There’s a hilltop there in Vietnam
deserted, cold and bare —
Except for one old rotted cross
that few men know is there.
It stands there, oh so all alone
amidst the mud and mire —
Stained with blood of men who died
no flowers, just barbed wire.
It’s here sometimes my thoughts are found
back to that lonely cross —
I think back of a friend I had
and by that cross I lost.
As friends, we shared our food and drink
in war our lives were one —