Dedicated to Terry O'Callaghan.
He was a mad six foot, red headed Irish rebel with a fondness for whiskey and a good stoush. My best Mate.
Vale: - Easter 1972

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It seems like a dream, so long ago,
A time when youth becomes a man.
Adventure and travel calls us to go.
As far as we possibly can.

We’d met in a bar, one steamy night,
We were doing some serious drinking,
A couple of locals started a fight,
Between us we changed their thinking.

Now terry was big and he waded in,
But the boozing had slowed his feet.
A barstool came flying under his chin.
And it landed him flat on his seat.

I do not remember, what happened after,
Next morning we woke, sorry and sore.
Bruised and battered we grinned at each other,
Shook hands, introduced, then drank some more.

I don’t know how we became such good mates,
I guess it was just, well one of those things.
Back to back we would challenge the fates,
With a trust that comradeship brings.

One day we were riding, up highway one,
Through a landscape of unchanging green.
Past hamlets and paddies, just having fun.
Stopping and snapping the things we had seen.

To our destination, we soon would arrive,
Maybe twenty or more clicks to run.
When the air all around us erupted to life,
And our leisurely ride ceased to be fun.

The green it changed to orange and red,
In panic we dived for the rice.
I was frozen with fear, it was Terry who led,
But the Preacher was waiting, he payed the price.

I sat there and held him, I begged him to live.
As I cradled his head I screamed and I cried,
To God if he saved him, my life I would give.
But Terry just looked, he smiled and he sighed.

Somewhere, in a Paddy, just south of Quan Tri
I left the only good mate I could trust,
Now I’m a loner, living only for me,
Each night I dream of the comrade I lost.

Robin. A. Spicer © 1976