You can feel the sweat running down your back,
as you do your 5 and 20’s along the desert track.

The convoy then carries on along the Afghanistan sands;
you can count how many times you’ve been out here, on both hands.

Crossing the world’s most hostile terrain,
weaving through the desert, like a logistic train.

From camp Bastion to FOB Dywer, Delhi and Gib,
driving your vehicle, dressed in body armour and lid.

You’re hoping and your praying that if you ever get stuck;
your mate won’t be too far away, to pull you out with his truck.

You’ve got one hand on the wheel, the other close to your gun,
driving in the heat and the dust, blinded by the sun.

Anything can happen within an instance,
a suicide bomber, a rocket attack, an IED, a sniper from a distance.

You are out for three or four days at a time,
dropping off vital stores and equipment to the brave soldiers on the front line.

You’re so tired now, you’re off to your bed,
before falling asleep, you can hear the helicopters above your head.

You thank your god, that you survived another trip,
the days are numbered, before the next unit arrives, the next rip.

Watching the mechanics, picking from the bones of the vehicles that
have been hit,
to make another truck operationally fit.

The loads have been collected, and you park in your lanes,
waiting for the starting pistol, to do it all over again.