home | foreword | roll of honour | the poems | links



The war didn't stop for us
at the final shot,
or the last puddle
of congealing blood
in the padi fields;
The battle for truth
and justice
had just begun.

How could you hope to deflect
the fury of our seeking,
the truth behind the pain
and twisted children,
of gallant men suffering
more than human spirit
could endure?

Crucifying on the altar
built from your war profits,
men who served you freely
and carried your guilt,
which you debased
in the waving of shrouds
and the turning away
of your faces
from the ghosts of truth.

Laughing slyly behind
your money tainted hands
at the rotting flesh
of men poisoned in body,
and in the end
manipulated quietly
into early graves.

Victims too tired to protest
but inwardly smiling,
knowing at the last reckoning
that the awful silver
once held by Judas
would be offered to you
by hands once nail-pierced,
which gently led the soldiers
and their broken children

John A. Moller
Whiskey Two Company RNZIR


home | foreword | roll of honour | the poems | links