“Gawd help the first bloomin’ Turk I see to-night.”
A PRESENT FROM HOME
DAVID BARKER
Gallipoli ’15
“Do they think we’re on a bloomin’ pic-nic?”
THE LOST POEM
I called to see our regimental poet last evening. He had previously told me that he intended to “write something” for “The Anzac Book.” Our poet is also Q.M. Sergeant, and when he is not writing requisitions or taking “baksheesh” out of our rations, and watering our rum, he writes poetry.
When I called on him he was in his dug-out, surrounded by bully-beef tins, empty cases, and his ill-gotten shares of our daily issues. He has many callers, and I am afraid their inquiries rather spoilt his verses. When I arrived the Q.M.S. was already in a poor humour for writing poetry. The O.C. had been worrying him about galvanised iron for cover for some dug-outs; three men had complained about the scantiness of their rum issue—which somehow always annoys the Q.M.S.; and he had received no letters in the day’s mail except a bill from a chap he had borrowed a pound from in Charleville two years ago. Still, our Q.M.S. is a sticker, and he read me the covering letter which he was sending to the Editor.
He said he thought it would be as well to get the letter off his mind first. That would make the writing of the verses necessary, and he would have to complete the job in order to keep faith.