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Who are these airborne people;
   This special breed of men.
Who filled the sky with thunder,
   to bring oppression's end.

Who were those men in baggy pants,
   that filled the darkened sky;
With parachutes and gliders -
   and whispered battle cries.

Some forty years have gone their way,
   and many that survived;
Stand silent, proud and aged,
   and lucky to be alive.
You will find them gathering on special days;
   silent hand clasps, knowing smiles -
Still hiding the pain of comrades lost,
   over so many bloody miles.

Who are these airborne people?
They were teachers, farmers, priests;
   they were kids just out of high school,
   who were determined, to say the least.
They were strangers when they started,
   but they had that special zest.
They wanted to be different;
   but they had to be the best.

They trained their minds and bodies;
   to respond to instant shock -
To react as uncoiled cobras;
   to split seconds on the clock.

They coordinated instincts,
   of each man, until they knew,
That as one, they'd move in action,
   every man knew what to do.

Then the night of truth to test their strength
   became a sea of planes,
And the drop was made into darkened skies;
   into enemy firing lanes.

There were men who died together,
   there were men who died alone,
There were men in gliders and parachutes,
   never to reach drop zones.

Into hell and fire and horror;
   came the airborne floating down.
To the trees and fields and water,
   into which so many drowned.

   [continues ...]

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