Thanks, those who remember. It is important at this time in history to maintain a well prepared military; it is a crying shame we have to be all too quick to use it. I am proud to have served. I am equally proud to have stood against the abuses of our great power by demonstrating against the Vietnam War and being as vocally against the invasion of Iraq as I knew how.
We carried you in our arms
On Independence Day
Now you'd throw us all aside
And put us on our way
Oh what dear daughter
Neath the sun
Could treat a father so
Wait upon him hand and foot
Always tell him no
We pointed you the way to go
And scratched your name in sand
But you just thought it was nothing more
Than a place for you to stand
I want you to know that while we watched
You discover there was no one true
Most everybody thought
It was a childish thing to do
It was all very painless
When you went out to receive
All that false instruction
Which we never could believe
Now the heart is filled with gold
As if it were a purse
But oh what kind of love is this
Which goes from bad to worse
Tears of rage
Tears of grief
Why must I always feel a thief
Come to me now
You know we're so low
And life is brief
(Dylan)
ah, edgar. Beautiful. and to Jimmy Carter who gave amnesty to those in Canada, I do think he understood.
goodnight, my friends.
From Florida
sorry, Letty, I can't resist:
Goodnight. Johnboy
In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army
I
N FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
In the Great War, Canada "gave" as did no other nation. With a population of about 7 million, she sent 60,000 boys off, never to return, and more than 600,000 served. Had the United States made a similar contribution, we'd have lost nearly 1 million, and would have seen 10 million in service. As it was, about 3 million Americans served, and i believe 175,000 were casualties.
In the second world war, wishing to avoid a similar tragedy, Canada concentrated on her navy. Three of four convoys which crossed the Atlantic were in the care of the "Sheepdog Navy." England took her best destroyers, and than ridiculed them for a lack of sinkings of u-boats; both the U.S. and England complained about the rate of losses in Canadian convoyed ships, and yet she escorted three times as many as the other two combined, and did it without the resources which England had stripped from her. Canada invented the modern frigate to counter the submarine, and produced the finest anti-sub ship every built. We in the United States should take cognisance of the contribution of our neighbor, a nation we so easily forget.
Good morning all.
Ceili, Thank you for contributing that poem. It is one of my favorites. I hadn't realized that John McCrae was Canadian.
Setanta, As usual, you know your background and I hate to admit it, but I was not aware of the role that Canada played in both world wars. Thanks, buddy, and salute.
(good day, John boy
)
Sorry to get here late. Just picked up my invite.
IN THE STORM
Isn't life interesting, simply in and of itself! There are often things that occur in our past that bring us to believe that we are singular in our actions and isolated in the result of those actions. If you will: at times it is as if we are wandering aimlessly in a heavy snow storm without direction and lost as to our position or location in life. Then, we walk beyond the crest of the next hill and there sits someone, quietly warming himself by a small fire; He having wandered to that point with the same feelings of solitude. Suddenly there are now at least two of you. You have a partner in the wilderness! Today, I met my comrade in the same serendipitous fashion; in the pouring rain in a small, roadside market parking lot.
I was leaving the market and he was entering to pay for the gas he had put in his Bronco. I noticed that he was wearing a flight jacket with a 1st Cavalry insignia on the shoulder. I had been a helicopter pilot in Viet Nam and when I saw the insignia something in me moved. At that moment, I remembered the war in its entirety. That brief moment in which I recognized the icon of battle brought back a flood of memories and, also, a feeling of embarrassment ringed in, for the lack of a better word, shame.
.
I walked over to him, excused myself and asked him if he had been a pilot. He turned and replied that he had. I told him that I noticed the patch and that I had flown with the 1st Cav. We chatted a moment about the war and he asked if I still flew. I replied that I didn't, that the thrill of combat flying had passed and that, when I had returned from Viet Nam, I was lost in the day-to-day mundane task of stateside flight and army life. He said that he had flown a few times but just quit doing it. It turned out that we had both tried to return to combat but were deferred, at the last moment, to other locations (me to Korea, he to Fort Hood) due to the country's withdrawal from the conflict. We talked of our readjustment problems after returning. The lost wives, the drinking, the feelings of isolation, the longing for the adrenalin rushing through our systems and, the loss of so many of our flight school classmates. We both attested to being the worst the worst officers in the army once removed from the environment of combat; the difficult transition from being invincible to average.
The fire was becoming warmer and the snowstorm began to abate as we talked. I began to feel the solitary guilt of not having been a "correct" officer, of losing a wife because of my schizoid behavior and drinking and, the empty feeling of being an outcast in a normal world, slide off my shoulders and fall to the paddled asphalt at my feet. For the first time I acknowledged, to myself, that I was not the pariah I had pictured myself to be for so long. It was we now, not just me, in the chilling wilderness.
We talked on for some 30 minutes, both ignoring the fact that the rain was now reaching in to soak out t-shirts. Conversing in quiet tones that were laced with brief moments of sad recollections. I realized that we not only spoke in a common language but, shared a secret dialect known by few and only whispered by campfires in the dark of the night.
Then, at that point when you somehow know that enough has been said, we paused and I thanked him for taking the time to talk with me and we departed to do our life's errands.
As I drove home, my spirit told me that another of life's scars had been grafted over. The healing process was continuing. His name was Gary. For some reason I know that, years from now, I'll remember the name.
That was written a few years ago but I thought it fit the topic.
For thoase who fell, a moments pause.
My grandfather never saw my dad until he came back from the war, and by that time, my dad was old enough to walk. When my very young father opened the door for his father, a camera was ready. The photo shot is one of the most touching things I have ever seen. The look in my father's child eyes, not knowing who this person was...very moving.
Morganwood, I am delighted that I sent you the invite because your moving anecdote makes us all realize the healing that comes in stages, and although slow, just one chance meeting can be a panacea. Thank you, my friend, for that beautiful piece.
And to Roger, a helicopter pilot in Nam, who survived the war only to go down in a charter plane in the mountains of LaTrobe, Pennsylvania
Cav, often the candid shots are the ones that capture the moment the best. You must treasure that picture.
Just for Veteran's Day, here's one from Rudyard Kipling.
TOMMY
I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.
I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.
Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.
We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.
You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!
Oh, when the rest were sent to Vietnam, this Roger was posted to Europe.
Rog, You're a vet? How did I miss that?
Rudyard Kipling, like Mark Twain, understood the situation of the day. Often, the writers of that particular time in history have been judged poorly in the light of progress that has been made in the human condition. Actually, they were the trumpets for freedom.
I love that poem, Rog. Thanks, my friend.
(psssst, Rog) The "Roger" of whom I spoke was Roger Flemming. Just caught the "this".
Thomas Hardy:
The Man He Killed
Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have set us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin!
But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
And killed him in his place.
I shot him dead because--
Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
That's clear enough; although
He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,
Off-hand like--just as I--
Was out of work--had sold his traps--
No other reason why.
Yes; quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You'd treat, if met where any bar is,
Or help to half a crown.
Depends on what you mean by vet, I guess. VA designates me as Vietnam Era Veteran. Available, but lucky.
