To the crew of a shot-out Ratel of 61 Mechanised Bn Grp (rondine)

What escape remains when you are trapped
by enemy landmine after landmine,
from the incoming shell’s wailing whine;
when boys, some just children are snapped,
in the flash when a armoured car is scrapped,
even if your bravery does holy shine;
what escape remains?

What little remains when thunder-clapped
of what someone could as a life define
when by law military service did confine
young men, whose lives death had overlapped;
what escape remains?