A Campaign Revisited Poem by Terry Dawson

Africa once again was wracked with pain
As warfare stalked the land
And through the years of the copious tears,
Few could understand
That death and life in the time of strife
Was purely a matter of chance
Thrills were brisk; men took great risk
As they danced that deadly dance.

It's a blazing hot day and who can say what the future holds in store,
In the dust and the heat, a soldier's heartbeat marks the steady passage of time,
When approach in file at around one mile, terrs, and they number several score.
Soldiers spot the advance and leaving nothing to chance, they swiftly deploy in a line.

A shot rings out; an anguished shout - a firefight thus began
With so many guns blazing the din is amazing; it is a chaotic afray!
Confusion all about, a cry and a shout, each must do as he can
There's a strangled curse, a man falls to earth, he utters a cry of dismay.

A brief time the fight rages till the enemy disengages; melts away as thief in the night
Of a sudden all is still, tally the toll if you will - casualties lie all about like litter.
Bandaged, drip in arm, the cas-evac, pale but calm, is chopper-loaded for homeward flight
Whilst on the ground fresh troops abound to carry anew the fight to the quitter.

Now let it be known of those who have flown: northward they go and with haste
Pace quickened by fear, and far and near the bush beats to an urgent drum.
They dare not slack or even look back; the hard fact must be faced
That the peril at rear is in high gear to complete the work already begun.

Silent they pass through the golden grass
Toward the sand pits of Miami
On and on through the Longcut Pass
And the air is hot and clammy

Seldom they pause for they have good cause to make haste; men are hot on their trail
There's scarcely a breeze through the leafless trees; lack of rest starts to take its toll.
And then it comes where the Angwa runs that the chasers see those that they tail.
With pulses quick that follow-up stick hear blood in their ears like a thunder roll.

With a burst of speed, sufficient to need, the pursuers set out at the double
Around on the flank near the left hand bank, unseen they bypass those they persue.
They deploy on the ridge quite near to the bridge, and steel themselves for trouble
With the enemy near it seems quite clear that fell strife will surely ensue!

'Hold fire', breaths the sarge as the terrs loom large; 'I'll shoot when the time is right.'
There's a crack then a roar and, as the sarge soon saw, his plan had served him well
These terrs, they rue their fate but all too late for theirs is a terrible plight
Over half are hit; there's no help for it - they flee, comrades left where they fell.

Let it be said that eight are dead; of the original twelve remain four,
And this remnant band makes a desperate a stand in a hollow down by the river
It is a time in hell and it doesn't end well for at last they fight on no more,
A stark silence fell on that deathly dell, a silence to make bold men shiver.

Twelve spirits ascend by the river's bend and go to the place that all spirits go
Silent they pass through the golden grass
Like the wind; it's quite uncanny.
On and on over the Longcut Pass
The air no longer hot and clammy.

Then heard at last, a kudoo-horn blast and they abide with their ancestors staunch
Limited no more as they were before; strange powers to them are born.
With their souls unfurled in the spirit world, they have it in their power to launch
The dark powers of the night and the afterworld's might, against those that do not conform.

So let it be said for the sake of the dead
That war is a desperate affair.
Their lives are lost; it's a terrible cost
And who will in later times care?
And win or lose, most would choose
To palaver if given the chance,
But never was it so, so off to war men go,
There to dance that deadly dance.