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.