiming point
A little longer. Then I said, "Okay,"
He's moved to starboard." But I wondered then
What might have happened on a cloudy night.
The night our navigation aids went wrong
I found Polaris, from the astrodome,
On our port bow; a suicidal course
To fly at night alone above the Ruhr.
As we turned west to make our late way home
I pictured all the other crews at Base
After interrogation, at their meal,
Saying, "E2 has bought it once again."
Adding our epitaph, "They weren't bad blokes."
Crews were not callous, though. It seemed to me
That the dark veil that blacks our future out
Had been dissolved. We lived right on the brink
Between two worlds. Lost crews were near us still
As we awaited the next lottery draw
To find who'd be on this side, who on that.

Returned from leave, we learned that Easy Two
Was lost again; used by another crew
On their first operation. We received
Our third E2, used it on three more trips
Before our tour of duty was complete.

Then a new danger loomed: I would be sent
To fly instructor with those novice crews
Of whom dread tales were told. When lost in cloud,
Instead of climbing for a radio fix
They would go down to seek a clearer view
And find Mount Snowdon in their path -- too late.
I'd feel much safer flying in Easy Two
Raiding oil plants or mining in Kiel Bay
With my six trusted mates, and with the care
That Lofty and his ground staff gave that kite
As if they had to fly in it themselves.
But in three weeks that new-found danger passed
When peace in Europe left us still unscathed.

And now I stand beneath the sturdy wing
Of G for George. On the museum walls
Are names of many who were briefed with us,
"Lest we forget!"
Should not we also say,"Lest they forget"?
Might they have clearer sight
In the dimensions they now occupy?
Perceptions hidden from us, as we grope
In the dense cloud of man's distrust of man?

Could they transmit to us a course to steer
Or lift our eyes to a great guiding star
Of shining wisdom? We have hands and minds
The only assets we could ever need
To build that better world of which we dreamed,
And to pass down to disenchanted youth
Our vision of what can be brought about.

The time is short. We who are left grow old
But, with good briefing, we could do the job
Just as we could when time was short before.

Kenneth Mathison Sillcock
Ken Sillcock of Kew, Victoria took up computership in his 80s. He is now 90 and desktop editor of several club newsletters as well as alternate editions of The Superannuant, a publication for government-funded retirees.

The aircraft G for George is part of the display at the National War Memorial, Canberra. This poem is held there as part of the written records of 460 Squadron RAAF. The photograph of G for George was contributed by John Hodson, a former member of 460 Squadron.

AH, MOTHER'S DAY, a day created by two women to honor their mother, and when it became too commercialized, they spent the rest of their life trying to get it abolished. This is a true story, the names of the two women are available somewhere. Look it up if you really care. I am not providing it as that information is not important, but as a bit of information on how this day got started. Many poems have been written about mothers. The most famous being the one that begins "M is for the many things you gave me." Beautiful sentiment but I don't remember getting much in the way of 'things' from my mom or 'mama' as we kids called her. She gave orders like a drill sergeant and -we scurried to obey. But, like all smart mothers, she never gave us too big a load, just enough to make us strong. But, I'm getting ahead of myself in my story. Mom had one kid and dad had three when they married and they proceeded to have a string of 14 more. So the old saying 'Honey, your kids and my kids are beating up on our kids' was heard around our house quite often. Four died in infancy, but we all out-lived mom.

There are ten of us left. None ever went to prison, never beat his wife, never abused their kids and as far as I know, never cheated on their spouse. Personally, she taught me how to cook and the proper way to clean house, but mostly she taught me that to help yourself, you must help others. Looking back on my stint as a mom, I am very proud and humble. Proud that I gave the world some great citizens. They are hard working, sensible, sensitive people, and humble because caring for them as they grew up was one of the most rewarding chores of my life. As a mom I wore many hats. From A to Z: ambulance driver (once for stitches after fall under merry-go-round and once for torn fingernail) to zookeeper (my kids always got to keep the class animal over holidays (I could get two articles from that), but my favorite hat to wear was the one I wore when one of my kids came to me and said "Mom, we need to talk" and I was allowed to enter into the mind's workings of another human being and maybe influence that kid in a positive way. Motherhood isn't easy. If it were easy everyone would do it!

Brown hair framed her pretty face And big brown laughing eyes She was beautiful She was my Mother Her name was Lucy She cuddled me to her when I was sad Kissed away all my fears She was wonderful She was my Mother Her name was Lucy Now she is gone I feel so alone I miss her so much She was my life She was my Mother Her name was Lucy She lives on within my heart Until the day I die She was my love She was my Mother Her name was Lucy. . .

Hard-working hands, sometimes chapped, often red, Take from the green glass box kept by her bed, Hairpins, and build a gray bun on her head. Pot-holdered hands set the pot-holder down, Take from the plate a do-nut, warm, golden-brown; Pass the treat to a waiting child, a loved little clown. Warm-water hands, dressed in soap bubbles white; Wiped on her apron, not really dry, quite; Straightening, neatening, setting things right. Short-nailed, liver-spotted; blue-veins bulge on the backs; Joints, knuckles knotted; fingertips with fine cracks. Rocking chair hands, soft to touch, that touch back.

CTRed is a published poet. She lives in Lisbon, a tiny town In eastern Connecticut, USA.

MOST OF US, I think, have grown up believing that there is a life beyond this one, that death is not the end of our existence. This was certainly true in my case, but when my husband, Tom, died last May, I found this belief being sorely tested. There was so much at stake now, the peace and safety of the person I had loved and shared my life with for over fifty years. I felt a deep inner need to be convinced that Tom's spirit lived on, that this person I loved still existed. I had cared for him all through his illness and I needed to know that he was being taken care of now, that he was happy and safe. It was because of this strong need within me that I decided to ask Tom to give me some sign of his continued existence. All through our marriage he had always done everything he could to answer my needs, and I knew that if this were a request that he could answer, he most certainly would do so. As I asked him for a sign, I assured him that I didn't expect or need anything dramatic, and that I was certain that he could find a way to reassure me. Within the next week or ten days I began to write the notes of appreciation to all the people who had honored Tom in so many loving ways at the time of his death. When I finished the first ten or so of these notes I looked for the stamps. They were nowhere to be found. After spending a great deal of time searching for them I decided to take a break and look again later before going to bed. A few hours later, again they were not to be found. At this point I literally threw my hands in the air and said," I give up, Tom.

I can't find the stamps and I'm not going to spend any more time looking. I'll buy more tomorrow, unless you know where they are and can tell me. I'm going to bed now." I went to bed, but as soon as my head touched the pillow I began to "hear" ( with an inner hearing ) where the stamps could be found. The explanation was explicit, even explaining why I hadn't found the stamps myself when I had been looking earlier. I was really taken aback by what was happening, and decided to get up immediately to look where I was being told. Within the next moment the stamps were in my hands, having been exactly where I had been told to look. I was swept with deep emotions and my face was wet with tears. I recognized that this was Tom's way of letting me know that he was not just all right, but was there with me and aware of everything that was going on. I began to thank him profusely, laughing and crying, now, at the same time. At that moment I could sense so positively that he was laughing and crying with me too, so happy that he was able to help me and to give me the reassurance that I wanted so badly. And he was saying to me,"Viv, my darling, I've never been thanked so much and so deeply in all of my life!" This was one of the most real and profound experiences I've ever had, and I shall never forget it. Of course I still miss Tom, and I guess I always will, but I am sure now of his continued loving presence in my life, and for this I am deeply grateful.

LadyV, a regular participant on Greypath's Chat Line, lives in New Jersey, USA.

A NEIGHBOUR OF MINE was relating a story of finding a snake in his unit a few days ago and how he tackled the situation. He mentioned that the snake was only a small one, at which some kind body remarked, "Oh well! Perhaps its mamma is still around!" which did not sit very well with us all. The following day sitting watching TV, I decided to make myself a coffee.

I got up, then heard this very strange muffled sound, which made the hairs on my neck stand up. I was thinking of the snake tale of yesterday. Every cupboard was searched with much caution and fear. Nothing. I turned around to return to the TV and that same sound followed. I reached into my pocket. Some loose Fisherman's Friends* were rattling in the tin.

*For those unfamiliar with Fisherman's Friends, they are a cough pastille.

THE DATE IS JANUARY 13. It's my birthday. There have been secretive happenings going on for some weeks; something secret going on between my family and friends. But I have no idea of what it might be. I have been blindfolded and brought to the party venue. I am excited and also very apprehensive. What are they up to? We enter a building, which is strangely quiet. No noise whatsoever. Perhaps we are at the wrong place: if there were to be a party, it wouldn't be this quiet, surely. Then I'm taken into a room where I can feel a current of excitement around me, and when at long last the blindfold is taken off, the light hurts my eyes. It's difficult to focus clearly. Slowly, as my vision returns to normal I see people singing Happy Birthday. They are family -- friends and people I haven't seen for years. The decorations are so bright and beautiful. It is indeed a wonderful birthday surprise. In this excitement, the lights go out!

I panic for a moment, then feel a firm hand on my elbow. Suddenly, a glow of red, becoming brighter and brighter as I move towards it. In the centre of the red glow there is a large black box with an opened door. I am asked to step inside. "Don't be afraid, Cassie," a voice reassures me. "There's nothing in there to be frightened of." Such calming words. "You have the privilege of either going back or forward in time," the voice goes on. "And be assured there will be no danger to you whichever way you choose. You will see things that nobody here will ever see and it will stay with you the rest of your days. The decision is yours." It takes a little while for me to realise what is being offered. And then in a flash, I make my decision. I am going to go back, way back in history. I push the button with year 1901 on it. It seems that all time stands still, but within a few magical moments I am there. The year Australia became a nation.

Cassie is one of Greypath's chatters. She lives in Geelong, Victoria.

IT IS A EUROPEAN PERCEPTION that the Australian Character, like our country, is wide and empty. We are perceived to lack cultural depth. While this does not of course apply to all of us, it does seem that there may be some truth in the matter when we consider that, here in Australia, we simply can't write like the Europeans. The Europeans carry a long shadow of their history with them and can descend into Gothic and labyrinthine depths in their explorations of psyche, relationships and perceptions that simply don't exist for us. When we originally sailed to Australia, the ghosts of the past fell astern during the six months' voyage, and when we eventually did come ashore, there were no new wraiths to be found. There was only this wide, brown land of blue skies and warm seas, and with plenty of living room for both the body and the spirit. The Americans of settler heritage are like us too. If they wish to write something medieval, they usually have to descend into simple and unimaginative chain-saw horror, or some such. They, like us, cannot write horror stories such as The Turn of the Screw, for they, too, are generally spiritual innocents, and their versions of horror lack the subtlety and the darker psyche of the Europeans. We are similar in many ways to South Sea Islanders, hedonistic, relaxed, untroubled, and relatively clean, both mentally and physically. Our young Olympians also indicate what we are about with their boisterous enthusiasms, and

lack of guile. There is a core Australian character, and it is being moulded by this land, not by ethnic origin. Generally those people from non-western cultures that choose to join us here -- the boat people, the central Europeans and others -- do not seem to easily acquire that character which the land marks us with, but their children, born here, are so marked, and are at one with us. I do not think we should necessarily be proud of our national character, which for some may be enviable, and for others, deficient. However we have every reason to be at ease with it. The Australian character is distinguishable. It can be captured in some ways by the phrases that bring a somewhat embarrassed smile of recognition, when you hear them. Such phrases as "Stuff this. I'm off." "She'll be right, you'll find." "No worries, mate." "Here cobber, let me do that." Why we have these periodic bouts of examination of the national character, I don't know. We should just get on with being what we are, and let others, from a distance, form their opinions of us if they wish to.

This is an extract from A Philosophical Bagatelle, privately printed and published in 1998. Ray Lewis is the managing director of Greypath Pty. Ltd.

AFTER A SPRING BREAK, a teacher asked her young pupils how they spent the holidays. One child wrote the following: "We always used to spend the holidays with Grandma and Grandpa. They used to live here in a big brick house, but Grandpa got retarded and they moved to Arizona. Now they live in a place with a lot of other retarded people. They live in a tin box and have rocks painted green to look like grass. They ride around on big tricycles and wear name tags because they don't know who they are any more. "They go to a building called a wrecked centre, but they must have got it fixed, because it's all right now. They play games and do exercises there, but they don't do them very well. There's a swimming pool too, but they all jump up and down in it with their hats on. I guess they don't know how to swim. "

At their gate, there's a doll house with a little old man sitting in it. He watches all day so nobody can escape. Sometimes they sneak out. Then they go cruising in their golf carts. "My grandma used to bake cookies and stuff, but I guess she forgot how. Nobody there cooks, they just eat out. And they eat the same thing every night – Early Birds. "Some of the people can't get past the man in the doll house to go out. So the ones that do get out, bring food back to the wrecked centre and call it pot luck. "My Grandma says Grandpa worked all his life to earn his retardment and says I should work hard so I can be retarded some day too. When I earn my retardment I want to be the man in the doll house. Then I will let people out so they can visit their grandchildren."

– Author unknown

I HAVE BECOME A LITTLE OLDER since I saw you last and a few changes have come into my life. As soon as I wake up Will Power helps me out of bed. Then I go to see John. Next it is time for Uncle Toby and Billy tea. They leave and Arthur Ritis shows up and stays for the rest of the day.

He doesn't like to stay in one place very long – So he takes me from joint to joint. After a busy day I'm really tired and glad to have time with Johnny Walker before going to bed. Oh yes, and Al Zymer keeps calling.