Poem written by Gerry Pulker (ex-V4 Company) published in an unidentified New Zealand newspaper, circa 1969. He sent this clipping to Bernadette McQuillan, a pen pal from Australia soon after.
He wears his pistol on the street,
He never knows what he might meet,
You see, he's very far from home,
In a place named Vietnam.
He believes in what we're doing here,
You'll always see him taking care,
For caution is the only way
He'll see his wife again one day.
Each day he tries to write his wife
For tomorrow he may lose his life,
And when he rests he prays for peace,
And hopes all war will finally cease.
His sleep is never very sound:
The slightest noise brings him round.
He doesn't want to die in bed,
So he never rests his weary head.
He's up at dawn every day,
He wants to make the 'Charlies' pay
For all the men who've fought and died,
And all the women who have cried.
He hopes to hear from home today,
From his wife so far away,
He knows his mind must never wander,
Can't let the Reds get up from under.
So he marches on to fight,
His throat is dry and very tight,
He knows before the end is near,
So many lives will be lost here.
Tonight the faces again will come
Of men who've died for your freedom,
They never had any doubts or fear
About what they were doing here.
They died for people like the hippies,
And for those who call themselves yippies,
While fighting he may wonder too,
Why should he risk his life for you?
You scream each day, "End the War!"
Can't you see you hurt it more?
Sometimes he wishes you were here,
Then you'd know the meaning of fear.
Yet he'll still do all that he can
To bring freedom to this land,
So you can cry but he won't hear
The words you scream from over there.
Till his day comes he'll stay and fight,
And risk his life both day and night,
For his wife, his children too,
And even for the likes of you.Private Gerald Pulker,
C Company, 1 RNZIR,
Courtesy Bernadette McQuillan