An Australian boy, just seventeen.
Crouched in the sky above Germany.
A shield of perspex, from unseen foes.
Flak from hidden guns below.
Gripped by fear, in the night.
Wondering, will this be his last flight?
Reach for the sky, look to the stars.
Or the pyre below, in firestorm glow.
Boys into men, their hearts into stone.
Ignore the torment of flesh and bone.
Haunted by nightmares soaked in sweat.
Strangled by bonds of personal debt.
These nights are endless, cold and numb.
A wait for the hand of death to come.

My father saw the fascist threat.
The crunch of  the jackboot, a punch in the head.
He had a belief in his fellow man.
For black and white to walk hand in hand.
He had no God, or devil too.
But a sense of justice and he saw things through.
Some things are hard.
There’s no easy choice.
No excuses, none ever voiced.
Dog eat dog, smash force with force.
Reap the whirlwind, on collision course.
Killing is hard, for a moral man.
Whatever the cause, where ever he stands
But should he hold or stay his hand.
When fascists march upon the land?

My father he grew fat and old.
This song’s about the things he told.
Ice cold terror in the night.
The blunted edge between wrong and right.
From Dresden Skies to Dachau's walls.
A cannon shell, a bomber falls.
The hand of peace, the fist of war.
Do angels walk amongst us all?
The hand of peace, the fist of war.
I’ve seen those angels walking tall.