War Stories

Beware the loud ones

 Who refight their escapades

 In voices which leak cigars and beer.

 Who take a high-decibel umbrage

 At the slightest trace

Of disbelief

 
Look instead for the quiet ones

 Who shout the least

 And have done the most,

 Whose exploits you only hear of

In snatches

 From others

The Flame Lily Burns
 
 
 

This Christmas -
 

Look back -

Remember, with pride

What was.
 
 

Look forward -

Consider, clearly

What still can be...
  

May the flame lily burn forever

Deep in our hearts. For

Still, our land lives on. Still

She calls out to us

Africa's Child

It is two hundred eighty years now

Since Europe shook its fist

At my ancestor

And forced him to leave.

Since then

Generations of my clan have sunk their roots

Into the African soil

And proliferated.

My tribe woke a continent

And thrust it into tomorrow.

My Afrikaans forbears fought their wars

To buy their land with their blood.

As I have fought my war.

I belong

This is my land, my home.

I yearn not

For that strange, unfamiliar place called Europe.

I am an African

A white African.

Thoughts of a Troopie

Ten years old and four feet high
History and U.D.I.
"Today we've struck a blow", said he
"For Justice and Christianity,
For Principle we've made a stand,
Courageous people, splendid land
Civilized we stand or fall
God save the Queen, God bless you all."

And like the years, good friends have gone
Dave and Richard, Mike and John
Crash and ambush, mine and mortar
Cold and heat and dust and water
Freckled David, laughing Paul
and Pete my bravest friend of all.
Write their names on Rolls of Honour,
Scripted bold in golden splendour.

For us will be no victory day,
The dogs of war have gone astray.
Now Principle becomes surrender,
Expediency, the legal tender.
Is justice just for those who shout?
Is this what Christ is all about?
Will someone tell us why we fight?

What once was wrong is now what's right.
Where am I going? - where have I been?
Somewhere...Nowhere...in between
Years of waste - and so I cried,
The day my good friend Johnny died.

"The Selous Scouts"

I used to sit by the water's edge
 and watch the campfire glow
And I'd listen to the night-birds cry
and feel the breezes blow.
My belly full of the meat I'd shot,
I'd sit for hours and muse
As the moon came up and the shadows changed
to many different hues.

I used to roam through this country wide
in search of game so fleet
And I'd listen to the lions roar
as they too searched for meat.
I'd make my camp on the grassy plain
or in the mountains tall
And I'd friends at every farm and store
 and every native kraal.

But now when I near a river's edge
or roam this country wide
I've a lot of men to back me,
and I think of them with pride.
They're a scruffy lot to look at,
but they've a tracker's skill;
They're damned fine men in a follow-up,
and damned good at a kill.

The Scouts they're called, and well-named, too,
for the man whose name they bear
Was the greatest hunter in this land,
and these men fear no dare!
For the game they hunt is vermin
that would pillage, plunder and maim.
And they do their job efficiently,
with never thought of fame!

Rhodesia

OUR LAND

In WORLD War One, when things were bad,

and England needed men,

We rallied to our countries flag - Rhodesians answered then.

And many asked us as we went, "Whose battle do you fight?"

"Our country needs us", we replied, and fought with all our might

And some came back, but hundreds not; but you must understand

We didn't fight for fun, my lad, we fought to save our land. >

Two decades passed and once again the call to arms went out.

Rhodesians answers as before,  was ever there a doubt ?

Where did we go ? Why everywhere! On land and air and sea,

We fought in every battle and helped to set men free.

And some came back, but thousands not; but you must understand

We didn't fight for fun, my lad, we fought to save our land
 

The years rolled by, and once again, the battle cry is made

This time Rhodesians fight alone - few come to our aid.

Both young and old, both black and white, we'll keep our country free

And make it safe for everyone - not just for you and me

Yes, some will live, and some will not, but you must understand

It isn't any fun, my lad, to fight to save our land.

The Death of Rhodesia

It was not right that you should have died,
Because of those who never tried,
To stop the ingratitude of some,
Bent on taking from all and one.

It was not right that one with a common name,
Be allowed to besmirch your fame,
Thus bringing you to your knees in shame,
And griding your beauty with a chain.

A chain of horror and deceit,
Lies, corruption, cold and heat,
Death and maiming day and night,
Bring to some an evil delight.

It was not right, Oh Rhodesia fair,
The tyranny that you and I had to share,
Your body ripped by shot and shell,
With your dying sons fighting like hell.

It ws not right that they died so young,
Before from their bodies, seed had sprung,
To give you sons and daughters strong,
Loving you, to right a wrong.

It is not right what we've been told,
A graven stone image, a hawk not bold,
That to which we have now been sold,
Will be the name on the notes we hold.

REQUIEM

Tonight, we mourn our dead. Those brothers
Who still lie; wrapped in camo shrouds
Beneath Rhodesian soil.

Chase those strangers out; bar the door
Charge your glasses, wait while those murmurs die away.
Listen.

Argent; Arvic; Homan; Brading.
These are my dead.
Lost in ambush, mine, attack
In a time when a flag
Flew green and white
In a land which is no more.

I drank with them
In Rhodesian days, before
We trekked to foreign lands.
I drink to them now.
Argent, Arvic; Homan; Brading.

LAMENT

My poems
Are frozen moments
Captured, scrawled on cigarette boxes
In stray moments
Snatched from my war.

Do not expect
Rich fantasies to lull you asleep.
I cannot burble on, lace my lines
With sweet flowers and proud eagles soaring.

I give you, instead
Bravery, honesty and love enduring;
Women weeping
Over " Regret to announce".
Sharp rifle fire lacing a commentary
On young lives;
The troopie's twisted-gut feeling
As the chopper drops him in;
The doubts, the fears;
The twisted truths
Passed off as news.
The bestial urge
Which lurks within us all.

Walk the fields of war
With me. With a people
Blown in the winds of change.
Read our story, caught
In word-woven nets.