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(Robert Bloch, 832nd)
Near sixty years since World War II,
The warriors that much older grew.
Lads then eighteen, with peach-fuzz cheek
Now pause and think before they speak
Of good and true and trusted friends,
Ones who stood tall when life depends.
So many now fall by the way;
Unsung, their deeds of yesterday,
Remembered well by those still here,
Heroes, perhaps, of bygone year.
The sound of Taps, that bugle call,
Is reason not for tears at all.
We all must make that one last flight;
May your flight be smooth, may the flak be light.
In Memory of those who served their country.
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