First a fleet of peeps come charging
Through the fastly dimming light,
Drops a sentry at the corner
Speeds a way into the night.

Next almost score of half-tracks
Come a' dashing, rattling by,
Then a trio of assault guns
Roar defiance to the sky.

Now a pair of trucks, with trailers,
Come careening through the dust,
And the drivers »pour it to 'em
To keep up. They know they must.

Last, the maintenance peep and half-track,
With a gaunt crane on its nose,
Dashes by into the darkness
Brings the column to a close.

Still the roar of laboring motors
Fainter - now it's loud and clear.
Can't you hear them? No, it's memory
Playing tricks within my ear.

In our minds we'll often see them
As we saw them once before,
As we charged across the Rhineland
As we battled on the Ruhr.

Though we treasure myriad memories
Some are happy, some bring pain
Every time we stir those memories,
Headquarters will live again.

As we glance through this small volume
In those long years yet to come,
See the names of foreign places,
Pictures of a former chum.

Then, uncalled for, from our memories
(Though they're dimmed somewhat with age)
Once again they'll go careening,
Phantom shapes across the page.

    S/Sgt. Owen M. Bebb