By Staff Sergeant Pilot Reo C. Trail

You may talk of "Flying Forts"
And the peashooters' deadly sports
And of shooting down the Junkers by the score;
But when it comes to servin'
The transports are deservin'
Of a little praise and credit in this war.

Cause when the fightin's getting thicker,
And men's hopes begin to flicker
As when surrounded by a foe of twice their size;
It must be damned inspirin'
To know they can keep on firin',
Cause we're dropping ammunition from the skies.

As we can't hope to live forever
Some day our contacts we will sever,
And we'll take off into that eternal blue,
And we'll see the other boys
Who have left behind the noise,
And we'll try to be of service up there too.

Oh, they'll buzz the Pearly Gates
In their Lockheed "thirty eights,"
And they'll thrill the pretty angels with their stunts;
And Saint Peter'll come a runnin',
When he hears the bombers comin',
And he'll spread the welcome mat with heavy grunts.