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The grainy screen, a world of olive drab, 
Vic Morrow's weathered face, a soldier's weary stab 
At duty, honor etched in lines so deep, 
While young Rick Jason fought the promises to keep.

Remember Hanley's squad, a band of brothers true, Littlejohn the gentle giant, Caje, the feisty Jew. 
Kirby's reckless courage, Saunders' grim command, 
Through muddy fields of Europe in a war-torn land.

The crackle of the radio, "King Two to White Rook," 
A call for backup with a desperate urgent look. 
The staccato burst of gunfire, a soundtrack raw and real, 
As Germans advanced, the danger they could feel.

Each episode a story of survival and of loss, 
The heavy weight of battle counting up the cost. 
The fear in young men's eyes, the bravery they'd find, 
Leaving innocence behind with every shell that whined.

The quiet moments too amidst the constant dread, 
Sharing cigarettes, the words that weren't said. 
A longing for the world they knew so far away, 
Dreaming of loved ones at the close of day.

The muddy foxholes offering scant reprieve, 
From constant shelling making men believe 
That every breath a gift, a fragile fleeting thing, 
As church bells echoed with the sorrow they would bring.

The endless marching through fields of green and brown, 
Each captured town, another spirit down. 
The weight of their equipment, the weariness they bore, 
Fighting for a freedom on a distant, foreign shore.

Now black and white flicker, a memory takes hold, 
Of "Combat!"'s stark portrayal, stories brave and bold. 
A nostalgic tribute to the soldiers in the fight, 
Beneath the heavy shadows, and the fading light.

©bfa040825

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