Corporal Quinn was re-deployed to New Guinea after having served in the Middle East. He was stationed first at Aitape before leaving there to join the push on Wewak.
Quinn’s collection of papers from the war contained a news-clipping of the poem, “Mopping Up”. That Quinn would have cut out and kept this poem is indicative of his sentimental connection with the poems theme and quite possibly of his own personal sense of frustration with the seeming undervaluing of the operations in New Guinea towards the end of the war. For many Australians in New Guinea brutal and costly fighting continued well after MacArthur’s island-hopping strategy had pushed Allied forces up into more northern regions in the advance on Japan. A sense of being unappreciated or undervalued seems to have been perceived by the Australian forces who continued a bloody campaign to remove the Japanese forces from the region. This appears to have stemmed from the preoccupation of public attention the more prestigious campaigns further north and correspondingly that the war was effectively over in New Guinea, which was certainly not the experience of troops still trying to subdue the persistent and entrenched Japanese forces.
“Mopping Up”
“We’ve nineteen dead on the Buin road,
Ten more on the jungle track,
And all day ling there’s a broken line
Of our wounded streaming back;
We’ve fought all night by the Hongori,
With ne’er a bite nor sup,
And tomorrow’s back page news will quote
Our forces are “mopping up”.
As dawn awakes with a jaded eye,
Discarding its misty pall,
White crosses mount on the Numa trail
For fellows who gave their all;
In Isimbai ridges, Sorakin’s groves,
They drained to the dregs hell’s cup;
But the blood they gave was a trifling thing-
They were only “mopping up”.
The screaming silence of ambushed swamps,
The horrors of obscene bog,
The villainous foe in filthy league
With blanketing rain and fog
Are trifling things the critics know
Should never hold heroes up;
Good God! Why? This isn’t war at all-
We are merely “mopping up.”
We make no claim to the heroic mould,
But this little boon we ask-
Those arm chair critics just sent up to here
To share in our simple task,
When they’ve been on speaking terms with death
And they’ve tallied the blood cost up,
Perhaps they’ll coin a more adequate phrase
Than casual “mopping up.”
“We’ve nineteen dead on the Buin road,
Ten more on the jungle track,
And all day ling there’s a broken line
Of our wounded streaming back;
We’ve fought all night by the Hongori,
With ne’er a bite nor sup,
And tomorrow’s back page news will quote
Our forces are “mopping up”.
As dawn awakes with a jaded eye,
Discarding its misty pall,
White crosses mount on the Numa trail
For fellows who gave their all;
In Isimbai ridges, Sorakin’s groves,
They drained to the dregs hell’s cup;
But the blood they gave was a trifling thing-
They were only “mopping up”.
The screaming silence of ambushed swamps,
The horrors of obscene bog,
The villainous foe in filthy league
With blanketing rain and fog
Are trifling things the critics know
Should never hold heroes up;
Good God! Why? This isn’t war at all-
We are merely “mopping up.”
We make no claim to the heroic mould,
But this little boon we ask-
Those arm chair critics just sent up to here
To share in our simple task,
When they’ve been on speaking terms with death
And they’ve tallied the blood cost up,
Perhaps they’ll coin a more adequate phrase
Than casual “mopping up.”
In the collection of poems and songs Quinn collated in the back of his diary, he appears to have felt a personal connection with the story of how difficult it could be to write home. Although written within the context of the conflict in the Middle East the sentiment remains the same when reflected upon in New Guinea.
“Safe and Well”
“When you’re sucking at your pencil,
And you don’t know what to say,
When you wish the flaming censor,
Had ne’er seen the light of day,
There’s always one small item left,
Considered good to tell,
It doesn’t take much writing,
Dear Mum, "I’m safe and well"
“When you’re sucking at your pencil,
And you don’t know what to say,
When you wish the flaming censor,
Had ne’er seen the light of day,
There’s always one small item left,
Considered good to tell,
It doesn’t take much writing,
Dear Mum, "I’m safe and well"
Overview text Longer text Images FJ Quinn MapClick images to enlarge.
AWM 059006
AWM 091749
AWM 093151
