Libya 1969

I’ll be home soon to my new born daughter,
To my wife, my life
Three days to go end of desert exercise
A brief camp in Timimi on the beach
Three days rest, swimming, eat the best,
Old wreck washed up on the rocks
We use it as target practice
For the last of our ammunition
Bad decision

Helicopter flies in flinging sand into everyone’s dinner
Christ he could have landed further away, prick!
What a shitty trick
Officer runs over pack up were moving out
Back to El Adam airfield there’s been a coupe
So what’s our position?
Don’t know we just go

Back across the desert don’t use roads
Keep weapons out of sight
Moving out this very night
Villagers still wave friendly salutation
We wave back
Not hostile to us or our nation
Thank god
We've not a bullet to bless ourselves with

Back at the airfield after hours of bouncing
My poor arse has taken a thorough trouncing
But we’re safe or think we are
Into the NAAFI (PX)
There’s been a coupe by some twat called Gadaffi

Oh great postponed date
Not flying now got to guard this installation
Politicians think it’s good
To keep us in the neighbourhood
Just in case there’s trouble
Whilst we are still on Gadaffi's soil
It's easier to negotiate about the oil

We get the military families out
There doesn’t seem much to worry about
Until he sends a tank
Clank clank

Don’t serve alcohol Libyian officer says
It goes against our religious ways
You having a laugh me dear?
Two thousand Brit troops and no beer?
That's a diet for a riot!
A cue for a coupe!

Troop of our tanks move to greet him
Very productive meeting
You’re cordially invited to piss off mate
Don’t even try to cross the gate
King Idris laid down the rules
We don’t give booze to the locals
We’re not fools
We’ll stick to that (Now sling yer bleedin' hook!)

He goes away but soon is back on another tack
Can’t go to Tobruk to swim in the sea
It’s now forbidden says he.
And so it goes for three long months
Pissing about
Whilst politicians thrash things out
In five star air conditioned hotels
I'm in a hot sweaty tent
Full of farty smells

Overtime at the rumour mill
We’ll be going in for the kill
Eight hours standby to take him out
Every now and then a shout
Some manufactured emergency

They send two old prop driven planes
We track them with the Bofors guns
We ain’t got no rounds mate not a bloody one
One of them lands bounces twice
Takes off again Oh what fun then it's gone
But it’s enough we’ve made it plain
Don’t bring yer arses back again

Fly home at last on a DC ten
Never to return again
Someone will shoot that bugger one day
I say
Didn’t know then that was forty years away!

Oh did I mention? There was a bit of tension!

Daft Note: NAAFI, pronounced Naffy, (Navy Army Air Force Institute) equivalent of US forces PX, used to be interpreted by our conscripts as: No Ambition And Fuck-all Interest! :-)