By Bob Lange

“Bluey Turner’s dead” Phil said, As he slumped down on the bed. “He was on his second trip,” he said,

She sits there in the country sun, With the photo in her hand. It shows the face of her only son, Who went to Viet Nam.

I looked at the body lying there, The suntanned face, the short blonde hair. Ten minutes ago, he was feeling

It was all a big adventure when I went away to war. It couldn’t really be too bad, our fathers

“I think the Army’s changed you,” She said to me that night. “And now you’re going to Viet Nam, And I don’t think that’s right.”

When I was just a young bloke, I thought I’d been around, I might have been a country boy, but