We sweated and swore, digging his grave,

In hard frosted ground mostly of stone,

The pick bounced back when it struck the rocks,

The shovel sparked as it scraped another.

Breath in clouds of steam, gave way to a gentle puff,

As we buried him that day behind a rock bluff.

“He’ll not get his full six foot deep,

Entitled or not, half way will suffice,

The bastard should know better than to die,

In winter, on a mountain, by a snipers bullet,

Mark the spot, he’ll get picked up later,

Reburied with true respect”.

The Sergeants orders must be obeyed.

We had all cursed and swore,

As we carried out this one last chore,

Just another Soldiers grave?

The loss of a comrade deeply felt,

But hidden beneath the exterior face,

presented by all, digging his resting place,

The sniper, someone will have to dig his grave too,

The patrol had now made the position safe,

We passed the night, standing down- standing to,

In the morning before we moved off,

We paid our respects to the one left behind.

“ Why do I lose my best men?, He was the best,

Now I am left with second rate bastards,

Move out sharp” The sergeants orders must be obeyed.