You wear the kevlar helmet when going on patrol,
Code signs on the flap sheet when warriors start to roll,
R.P.G.s incoming – expecting all the time,
Contact with Insurgents or deadly roadside mine.
You Tommies toil in searing heat and dust forever there,
Living out of bergens and flies are everywhere,
Stags of sentry duty `neath a sanger`s roof of tin,
The cutting edge of combat and training kicking in.
You lads ain`t amoral and get on with the job,
Have a kind of system when a mortar does a lob,
Engagement rules are rigid in those stinking lands,
Dicing with the petrol bombs hurled from children’s hands.
All the gear – no idea, is how you see the Yanks,
But occasionally you owe `em one and nod to give `em thanks,
For coming in with air support in their classic style,
Helping out when `danger close` in a horror riven mile.
We know it makes you angry when media get it wrong,
But the public is behind you – has been all along,
Sometimes it aint that easy, to share a point of view,
Unless it’s with a mucker that’s been through same as you.
Years from now like other wars – the difference is of age,
Your work is relegated to films or history page,
But for now in infancy thinking more of home,
The bind falls on your loved ones – when they put down the phone.