Scotch College

- Neil Wishart Newnham

Neil Wishart Newnham

Neil Wishart Newnham

13 October–5 December 2004

Following the recent death of my father, Neil Newnham on the 5 December 2004, aged 83 years, I found the following poem, ‘Last Post Thoughts’ in his files. The poem was written by Neil’s younger brother Private Eric Newnham, 2/23 Infantry Battalion more than 60 years ago on the eve of 23 December 1944. Neil’s elder brother, Arnold, had been killed in action on Crete earlier in the war and his father, Harvey, was an amputee from ANZAC in the First World War. The poem reflects on the impact of this and previous wars on Eric and his colleagues and the place of war in determining the future. For Eric, this future was short-lived, as he was killed in action five months later at Tarakan on 9 May 1945, aged 20.

All three brothers, Arnold, Neil and Eric were educated at Scotch College, Melbourne. Having always loved words, Neil initially expanded this interest whilst a Scotch student. He contributed to the school magazine and subsequently became a journalist with the Melbourne Herald Sun newspaper. Judging by ‘Last Post Thoughts’ it seems Eric also knew how to turn a phrase.

Despite my own failings in English (not at Scotch), language skills have resurfaced in my five children; the three boys are enjoying a Scotch education. Andrew (’04), is now enrolled in journalism at Monash for 2005, and both Jonathan (’03) and Cameron (Scotch Year 8 at present) have also inherited a love for the written word. The tradition of fine teaching in English at Scotch endures. I can only hope that the impact of war on Neil’s family of three children, five grandsons and three granddaughters, has run its course.

ERIC NEWNHAM (’42)

Last post thoughts

A clear, star-speckled sky, in deepest blue.
The moon incandescent, a brilliant hue.
A gentle breeze to waft away the heat.
Still Night summons boisterous Day’s defeat.
The toils of Day are over; care cast aside,
A soldier dwells in thought at Eventide.

Across the world old rivals clash in war .
This side, now bitter foes, were friends before.
Man’s thoughts are of his former ecstasy,
Now so corrupted in cruel rivalry.
He thinks of cobbers who have run life’s race.
The soldier runs it a reckless pace:
Today he lives. Tomorrow he may die.
(For this is war – our folly’s harsh reply).
Home calls his mind to sentimental bliss.
He thinks of joys this war has made him miss.
Perhaps he offers, in his solitude,
A silent prayer that faith might be renewed --
Faith that our national leaders will construct
A saner world where nothing will obstruct
The progress of a mutual betterment
To selfish Hate’s and Distrust’s detriment.

The soldier lies enfolded in Night’s gown.
A tinge of pink shows where the sun went down
He thinks of things he did throughout the day
And things he should have done – but in his way
Was human nature, a bar to Christian living
If susceptible to Evil’s vast misgiving.

He wonders what mysterious Future holds,
What ends tomorrow in her arms enfolds.
He wonders when the war will end, and peace
Will bring from service his release.
He knows that time will end this dreaded war,
But wonders whether it was worth fighting for.
The desert’s blistering sun – the jungle rain –
He wonders if they suffered these in vain.
He wonders whether from the war’s privations,
From the suffering, pains and deaths of nations,
There will arise from sovereignty many vied for
A unity which so many hoped and died for.
He wonders – also doubts – what peace will offer
To these brave lads whose very lives they proffer
To country, man and God. And, till bored,
He wonders will they get their just reward …
He knows of crosses in a Flanders field,
Of men whom Death’s dark power forced to yield.
He knows of war not many years ago
And of the awful aftermath, and so
He wonders whether this will be the same
Or Calvary will be more than just a name.

The moon is higher in its slow ascension,
The soldier’s nerves relax their day-time tension;
The night is strangely silent, in darkness deep.
The soldier’s mind resigns itself to sleep.
Perhaps his heavy breathing, his troubled mind,
Bring dreams of life which he has left behind;
Perhaps he hears an echo in a valley,
And dreams it is the New World’s great reveille.

Written on the eve of 23 December 1944 by Private Eric Newnham, 2/23 Inf Btn. Killed in action at Tarakan, 9 May 1945. Aged 20. His brother, Arnold, had been killed in action on Crete earlier in the war. His father was an amputee from ANZAC in the First World War.