Band of Brothers

The flares light up the midnight sky,
They flutter there and then they die.
The sharp pinprick of muzzle's child,
The pain alone will drive you wild.
The angst of sin begone from here,
Conscience forfeited in the year,
The year you learnt to use a gun,
The year of 1941.
The year the mighty many flew,
The year of 1942.
The year the brothers were to be,
The year of 1943.
The year of hunger, death and war,
The year of 1944.
The year you made it out alive,
The year of 1945.