The forgotten

Anzac Day, a day of sadness mixed with gratefulness as we celebrate those who lost their lives so we could remain free of dictators and overlords.

In a short space of a few years we were called up by our then leaders not once but twice to assist the motherland in its quest against tyranny.

The second time we suffered the aggressor who got as far as Kokoda in the hills around Port Moresby on the Island of Papua New Guinea off the northern tip of Queensland.

Anzac Day rightly celebrates those who paid the high price with their lives but they were not the only heroes; there were those families who had stayed at home and witness the horror from afar knowing their husband or son or both were somewhere overseas living under the barrel of a gun.

Very little is ever written about their anguish and their sadness, it is usually about the glorious victories.

We at your museum came across this poem in 1942 published in the Quirindi Advocate and Murrurundi Times, clipped undated except for the year. Keep a handkerchief handy …

A Night in December
By Kelly Preston
One night in old December
The moon was riding high,
I stood at the level crossing
And watched the train go by—
The lights, the song, the laughter,
His heart was young and free;
I felt a sting of silence
And gone at last was he.

The wheels of grinding sorrow,
Goodbye, they seemed to say;
The last light in the distance
Was turning now to grey.
I heard the whistle screaming,
My eyes were filled with tears;
Gone, perhaps forever,
And after all these years,
On earth there’s someone lying,
Or are we drifting mad;
The soldiers keep on dying
And many hearts grow sad.

The old blue dog has missed him,
'He’s silent now, and shy,
And when the rain is falling
I often hear him cry.
The gate, our home, the garden,
The stars, the milky way—
A long, long night of dreaming
And then another day.

He dropped a line from London,
And the from gay Paree;
The last was from a cruiser
Somewhere on the sea.
The days, the months, grow longer—
The postman passes by.
My shattered hopes are fading
And waiting still am I.

Then comes the morning paper,
I scan it day by day,
It’s killing me, this silence…
I'm weary, old and grey;
The neighbours try to cheer me,
They speak of him with pride;
All through the night I listen
And wonder how he died.

In Church on Sunday morning,
While folks are bent in prayer
My face turns up to heaven—
I know my boy is there,
And when the sermon’s over,
The preacher take my hand—
Goodbye, and may God bless you.
He seems to understand.

The gate, our home, the garden,
The stillness in the air;
The old dog ever listening
For steps that’s never there,
A long night in December,
The moon had left the sky,
And standing in the darkness
I hear the train go by.
.