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Bandit Country



Cold mist curls softly in the grey half light

Shapes loom half seen in the darkness, walls, bushes?

My boots, sodden, squelch in the evil mud

Of this Godforsaken Island shit hole

Misery, cold, wet, four days on patrol

The chill pre-dawn misery of Armagh

The dawn, not too distant now, brings danger

Cold fear, the sniper, the dawn, will he strike?

We take cover behind a hedge, all eyes,

All ears, smell, every sense fine tuned

Only ten days to do then, the flight home

Warm, family, dry feet, walk without fear

An hour passes, daylight flooding the fields

We watch, we wait, we see nothing but sheep

A Helicopter patrol sweeps the ridge

Thermal images of sheep and wet fields

We stay where we are, in the wet hedgerow

All day, watching, waiting, and listening

A tractor roars distantly, sheep bleating

Four men, hiding, hoping to stay lucky

Waiting for one man to get unlucky

But not today.  Night falls and we move on

To the observation post on the ridge

We didn’t get far, a metallic ping

A sheet of white flame, strangely silent

The taste of cold mud mingled with fresh blood

Ears ringing like all the anvils of hell

Broken collarbone, eardrums gone, I live.

Elation, anger, frustration, concern

The youngster, eighteen, found the booby trap

All we found was his head and his new boots

They’d been rubbing him badly all week!