In the epitaph of combat,

Only Terry’s names abound.

In the bittersweet hereafter

The very finest sound.

I counted them out and I counted them in

Their faces were profound

I waited on them like Gunga Din

An honourable task I found

In the pitch black Afghan nightime

The stories flew around

Of weight and kneehigh quagmires

A battle with the very ground

Of airbursts and Dushkas

Bombs and small arms rounds

No ten dollar Taliban these

Tenacious as starving hounds.

In the hindsight of safety

The boys knew they’d won a round

The bout continues, the fight goes on

Could be for the very same mound

No regrets said the young Private

No action of mine was unsound

In the epitaph of combat

No sweeter is the sound.