With the courage of youth,
and in the company of his mates
he moved forward as the lead scout
to form a ring of steel
between the oppressed people
of East Timor and banditry
loyal only to the violence
of the parang,
- and the politics of the machine gun.

At twenty four years of age,
he was under no illusions
as to the dangers he faced
when he placed himself in harms way
and probed silently forward
to keep his fated appointment,
- with death and destiny.

Ambushed and caught in the killing zone,
he was unaccounted for
in the confusion of sustained
and overwhelming heavy fire,
reported as 'missing' only later,
- after the "Re-Org".

During the Company sweep,
his mates found him
dead where he lay
in the heat of an Asian afternoon
weapon missing, ammo missing,
and body disfigured,
- in the age old way.

And so in death,
he journeyed back
that sad and cold
New Zealand winter's day
to the lush green fields
of his Waikato home
and the quiet streets,
- of small town Te Kauwhata.

And tributes came,
and tributes glowed
as the politicians spoke
but the tears that flowed
from his mates that day
as they bore him shoulder high,
said more than all the gallant words
- as his cortege passed me by.

To the warriors chant,
and the Kuia's cry!
they slow marched through the town
and beat the drum with a solemn tone
as the left boot struck the ground,
they bore the broken body
of Private Manning upon high
to the wailing of the Kuia,
- and the tears as soldiers cried.

His Tour of Duty's over,
and his body's laid to rest
he sleeps the sleep
of stolen youth
in the soft sweet soil
of a warriors grave,
- and the Rangiriri earth.

In Memory of:
A997234 Private Leonard William Manning
Bravo Company, 2/1 Battalion RNZIR
DOB: 15 August 1975 - KIA 24 July 2000
U.N. Forces
East Timor

I've saddled up, and dropped me hooch,
I'm going to take the gap,
my Tour of Duty's over mates,
and I won't be coming back.

I'm done with diggin' shell scrapes,
and laying out barbed wire,
I'm sick of setting Claymore Mines,
and coming under fire.

So, no more Fire Support Base,
and no more foot patrols,
and no more eating ration packs,
and sleepin' in muddy holes.

I've fired my last machine gun,
and ambushed my last track,
I'm sick of all the Army brass,
and I sure ain't coming back.

I'll hand my bayonet to the clerk,
he ain't seen one before,
and clean my rifle one more time,
and return it to the store.

So, no more spit and polish,
and make sure I get paid,
and sign me from the Regiment,
today's my last parade.

The Last Anzac

They buried Doug Dibley today,
a fine old gentleman who died in his sleep,
at Rotorua on a hot December afternoon.
No warriors death for him on Walker's Ridge,
where the poppies fed on the blood and frozen dreams;
of good young men from Wellington.

A days leave and a seven year old son at my side,
we bore witness as six tall infantrymen in service dress,
raised him high from the gun carriage,
and quietly marched his flag draped casket to eternal rest;
among the trees and hills of his beloved Ngongotaha.

Volleys fired and mournful bugles call,
we shall not see his like again,
no more grow old as yet no more remain,
with living memory of that time,
when machine gun and bayonet did their awful work,
and Anzac boys closed with desperate Turk,
among the gullies and crumbling ridges;
of a foreign coast that was Gallipoli.

Remember this day my son,
remember this hour and this place,
for here and now they bury this nation's last lament,
to a time of King and Empire.
And the poppies on the ridges grow,
and the scrub thorn in the valleys thrive,
and the memory of young mates who died;
we sod this day with Trooper Dibley.