With the standard shining in the sun,
Feeling the weight of the gun,
Barricaded in pockets of ressistance,
Far away from any assistance.
This isnt the land of zulus and redcoats,
Just pure survival and the occational anecdotes,
It feels like it’s the whole country you’re against,
You life in this moment is now condensed.
Through mortars and lacerating gunfire,
The enemy is already at the wire,
Through all the rat runs and labyrinthine tunnels,
Right up to the compound gunwales.
With comms screaming through fire and shell,
Asking for help for who would join them in hell,
And the reply squalks back that they’ll be a while,
As the enemy becoming more and more hostile.
With ammo low and adrenaline high,
And many thinking that they will die,
With close calls all around,
Finally they hear that wonderful sound.
The hellies arrives like an avenging arc-angel,
Trying to push their limit of their schedual,
The thunder of their rotors giving their tune,
To those guns the enemy are not immune.
Back to the hills and caves they go,
Slinking back in to the shadow,
Only to come out later and start again,
The ones left there feeling themselves in a pen.
This is what its like for the soldiers there,
The ones that you send a prayer,
And when you recieve your gift,
That you send to those in the new Rorke’s Drift.