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Ponieważ wiersze dotyczące dziedzictwa drugiej wojny światowej zostały napisane przez żołnierzy, którzy brali w niej udział. Jeden z tych wierszy pojawia się po każdej udanej misji w Medal of Honor Allied Assault Spearhead

"The Hour Is Go"

Francis J. Turner - z osobistych archiwów

One's eyes close tight and families fade,
When going to war wich evil men made.
Thoug anxious and frightened, we don't let it show,
For the day is approaching, when the Airborne must go.

Each day now past; we wait just the same,
But D-day is near, and for this we all came.
The hour grows near; each man feel it inside,
And soon se'll be falling, with nowhere to hide.

Our eyes are now down and the chatter the same,
Each weapon now loaded, no longer a game.
Eagles gather round and bow your heads low,
Europ awaits and the hour is go.

Planes rumble past as we wait for our turn,
To fly over waters we have yet to each earn.
Checked buskles and straps, left nothing to chance,
The Fumpmaster stands,calls "Welcom to France".

Flak turns do fire in the blackest of hight,
Too low, too fast, can't jump form this height.
There's no turning back, the risk has been taken,
Eree fall into hell, paratrooper's forsakend.

Eagles hold tight, scattered prayers to survive,
We'll hit the ground soon, whather dead of alive.
As feet touch the ground. each soldier turns on,
Confiusion and fear are beaten and gone.

The enemy is close and sad they don't know
The Airborne is here, it's time they must go.
The hour is now, Hitler's had his last chance
On St. Michael's wings, we're taking back France.

"The Hills of Bastogne"

Bernard J. McKearney. Z książki "Spotkanie z przeznaczeniem. Histria 101. dywizji powietrzno-desantowej", autorstwa Leonarda Rapporta i Arthura Horthwooda.

The crops should be ful in Belgium this year,
The soil should be fertile, but the price has been dear,
The wheat should be red on the hills of Bastogane
For its roots have been drenched by the blood of our own.

Battered and reeling we stand in their way,
It's here we are, and here we will stay.
Embittered, wrathful, we watch our pals fall,
God, where's the end, the end of it all?

Confident and powerful, they stike at our lines,
But we beat them back, fighting for time.
Berserk with fury, they are hitting us now,
Flesh against steel - we'll hold - but how?

For each day that we stay, more mothers must grieve.
For each hil we hold more man must we leave.
Yes, honor the men who will some day come home,
But pray for the men 'neath the hills of Bastogne.

"That Something"

Ronald Tee - 56. pyłk Recce, dywizja Battleaxe, 8. Armia Wielkiej Brytanii. Z książki "Brytyjski żołnierz pamięta"

It's funny, how one can lie,
and rememberthings of days gon by.
And in perhaps one short minute,
recapture a past year and all that's in it.

It's funny, how a quiet eoom, givs chance ro ponder
leading our thoughts, or even a funny phrase,
will recall something that happened in bye gon days.

Everyone stores up things that have past,
some are forgotten, others will always last.
But a soldier who has been to war,
has in life's memory book, something more.

"Something" that can only be,
in the memories of men, like you and me.
"Something" that is born midst shot and shell,
devolps and grows in times of bloody hell.

The "comradeship" as it is know by us,
of which we never make much fuss.
Is this "something" which in our minds was set
in lands where many are lying yet.

And so I remember from the start,
the lads I knew, now far apart
my soldiering in finished, I leave it all behind,
but that "something" comes with me in my mind.


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