There's an army of women, dressed in white, amid the strife and gore
along the far-flung battlefields on distant fronts of war.
They're the wounded soldier's guardians and they fight war's awful curse,
For it's horror, death, and dying, that's the lot of a Red Cross nurse.
You'll know them by their uniforms; on their arm is a cross of red.
They're our precious angels of the war, with no halo round their head.
They have bravery, grit and courage; they work in the heat or the cold,
And we'll never forget the lives they saved, for their hearts are purest gold.