107 Battery RAA Association
This page is for members to share stories from the past,
poems ditty’s or anything that may be of interest to
Our members. All articles must be sent to Hilton or Doc
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Where did the last 50 years go?
It is always sad & regretful when we lose one of our mates who we had so much camaraderie & fun with. The latest being Allan Corcoran. Allan was one of those blokes that always had time and a smile for you. Allan was born in Adelaide on 1st August 1948 and passed away on 12th October 2018.
Below are 3 photos of Allan with members of 107 Fd Bty and 1 of him with FO party, A Com, 2 RAR.
More on Allan on the Vale page.
FO Party, A Coy Boozer. L-R Barry Artup, Dave McGhee, Allan Corcoran & Bdr Dave Martin. (replaced Dave Borman).
Townsville race day L-R unknown, Trevor Pope, Allan Corcoran, John Tuck & Porky McKinnon.
Allan Corcoran at Townsville airport prior to departure to Vietnam.
107 barracks room prior to departure to Vietnam. L-R John Stevens, Blue Markham, Dave Holmes, Doug Schmidt, Don Randell-Smith, Geoff Gray, Allan Betts, unknown & unknown.
S/Sgt William Raymond Bostock Citation for the award of the MID.

S/Sgt William Raymond Bostock Citation for the award of the MID.
Now and again one person seems to stick in people’s minds and 107 S/Sgt William (Rocky) Bostock is one of those men. Every person that you speak to has nothing but praise for Bill.
For his work and outstanding service to 107 Fd Bty in Vietnam he was awarded the Mentioned in Despatches (MID). Below is Bill’s citation for his award of the MID and I’m sure everyone that served under him would agree.
S/Sgt Bostock has been personally involved in the planning, reconnaissance, occupation and preparation of most of the fire support bases occupied by his battery, where his knowledge of minor tactics, field defences, for resupply and for the day to day organisation within the fire support bases.
He has performed these duties with distinction throughout his operational tour. His resourcefulness, personal motivation and readiness to exercise his initiative have set a fine example to his subordinates and are reflected in the high standard of morale and professional competence within his battery. Staff-Sergeant Bostock’s outstanding devotion to duty, skill and efficiency reflect great credit upon himself, his Regiment and the Australian Army.
Sydney get together with a few old gunners
From Ian (Bozo) Simpson.

Did I mention that one of the organisers for the get together was about 1 hour late. His name is Bryan Jones better known as Jonesy to his friends.
As it was he drove down from Forbes that morning and was staying at his Son in Laws place in Penrith I think.
His other reason was because he had to come down from Penrith by train, and they don’t run all that often from that end of town. Then he had to find the RSL.
As usual I was the last to finish my meal. I guess it was because I was talking too much. How unusual is that!
I was getting plenty of encouragement to hurry up, as the guys told me the restaurant was about to close, and we all had to go back downstairs to Level 2 to carry on.
The food was very good and in the Happy Hour the drinks were very cheap. Once Happy Hour was over the price of drinks was doubled.
Around the table Left to Right or clockwise from Duck.
Duck, Bob Marker, Henry Higgins, Tony Strong, Mick Souter, John Bruce, Paul Bryant, Ian, Ken Walsh, Greg Spicer, John Brennan.
Hilton taking the picture & Jonesy (Brian Jones) still on the train from Forbes

Attached is a link to 107 Fd Bty in Hawaii from Ex Gnr John Bailey.

The quality is variable, but there are many clear shots of the guys throughout the movie. It was filmed by the Battery Medic, Cpl Ray Evans and his
assistant Gnr Toni Kammerer.
View video
From Dave Sabben - Long Tan veteran
Digby Richards 1967 song "Aussie Bush Hat".
Artillery in Vietnam

This film clip was taken by 2786218 2Lt John Bart Neervoort, Tracker Platoon Commander, Sixth Battalion, Royal Australian Regiment (6 RARNZ) during the Vietnam War in 1969/70. The camera was a cheap Super8 movie camera, minus the pistol grip so it could fit into a basic webbing pouch. A cheap cassette tape recorder was in my pack, which was able to be operated via the microphone taped to my pack strap.

The clip shows one what is believed to be one of the Batteries of 1st Field Regiment on what appears to be an 'Artillery Raid' where the guns were deployed forward by air to a temporary Fire Support Base, to support an attack most likely by 6 RARNZ on a Viet Cong (VC) Position, then redeployed back to their more permanent position all within one day. Hence no attempt to 'bund the guns' (to bulldoze a 900mm protective mound of earth around each gun) or make any other than the most basic defensive works (ie the likely individual shell scrapes and machine gun posts)


I’d never worn my medals, they were left there in the drawer,
So when I finally took them out, it had been twenty years or more.
My daughter saw me take them out, and asked me what they’re for.
I looked at her and calmly said, “ They’re a reminder of a war”.

They remind me of the mates I had, who never made it back;
Who died in a stinking paddy field, or on a jungle track.
They remind me of the troubles, and the hardships we went through.
They remind me why we went there, it was for people just like you.

They remind me of the hellhole, while we were over there.
They remind me of our countrymen, who really didn’t care.
They remind me of the mateship, forged in a foreign land.
They remind me of a certain mate, who lost a bloody hand.

They remind me when we went away; we thought the reason was just.
They remind me of when we came back; they turned their backs on us.
They remind me of the time we spent, left there on our own.
They remind me that it took twenty years, to welcome us back home.

They remind me of the suffering, the heartache and the pain.
They remind me if we’re called upon, we’d do it all again.
They remind me when I wear them next; the thoughts will come thru then,
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning; “WE WILL REMEMBER THEM”

Then I looked down at her smiling face, and I knew it had not got through.
I said “Listen love, they’re to remind me, I did it all for you.

Jim Egan, Ex Delta Coy, 4 RAR, 1971-72 Vietnam.


They were funny looking buildings, that were once a way of life,
If you couldn't sprint the distance, then you really were in strife.
They were nailed, they were wired, but were mostly falling down,
There was one in every yard, in every house, in every town.

They were given many names, some were even funny,
But to most of us, we knew them as the outhouse or the dunny.
I've seen some of them all gussied up, with painted doors and all,
But it really made no difference, they were just a port of call.

Now my old man would take a bet, he'd lay an even pound,
That you wouldn't make the dunny with them turkeys hangin' round.
They had so many uses, these buildings out the back,"
You could even hide from mother, so you wouldn't get the strap.

That's why we had good cricketers, never mind the bumps,
We used the pathway for the wicket and the dunny door for stumps.
Now my old man would sit for hours, the smell would rot your socks,
He read the daily back to front in that good old thunderbox.

And if by chance that nature called sometime through the night,
You always sent the dog in first, for there was no flamin' light.
And the dunny seemed to be the place where crawlies liked to hide,
But never ever showed themselves until you sat inside.

There was no such thing as Sorbent, no tissues there at all,
Just squares of well read newspaper, a hangin' on the wall.
If you had some friendly neighbours, as neighbours sometimes are,
You could sit and chat to them, if you left the door ajar..

When suddenly you got the urge, and down the track you fled,
Then of course the magpies were there to peck you on your head.
Then the time there was a wet, the rain it never stopped,
If you had an urgent call, you ran between the drops.

The dunny man came once a week, to these buildings out the back,
And he would leave an extra can, if you left for him a zac.
For those of you who've no idea what I mean by a zac,
Then you're too young to have ever had, a dunny out the back.

The average age of the military man when he signs up is 19 years.

The average age of the military man when he signs up is 19 years. He is a short haired, tight-muscled kid who, under normal circumstances is considered by society as half man, half boy. Not yet dry behind the ears, old enough to buy a beer, and old enough to die for his country. He never really cared much for work and he would rather wax his own car than wash his father's, but he has never collected unemployment either.

He's a recent High School graduate; he was probably an average student , pursued some form of sport activities, drives a ten year old jalopy, and has a steady girlfriend that either broke up with him when he left, or swears to be waiting when he returns from half a world away. He listens to rock and roll or hip-hop or rap or jazz or swing and a 155mm howitzer..

He is 10 or 15 pounds lighter now than when he was at home because he is working or fighting from before dawn to well after dusk. He has trouble spelling, thus letter writing is a pain for him, but he can field strip a rifle in 30 seconds and reassemble it in less time in the dark.

He can recite to you the nomenclature of a machine gun or grenade launcher and use either one effectively if he must.

He digs foxholes and latrines and can apply first aid like a professional..
He can march until he is told to stop, or stop until he is told to march.

He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation, but he is not without spirit or individual dignity. He is self-sufficient.

He has two sets of fatigues: he washes one and wears the other. He keeps his canteens full and his feet dry.

He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never to clean his rifle. He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes, and fix his own hurts.

If you're thirsty, he'll share his water with you; if you are hungry, his food. He'll even split his ammunition with you in the midst of battle when you run low.

He has learned to use his hands like weapons and weapons like they were his hands.
He can save your life - or take it, because that is his job.

He will often do twice the work of a civilian, draw half the pay, and still find ironic humour in it all.
He has seen more suffering and death than he should have in his short lifetime.

He has wept in public and in private, for friends who have fallen in combat and is unashamed.
He feels every note of the National Anthem vibrate through his body while at rigid attention, while tempering the burning desire to 'square-away ' those around him who haven't bothered to stand, remove their hat, or even stop talking.

In an odd twist, day in and day out, far from home, he defends their right to be disrespectful.
Just as did his Father, Grandfather, and Great-Grandfather, he is paying the price for our freedom. Beardless or not, he is not a boy.
He is the Australian Fighting Man that has kept this country free for over 142 years.

He has asked nothing in return, except our friendship and understanding. Remember him, always, for he has earned our and admiration with his blood.

And now we even have women over there in danger, doing their part in this tradition of going to War when our nation calls us to do so.
As you go to bed tonight, remember this shot.
A short lull, a little shade and a picture of loved ones in their helmets.

Author unknown.