Carrying paratroopers and towing combat gliders through geysers of enemy fire that terrorized and tore. Ignoring pained shrieks while surrounded by kaleidoscopes of red tracers and exploding shrapnel’s “black roses.” Then counting their squadron’s returning aircraft to tally each mission’s price in blood. Wondering who had been shot down and whether they survived.

Later, staring at personal belongings boxed on empty cots in hushed barracks before reporting for the next day’s briefing. Haunted by the uncertainty of their own fate, wondering whether it would arrive in a swarm of shrapnel, flames, or a hug and tears at the front door.

A brotherhood as tight as a fraternity. Their story, in their voices.