Smiles as he thinks of his red haired mate,
The reason, for a thousand things, he was late,
The times spent “digging holes with your arse”
The smiles the tears, the jokes and laughs.
Leaving his memory behind in a foreign land,
No longer there, to lend a hand,
A friendship forged in the depot we had,
From lads to men, from men to lad.
Checking each other over, at the end of fire fights,
Realising both should not be here, by rights
Side by side we stood strong and proud,
At seventeen, in front of the shouting crowd.
Realising he’s no longer here,
To sit and drink a final beer,
He sits alone, with his face in his head,
Knowing now, you’re a long time dead.
Too many stories to recall,
Hours, days, months, to tell them all,
Nobody knows how close we had been,
In those days in desert camo, and in green.
Nowhere to go to remember the man,
A brother a son a Liverpool fan,
Always ready, never worried, would never yield,
His death is marked in a foreign field.
This sacrifice we knew we each could make,
Into each mornings sun rise, we did wake,
But one not two, paid the price,
The other feels the pain, not once but twice.