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Wednesday, February 28, 2007

 

British soldier from 2nd Bn.The Rifles killed in Iraq!






Read this My old battalion-It brings it home when it's one of your own!

In Basra’s war torn city, a soldier stands so tall,
Smiling at the locals, with his back against a wall,
Beneath a veil of calmness, his heart beats like a drum,
Thinking of the folks he loves, his girl back home and Mum,

The sun is burning down on him, it burns his reddened skin,
This checkpoint duty daily, wears his temper wafer thin,
Another hour of waiting, to protect this peasant mob
Then back home to the bunker for a shower and get some grub

A young girl reaches up to him, a scar upon her face,
Her Daddy won’t be coming home, this picture takes his place,
A tear runs down a dirty cheek and rags adorn her feet,
She laughs then skips to join the queue for bread and food to eat,

A cloud of dust arises, a scream runs through the stalls,
His senses into overdrive, he strains to see the cause,
He sights a dark Sedan, inside a body dressed in black,
The soldier charges forward screaming warnings to get back,

He clearly sees the face and eyes of one that’s set to die,
His forward movement halted, as he hears a muted cry,
The girl that smiled so kindly now lay injured on the ground,
He stoops to raise her fragile form, and turns himself around

The blast was heard for miles around, he felt the red hot air,
Felt molten iron down his back; his head was raised in prayer,
God help this tiny child I hold, the last thought in his mind,
His limbs were scattered far and wide, the pieces all to find

Quiet through the market now, the dust cloud fell to ground,
A mourning mass was gathered, such a grisly mess they found
The soldiers body buried deep beneath a market stall,
A muffled cry of help they heard, a tiny little call

They dug and pulled the stall out, the soldier long was dead,
But underneath his body they could see a tiny head,
They lifted out the torso, and then helped her stand alone
She could not see the carnage yet or hear the injured moan

In Basra’s war torn city, a soldier stands so tall,
Smiling at the locals, with his back against a wall,
He wonders who the plaque was for fifteen years ago
A scarred girl lays her flowers, says a prayer and turns to go
Mick Heywood

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