143rd Poems
The following poems were written by M/SGT Walter E. Newman a WWII 143rd veteran. 


Fling your hats high, for the ONE FOUR THREE
The greatest gang in the Field Artillery
We're tough as leather when the going's rough
But never an assignment have we muffed.

We handle our guns like men possessed
Whenever we're given the "acid test'
We've always proved equal when we were told
To blow up a Jap mortar or know it cold.

"Say, Number One, are you all set to go?"
And Mr. Gunner, you’re just a bit slow
"Fire, " yells the Executive from his post on high
As the rounds go screaming up to the sky,

Straight to its mark it wends its way
And if the Japs don't scatter, there's hell to pay
'cause as we pour volley on volley
'twould be fatal to stay there, by golly!

We've gone through places that'd stop a tank
And fought the elements in places dank
Yet we've come through, with banners flying
Hell yes, were tough, there’s no denying,

We'll make it so hot for the little Nip
Who thought we were soft, but he made a slip
When he attacked Pear Harbor in December
Now we'll give him something he'll long remember,

So bring on your Japs and Germans too
We'll show them artillery and what we can do
We'll knock all his installations off of this map
And for good measure - just annihilate little "Mr. Jap."

Well its hats off to the ONE FOUR THREE
You will live on through eternity
When this war is over and the strife is done
Return home, enjoy the Peace, you so dearly won,

by M/SGT Walter E. Newman
Sergeant Major, 143rd FA Bn.
Somewhere in the South Pacific

You Say he can't stand the Army
The life is too rough, tish tish, how sad,
Do you think that he's any better
Than some other Mother's lad ?

You brought him up like a baby'
He doesn't smoke or drink, is your brag
If all the others were like him
Well, what would become of our Flag ?

You say, "let the roughnecks do the fighting"
They are use to beans and stew
But I'm glad I'm classed with the roughnecks
Who fight for the Red, White and Blue.

You say his girl couldn’t bear to send
Her Sweetheart - out with the rest
Do you think she’d be proud of him
If she felt the Japs breath on her breast?

You can thank God and the Stars in Old Glory
Are not blurred by any such strains
Because there are ten million roughnecks
Who carry red blood in their veins.

We go to battles in bad weather
But we come back with a grin on our face
While your Darling - sits down in the parlor
And lets a man fight in his place.

You’re so right - we do smoke and we do gamble
But we fight as our forefather’s did
So go warm the milk for his bottle
Thank God - we don't need your kid!

M/Sgt Walter E. Newman
143d FA Bn, Sgt-Major
somewhere in the China Sea

Somewhere on a South Sea Island
Where the sun is like a curse
And each long day is followed
By another just slightly worse.

Where the coral dust blows thicker
Than the shifting desert sands
And the white man dreams of a finer
But slightly older land.

Somewhere in the South Pacific
Where a women is never seen
Where the skies are always cloudy
And the grass is always green.

Where the "gooney birds" fuss nightly
Robbing man of blessed sleep
Where there ain't any whiskey
And but two cans of beer a week.

On the South Pacific Island
Where the nights are made for Love
Where the Moon is like a search light
And the Southern Cross above.

Sparkles like a diamond
In the balmy tropic nights
What a shameful waste of beauty
And not a girl in sight.

Somewhere in the South Pacific
Where the mail is always late
Where a Christmas card in April
Would be considered up to date.

Where we seldom have a pay day
And never have a cent
But we never miss the money, 'cause
We'd never get it spent.

On this South Pacific Island
Where the ants and lizards play
And a thousand fresh mosquitoes
Replace each one you slay.

Somewhere in the South Pacific
Where the "gooney birds' moan and cry
Where the lumbering deep sea turtles
Just crawl upon the beach and die.

Just take me back to the USA
The place I love so well
For this God forsaken Island
Is a substitute for Hell!

By: M/SGT Warren E. Newman
Somewhere in the South Pacific, 1943

Private MacGrinder FitzgeraId MacJeep
Moaned and groaned and tossed in his sleep
In his cot was some sand and an ant or two
He was covered with chiggers that stuck like glue.

He had caught a cold in the jungles damp
And from Atabrine pills he'd developed a cramp
He was dopy from taking those thousands of pills
That the Medics dispense to banish all ills.

His GI garments were covered with mold
His only newspapers were six months old
The sun never shown and his shoes never dried
And his waterproof tent let the rain inside.

His folding mess-kit would always fold up
As he tried to jiggle his tools kit and cup
He discovered that beans weren't confined to the Navy
And his pie never missed being garnished with gravy.

Shows were few and his girl didn't write
When at last she did, she said: "Last night
I weakened, now don't be enraged
To an Aircraft worker I am now engaged.

But for all these troubles he cares not a whit
His mind's on the home folks doing their bit
His Father's at Lockheed's, his Mother's at Bell
Three Sisters at Boeings and are doing quite well.

With all that money and no gas to roam
With Victory bonds they have peppered their home
And still our poor Private is out on his feet
Wondering just how his home folks will eat.

The jungle has got him, 'tis sad to state
And the moral of this I will not relate
Forget the home folks and the gal that doesn't write
Just lie under a palm tree and watch the natives turn white.

We, the Mother's of America
As we kneel each night in prayer
Will be sure to ask God's blessings
On the men with fuzzy hair.

And may the Great Creator
Who made us both black and white
Help us to remember how they
Helped us to win the fight .

For surely He, has used these
Men with fuzzy wuzzy hair
To guard and watch our wounded
With tender and loving care.

And perhaps when they are tired
With blistered and aching back
He'll take the Yoke On himself
And help them down the track.

And God will be the Artist
And this picture He will paint
Of a Fuzzy Wuzzy Angel
With the Halo of a Saint.

And His presence shall go with them
In tropic heat and rain
And he'll help them to tend our wounded
In sickness and in pain.

So we thank you Fuzzy Wuzzies
For all that you have done
Not only for Americans
But for Every Mother's Son.

And we are glad to call you friends
Though your faces may be black
For we know that Christ walked
With you - on the Owen Stanley track.

Many a mother in America
When the busy day is done
Sends a Prayer to the Almighty
For the keeping of her Son.

Asking that an Angel guide him
And bring him safely back
Now we see those prayers are
Answered on the Owen Stanley track.

Tho' they haven't any halos
Only holes slashed through the ear
Their faces marked with tattoo's
And scratch pins" in their hair.

Bringing back the badly wounded
Just as steady as a hearse
Using leaves to keep the rain off
And as gentle as a Nurse.

Slow and careful in bad places
On that awful mountain track
And the look upon their faces
Made us think that Christ was black.

Not a move to hurt the carried
As they treat him like a Saint
It's a picture worth recording
That an Artist's yet to paint.

Many a lad will see his mother
and the husbands, we'uns and wives
Just because the Fuzzy Wuzzies
Carried them to save their lives.

From Mortar or Machine gun fire
Or a chance surprise attack
To safety and the care of Doctors
At the bottom of the track.

May the Mothers of America
When they offer up a prayer
Mention these impromptu Angels
With the "Fuzzy Wuzzy " hair.