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There's death all around me, there's death in the air,
I can smell it and feel it--and I know now the fear.
The road could be mined, or an ambush await,
it may be the end--our appointment with fate.
The escorts have left us, we're now on our own,
I'm as frightened as hell--and we're all so alone.
Our armour is moving, we're leaving the town,
Rhodesians are waving, yelling--"Keep your heads down!"
I look at the Gunner, his face is all drawn,
his machine gun is loaded--and the safety catch on.
We drive through the war zone, on dirt roads blood red,
past African kraals--with children unfed.
Expecting a tank mine, or bullet to tell,
or a Russian made rocket--to take us to hell.
At Assembly Place "Lima," the site of an old kraal,
we finally halt--and put our backs to the wall.
Raise the stars of our nation, raise the Brit's Union Jack,
put the dread right behind us--for there's no turning back.
Not there for the fighting, not there for the fall,
we are the friend of no one--and the enemy of all.
. . . We are the Peacekeepers.
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