By J. Brock (FINN)

Over the dusty ridge they drove,

To see that place on Fitzroy Water,

Where husbands, sons and brothers lay

Their lives to keep us free.

And, on that rainy, misty morn,

With vivid memories of the past,

They sought surcease from ghosts of old,

And attain an inner peace at last.

Was it here they came ashore,

Or could it be that spot,

Where battered and broken,

They were plucked from icy blackness,

On to the beach to live again.

"Fluids and morphine," was the shout,

We’ve got to get our people out,

To the red and green life machine,

Then on to Uganda without a word,

With murky knowledge of how or why,

A foreign England awaited them,

Than when they left

A heart-beat ago.

Could it be that twenty years has flown away,

Since that day when some did live and others died?

They were not young anymore,

But on each heart the score,

War days had carved,

And left their mark.