Today is Memorial Day.

[S-T]

"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." John 15:13

[Suzie]

He was getting old and paunchy and his hair was falling fast
And he sat around the Legion telling stories of the past,
Of a war that he had fought in and the deeds that he had done
In his exploits with his buddies; they were heroes, everyone.
And 'tho sometimes to his neighbors, his tales became a joke,
All his buddies listened, for they knew whereof he spoke.
But we'll hear his tales no longer, for old Bob has passed away
And the world's a little poorer, for a soldier died today.

No he won't be mourned by many, just his children and his wife,
For he lived an ordinary very quiet sort of life,
He held a job and raised a family, quietly going on his way;
And the world won't note his passing; 'tho a soldier died today.
When politicians leave this earth, their bodies lie in state,
While thousands note their passing and proclaim that they were great,
Papers tell of their life stories from the time that they were young,
But the passing of a soldier goes unnoticed, and unsung.

Is the greatest contribution to the welfare of our land
Some jerk who breaks his promise and cons his fellow man?
Or the ordinary fellow who in times of war and strife
Goes off to serve his Country and offers up his life?
The politican's stipend and the style in which he lives
Are sometimes disproportionate to the services he gives,
While the ordinary soldier, who offered up his all,
Is paid off with a medal, and perhaps a pension small.

It's so easy to forget them, for it was so long ago
That our Bob's and Jim's and Jonny's went to battle, but we know
It was not the politicians, with their compromise and ploys,
Who won for us the freedom that our country now enjoys.
Should you find yourself in danger with your enemies at hand,
Would you really want some cop-out with his ever waffling stand?
Or would you want a soldier who has sworn to defend
His home, his kin, and country, and would fight until the end?

He was just a common soldier and his ranks are growing thin
But his presence should remind us, we may need his like again.
For when countries are in conflict, then we find the soldier's part
Is to clean up all the troubles that the politicians start.
If we cannot do him honor while he's here to hear the praise,
Then at least let's give him homage at the ending of his days.
Perhaps just a simple headline in the paper that might say:

OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING,
FOR A SOLDIER DIED TODAY.


Author Unknown

[TheRealLobo]

Thanks Suze.

[CarolinaGent]

Not that my two cents means a whole lot in the grand scheme of things, but I’d like to say "thank you" to veterans, past and present, for the sacrifices they have made, that have insured the freedoms all of us enjoy

[Warlady]

Suzie that's beautiful. Thanks to all our veterans for serving our country. Welcome to FC CarolinaGent!!

[Suzie]

http://us.news3.yimg.com/us.i2.yimg.com/p/afp/20050529/capt.sge.toe50.290505211612.photo02.photo.default-384x208.jpg?x=380&y=205&sig=RaDDNew2DCP8c1iu_PyqQw--
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AFP/Getty Images - Sun May 29, 5:18 PM ET

Vietnam Vet Gary Vallone is overcome with emotion after seeing the name of a friend who he served with inscribed on The Wall in Washington, DC. Vallone is in the Capitol for Memorial Day weekend along with other veterans for the Rolling Thunder XVIII 'Ride For Freedom' event.(AFP/Getty Images/Joe Raedle)

Email Photo (http://news.yahoo.com/photos/ss/photos_highlight_fp;_ylt=Ar3jLNNEkMeXLWxmiblS_42s0 NUE;_ylu=X3oDMTA2Y3J1dWFkBHNlYwNwaA--#)
Print Photo (http://news.yahoo.com/photo/050529/photos_pl_afp/050529211839_4lw4ee28_photo2/print)

[Suzie]

http://us.news3.yimg.com/us.i2.yimg.com/p/ap/20050528/capt.la10205281932.memorial_day_la102.jpg?x=214&y=300&sig=GhgW_yFIGIJDb.mqRsXqHQ-- (http://news.yahoo.com/photos/ss/441) HIGHLIGHT

After placing small U.S. flags at the headstones of veterans' graves, Cub Scout Jose Coreno, left, and Tiger Scout Raymond Espinosa of Pack 188 in Eagle Rock, salute during the traditional placement of flags in preparation for Memorial Day ceremonies at the Los Angeles National Cemetery, Saturday, May 28, 2005. Hundreds of boy and girl scouts placed flags on each one of nearly 85,000 graves. Formal Memorial Day services will be held Monday. (AP Photo/Reed Saxon) Sat May 28, 3:32 PM ET


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AP - Sat May 28, 4:33 PM ET

Cub Scout Nicholas McGahan, 8, right, and Boy Scout Thomas McGahan, 11, of Northport, N.Y., place flags on graves at Long Island National Cemetery, in Farmingdale, N.Y., Saturday, May 28, 2005. The two brothers are among thousands of volunteers who place flags at the cemetery in observance of Memorial Day. (AP Photo/Ed

http://us.news3.yimg.com/us.i2.yimg.com/p/nm/20050528/mdf570351.jpg?x=380&y=269&sig=DqcheIi1g3RiU8Pro6YyPQ--


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Reuters - Thu May 26, 3:27 PM ET

Emily Dieruf from Lexington, Kentucky reacts after finding her husband's dog tag at Camp Pendleton, California May 26, 2005. A memorial service was held in honor of the 420 Soldiers, Sailors, Marines and British Soldiers who lost their lives while serving with the 1st Marine Division in Iraq. Since the U.S.-led invasion in

[tacitus]

Thank you to all who have served our country, and my prayers to the families of those that died defending this country and keeping her free. Everytime a person denigrates our military or our flag, it's a slap in the face to all of our military, and desecrating the memories of those that gace their lives for this country of ours. http://www.freeconservatives.com/vb/images/icons/patriot.gif

[TheRealLobo]

http://us.news3.yimg.com/us.i2.yimg.com/p/rids/20050526/i/r1920837912.jpg?x=259&y=345&sig=ObpAHfM6M40d8sxdlW6TRA--
http://us.i1.yimg.com/us.yimg.com/i/us/nws/p/reuters120.gif (http://us.rd.yahoo.com/dailynews/reuters/brand/SIG=pd7i95/*http://www.reuters.com)
Reuters - Thu May 26, 3:27 PM ET

Emily Dieruf from Lexington, Kentucky reacts after finding her husband's dog tag at Camp Pendleton, California May 26, 2005. A memorial service was held in honor of the 420 Soldiers, Sailors, Marines and British Soldiers who lost their lives while serving with the 1st Marine Division in Iraq. Since the U.S.-led invasion in

You know what the saddest part of this is. Why is that young lady there alone? It breaks my heart.

[EveningStar]

IN FLANDERS FIELDS

By Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918), Canadian Army


In 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.

[EveningStar]

General Douglas MacArthur's Thayer Award Speech -- "Duty, Honor, Country" -- West Point, 12 May 1962

http://www.freeconservatives.com/vb/%5Bimg%5Dhttp://www.americanrhetoric.com/images/douglaswestpointsteucke.jpg%5B/img%5D
http://www.americanrhetoric.com/images/douglaswestpointsteucke.jpg


General Westmoreland, General Grove, distinguished guests, and gentlemen of the Corps!

As I was leaving the hotel this morning, a doorman asked me, "Where are you bound for, General?" And when I replied, "West Point," he remarked, "Beautiful place. Have you ever been there before?"

No human being could fail to be deeply moved by such a tribute as this [Thayer Award]. Coming from a profession I have served so long, and a people I have loved so well, it fills me with an emotion I cannot express. But this award is not intended primarily to honor a personality, but to symbolize a great moral code -- the code of conduct and chivalry of those who guard this beloved land of culture and ancient descent. That is the animation of this medallion. For all eyes and for all time, it is an expression of the ethics of the American soldier. That I should be integrated in this way with so noble an ideal arouses a sense of pride and yet of humility which will be with me always: Duty, Honor, Country.

Those three hallowed words reverently dictate what you ought to be, what you can be, what you will be. They are your rallying points: to build courage when courage seems to fail; to regain faith when there seems to be little cause for faith; to create hope when hope becomes forlorn.

Unhappily, I possess neither that eloquence of diction, that poetry of imagination, nor that brilliance of metaphor to tell you all that they mean. The unbelievers will say they are but words, but a slogan, but a flamboyant phrase. Every pedant, every demagogue, every cynic, every hypocrite, every troublemaker, and I am sorry to say, some others of an entirely different character, will try to downgrade them even to the extent of mockery and ridicule.

But these are some of the things they do. They build your basic character. They mold you for your future roles as the custodians of the nation's defense. They make you strong enough to know when you are weak, and brave enough to face yourself when you are afraid. They teach you to be proud and unbending in honest failure, but humble and gentle in success; not to substitute words for actions, not to seek the path of comfort, but to face the stress and spur of difficulty and challenge; to learn to stand up in the storm but to have compassion on those who fall; to master yourself before you seek to master others; to have a heart that is clean, a goal that is high; to learn to laugh, yet never forget how to weep; to reach into the future yet never neglect the past; to be serious yet never to take yourself too seriously; to be modest so that you will remember the simplicity of true greatness, the open mind of true wisdom, the meekness of true strength. They give you a temper of the will, a quality of the imagination, a vigor of the emotions, a freshness of the deep springs of life, a temperamental predominance of courage over timidity, of an appetite for adventure over love of ease. They create in your heart the sense of wonder, the unfailing hope of what next, and the joy and inspiration of life. They teach you in this way to be an officer and a gentleman.

And what sort of soldiers are those you are to lead? Are they reliable? Are they brave? Are they capable of victory? Their story is known to all of you. It is the story of the American man-at-arms. My estimate of him was formed on the battlefield many, many years ago, and has never changed. I regarded him then as I regard him now -- as one of the world's noblest figures, not only as one of the finest military characters, but also as one of the most stainless. His name and fame are the birthright of every American citizen. In his youth and strength, his love and loyalty, he gave all that mortality can give.

He needs no eulogy from me or from any other man. He has written his own history and written it in red on his enemy's breast. But when I think of his patience under adversity, of his courage under fire, and of his modesty in victory, I am filled with an emotion of admiration I cannot put into words. He belongs to history as furnishing one of the greatest examples of successful patriotism. He belongs to posterity as the instructor of future generations in the principles of liberty and freedom. He belongs to the present, to us, by his virtues and by his achievements. In 20 campaigns, on a hundred battlefields, around a thousand campfires, I have witnessed that enduring fortitude, that patriotic self-abnegation, and that invincible determination which have carved his statue in the hearts of his people. From one end of the world to the other he has drained deep the chalice of courage.

As I listened to those songs [of the glee club], in memory's eye I could see those staggering columns of the First World War, bending under soggy packs, on many a weary march from dripping dusk to drizzling dawn, slogging ankle-deep through the mire of shell-shocked roads, to form grimly for the attack, blue-lipped, covered with sludge and mud, chilled by the wind and rain, driving home to their objective, and for many, to the judgment seat of God.

I do not know the dignity of their birth, but I do know the glory of their death.

They died unquestioning, uncomplaining, with faith in their hearts, and on their lips the hope that we would go on to victory.

Always, for them: Duty, Honor, Country; always their blood and sweat and tears, as we sought the way and the light and the truth.

And 20 years after, on the other side of the globe, again the filth of murky foxholes, the stench of ghostly trenches, the slime of dripping dugouts; those boiling suns of relentless heat, those torrential rains of devastating storms; the loneliness and utter desolation of jungle trails; the bitterness of long separation from those they loved and cherished; the deadly pestilence of tropical disease; the horror of stricken areas of war; their resolute and determined defense, their swift and sure attack, their indomitable purpose, their complete and decisive victory -- always victory. Always through the bloody haze of their last reverberating shot, the vision of gaunt, ghastly men reverently following your password of: Duty, Honor, Country.

The code which those words perpetuate embraces the highest moral laws and will stand the test of any ethics or philosophies ever promulgated for the uplift of mankind. Its requirements are for the things that are right, and its restraints are from the things that are wrong.

The soldier, above all other men, is required to practice the greatest act of religious training -- sacrifice.

In battle and in the face of danger and death, he discloses those divine attributes which his Maker gave when he created man in his own image. No physical courage and no brute instinct can take the place of the Divine help which alone can sustain him.

However horrible the incidents of war may be, the soldier who is called upon to offer and to give his life for his country is the noblest development of mankind.

You now face a new world -- a world of change. The thrust into outer space of the satellite, spheres, and missiles mark the beginning of another epoch in the long story of mankind. In the five or more billions of years the scientists tell us it has taken to form the earth, in the three or more billion years of development of the human race, there has never been a more abrupt or staggering evolution. We deal now not with things of this world alone, but with the illimitable distances and as yet unfathomed mysteries of the universe. We are reaching out for a new and boundless frontier.

We speak in strange terms: of harnessing the cosmic energy; of making winds and tides work for us; of creating unheard synthetic materials to supplement or even replace our old standard basics; to purify sea water for our drink; of mining ocean floors for new fields of wealth and food; of disease preventatives to expand life into the hundreds of years; of controlling the weather for a more equitable distribution of heat and cold, of rain and shine; of space ships to the moon; of the primary target in war, no longer limited to the armed forces of an enemy, but instead to include his civil populations; of ultimate conflict between a united human race and the sinister forces of some other planetary galaxy; of such dreams and fantasies as to make life the most exciting of all time.

And through all this welter of change and development, your mission remains fixed, determined, inviolable: it is to win our wars.

Everything else in your professional career is but corollary to this vital dedication. All other public purposes, all other public projects, all other public needs, great or small, will find others for their accomplishment. But you are the ones who are trained to fight. Yours is the profession of arms, the will to win, the sure knowledge that in war there is no substitute for victory; that if you lose, the nation will be destroyed; that the very obsession of your public service must be: Duty, Honor, Country.

Others will debate the controversial issues, national and international, which divide men's minds; but serene, calm, aloof, you stand as the Nation's war-guardian, as its lifeguard from the raging tides of international conflict, as its gladiator in the arena of battle. For a century and a half you have defended, guarded, and protected its hallowed traditions of liberty and freedom, of right and justice.

Let civilian voices argue the merits or demerits of our processes of government; whether our strength is being sapped by deficit financing, indulged in too long, by federal paternalism grown too mighty, by power groups grown too arrogant, by politics grown too corrupt, by crime grown too rampant, by morals grown too low, by taxes grown too high, by extremists grown too violent; whether our personal liberties are as thorough and complete as they should be. These great national problems are not for your professional participation or military solution. Your guidepost stands out like a ten-fold beacon in the night: Duty, Honor, Country.

You are the leaven which binds together the entire fabric of our national system of defense. From your ranks come the great captains who hold the nation's destiny in their hands the moment the war tocsin sounds. The Long Gray Line has never failed us. Were you to do so, a million ghosts in olive drab, in brown khaki, in blue and gray, would rise from their white crosses thundering those magic words: Duty, Honor, Country.

This does not mean that you are war mongers.

On the contrary, the soldier, above all other people, prays for peace, for he must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war.

But always in our ears ring the ominous words of Plato, that wisest of all philosophers: "Only the dead have seen the end of war."

The shadows are lengthening for me. The twilight is here. My days of old have vanished, tone and tint. They have gone glimmering through the dreams of things that were. Their memory is one of wondrous beauty, watered by tears, and coaxed and caressed by the smiles of yesterday. I listen vainly, but with thirsty ears, for the witching melody of faint bugles blowing reveille, of far drums beating the long roll. In my dreams I hear again the crash of guns, the rattle of musketry, the strange, mournful mutter of the battlefield.

But in the evening of my memory, always I come back to West Point.

Always there echoes and re-echoes: Duty, Honor, Country.

Today marks my final roll call with you, but I want you to know that when I cross the river my last conscious thoughts will be of The Corps, and The Corps, and The Corps.

I bid you farewell.

-----

The address by General of the Army Douglas MacArthur to the cadets of the U.S. Military Academy in accepting the Sylvanus Thayer Award on 12 May 1962 is a memorable tribute to the ideals that inspired that great American soldier. For as long as other Americans serve their country as courageously and honorably as he did, General MacArthur's words will live on.

General MacArthur's service to his country spanned the years from 1903, when he was graduated from the Military Academy, to 5 April 1964 , when he died in Washington, D.C., at the age of 84. He was recognized early in his career as a brilliant officer and was advanced to brigadier general in 1918. Twelve years later he was named Chief of Staff of the Army, and in 1937 he retired. Recalled to active duty during World War II, he was commander of the Southwest Pacific Area during the greater part of the war. His wartime triumphs were followed by service as supreme commander of the Allied occupation forces in Japan. When the Korean conflict erupted, he also commanded the United Nations forces in Korea. He completed his active military service in 1951.

-----

Source (speech) (http://www.americanrhetoric.com/speeches/douglasmacarthurthayeraward.html)

Source (commentary) (http://www.au.af.mil/au/awc/awcgate/au-24/au24-352mac.htm)

mp3 audio of speech (http://www.americanrhetoric.com/mp3clips/politicalspeeches/douglasmacarthurthayeraward.mp3)

[EveningStar]

From the Other Side

By Patrick Camunes

http://thewall-usa.com/literary/images/reflectwall2.JPG


At first there was no place for us to go until someone put up that "Black Granite Wall." Now, everyday and night, my Brothers and my Sisters wait to see the many people from places afar file in front of this "Wall." Many stopping briefly and many for hours and some that come on a regular basis. It was hard at first, not that it's gotten any easier, but it seems that many of the attitudes towards that Vietnam war we were involved in have changed. I can only pray that the ones on the other side have learn something, and more "Walls" as this one, needn't be built.

Several members of my unit, and many that I did not recognize, have called me to The Wall by touching my name engraved upon it. The tears aren't necessary, but are hard even for me to hold back. Don't feel guilty for not being with me, my Brothers. This was my destiny as it is yours, to be on that side of The Wall. Touch The Wall, my Brothers, so that we can share in the memories that we had. I have learn to put the bad memories aside and remember only the pleasant times that we had together. Tell our other Brothers out there to come and visit me, not to say Goodbye but to say Hello and be together again . . . even for a short time . . . and to ease that pain of loss that we all still share.

Today, an irresistible and loving call summons me to The Wall. As I approach, I can see an elderly lady . . . and as I get closer, I recognize her...It's Momma! As much as I have looked forward to this day, I have also dreaded it, because I didn't know what reaction I would have.

Next to her, I suddenly see my wife and immediately think how hard it must have been for her to come to this place, and my mind floods with the pleasant memories of 30 years past. There's a young man in a military uniform standing with his arm around her...My God!...he has to be my son! Look at him trying to be the man without a tear in his eye. I yearn to tell him how proud I am, seeing him standing tall, straight and proud in his uniform.

Momma comes closer and touches The Wall, and I feel the soft and gentle touch I had not felt in so many years. Dad has crossed to this side of The Wall, and through our touch, I try to convey to her that Dad is doing fine and is no longer suffering or feeling pain. I see my wife's courage building as she sees Momma touch The Wall and she approaches and lays her hand on my waiting hand. All the emotions, feelings and memories of three decades past flash between our touch and I tell her that. . .it's alright . . . carry on with your life and don't worry about me . . . .

I can see as I look into her eyes that she hears and a big burden has been lifted from her on wings of understanding.

I watch as they lay flowers and other memories of my past. My lucky charm that was taken from me and sent to her by my CO . . . a tattered and worn teddy bear that I can barely remember having as I grew up as a child. . . and several medals that I had earned and were presented to my wife. One is the Combat Infantry Badge that I am very proud of, and I notice that my son is also wearing this medal. I had earned mine in the jungles of Vietnam and he had probably earned his in the deserts of Iraq.

I can tell that they are preparing to leave, and I try to take a mental picture of them together, because I don't know when I will see them again. I wouldn't blame them if they were not to return, and can only thank them that I was not forgotten. My wife and Momma near The Wall for one final touch, and so many years of indecision fear and sorrow are let go. As they turn to leave, I feel my tears that had not flowed for so many years, form as if dew drops on the other side of The Wall.

They slowly move away with only a glance over their shoulders. My son suddenly stops and slowly returns. He stands straight and proud in front of me and snaps a salute. Something draws him near The Wall and he puts his hand upon etched stone and touches my tears that had formed dew drops on the face of The Wall . . . and I can tell that he senses my presence and the pride and love I have for him. He falls to his knees and the tears flow from his eyes and I try my best to reassure him that it's alright, and the tears do not make him less of a man. As he moves back wiping the tears from his eyes,he silently mouths,"God Bless you, Dad...."

God Bless, YOU, Son . . . we WILL meet someday, but in the meanwhile, go on your way . . . there is no hurry . . . there is no hurry at all.

As I see them walk off in the distance, I yell out to THEM and EVERYONE there today, as loud as I can:

THANKS FOR REMEMBERING!

. . . and as others on this side of The Wall join in, I notice that the U.S. Flag, Old Glory, that so proudly flies in front of us everyday, is flapping and standing proudly straight out in the wind from our gathering numbers this day . . .

and we shout again,
and . . . again,
and again . . .

T H A N K S F O R R E M E M B E R I N G!
T H A N K S FOR R E M E M B E R I N G!
T H A N K S FOR REMEMBERING!
THANKS F O R REMEMBERING!
THANKS FOR REMEMBERING!

-----

From The Other Side . . .
Thanks For Remembering . . .

by: Patrick Camunes,
Copyright (c) 1998

Many things are written about The Wall, but never anything of being on the other side. I was inspired by the famous painting by Lee Teter, Reflections, and by Don Poss' recent Autumn's Wall. For me, and I hope for you, Reflections, and Autumn's Wall, revealed the Wall's emotion and healing power. Now remember that walk we all began in Vietnam, and know that it will be completed . . .

APVNV Pat (Beanie) Camunes (email: patcam@stic.net)
D/4/31 196th Lt. Inf. Bde
Tay Ninh 12/66-4/67 Tam Ky 4/67-12/67

Source (http://thewall-usa.com/literary/camunes.html)

[EveningStar]

My Heart's Content

By Pat Conroy

http://img146.echo.cx/img146/9007/patconroy6ce.gifhttp://img.photobucket.com/albums/v719/bruckner/history/patconroy.gif


The true things always ambush me on the road and take me by surprise when I am drifting down the light of placid days, careless about flanks and rearguard actions. I was not looking for a true thing to come upon me in the state of New Jersey. Nothing has ever happened to me in New Jersey. But came it did, and it came to stay.

In the past four years I have been interviewing my teammates on the 1966-67 basketball team at the Citadel for a book I'm writing. For the most part, this has been like buying back a part of my past that I had mislaid or shut out of my life. At first I thought I was writing about being young and frisky and able to run up and down a court all day long, but lately I realized I came to this book because I needed to come to grips with being middle-aged and having ripened into a gray-haired man you could not trust to handle the ball on a fast break.

When I visited my old teammate Al Kroboth's house in New Jersey, I spent the first hours quizzing him about his memories of games and practices and the screams of coaches that had echoed in field houses more than 30 years before. Al had been a splendid forward-center for the Citadel; at 6 feet 5 inches and carrying 220 pounds, he played with indefatigable energy and enthusiasm. For most of his senior year, he led the nation in field-goal percentage, with UCLA center Lew Alcindor hot on his trail. Al was a battler and a brawler and a scrapper from the day he first stepped in as a Green Weenie as a sophomore to the day he graduated. After we talked basketball, we came to a subject I dreaded to bring up with Al, but which lay between us and would not lie still.

"Al, you know I was a draft dodger and antiwar demonstrator."

"That's what I heard, Conroy," Al said. "I have nothing against what you did, but I did what I thought was right."

"Tell me about Vietnam, big Al. Tell me what happened to you," I said.

On his seventh mission as a navigator in an A-6 for Major Leonard Robertson, Al was getting ready to deliver their payload when the fighter-bomber was hit by enemy fire. Though Al has no memory of it, he punched out somewhere in the middle of the ill-fated dive and lost consciousness. He doesn't know if he was unconscious for six hours or six days, nor does he know what happened to Major Robertson (whose name is engraved on the Wall in Washington and on the MIA bracelet Al wears).

When Al awoke, he couldn't move. A Viet Cong soldier held an AK-47 to his head. His back and his neck were broken, and he had shattered his left scapula in the fall. When he was well enough to get to his feet (he still can't recall how much time had passed), two armed Viet Cong led Al from the jungles of South Vietnam to a prison in Hanoi. The journey took three months. Al Kroboth walked barefooted through the most impassable terrain in Vietnam, and he did it sometimes in the dead of night. He bathed when it rained, and he slept in bomb craters with his two Viet Cong captors. As they moved farther north, infections began to erupt on his body, and his legs were covered with leeches picked up while crossing the rice paddies.

At the very time of Al's walk, I had a small role in organizing the only antiwar demonstration ever held in Beaufort, South Carolina, the home of Parris Island and the Marine Corps Air Station. In a Marine Corps town at that time, it was difficult to come up with a quorum of people who had even minor disagreements about the Vietnam War. But my small group managed to attract a crowd of about 150 to Beaufort's waterfront. With my mother and my wife on either side of me, we listened to the featured speaker, Dr. Howard Levy, suggest to the very few young enlisted marines present that if they get sent to Vietnam, here's how they can help end this war: Roll a grenade under your officer's bunk when he's asleep in his tent. It's called fragging and is becoming more and more popular with the ground troops who know this war is bullshit. I was enraged by the suggestion. At that very moment my father, a marine officer, was asleep in Vietnam. But in 1972, at the age of 27, I thought I was serving America's interests by pointing out what massive flaws and miscalculations and corruptions had led her to conduct a ground war in Southeast Asia.

In the meantime, Al and his captors had finally arrived in the North, and the Viet Cong traded him to North Vietnamese soldiers for the final leg of the trip to Hanoi. Many times when they stopped to rest for the night, the local villagers tried to kill him. His captors wired his hands behind his back at night, so he trained himself to sleep in the center of huts when the villagers began sticking knives and bayonets into the thin walls. Following the U.S. air raids, old women would come into the huts to excrete on him and yank out hunks of his hair. After the nightmare journey of his walk north, Al was relieved when his guards finally delivered him to the POW camp in Hanoi and the cell door locked behind him.

It was at the camp that Al began to die. He threw up every meal he ate and before long was misidentified as the oldest American soldier in the prison because his appearance was so gaunt and skeletal. But the extraordinary camaraderie among fellow prisoners that sprang up in all the POW camps caught fire in Al, and did so in time to save his life.

When I was demonstrating in America against Nixon and the Christmas bombings in Hanoi, Al and his fellow prisoners were holding hands under the full fury of those bombings, singing "God Bless America." It was those bombs that convinced Hanoi they would do well to release the American POWs, including my college teammate. When he told me about the C-141 landing in Hanoi to pick up the prisoners, Al said he felt no emotion, none at all, until he saw the giant American flag painted on the plane's tail. I stopped writing as Al wept over the memory of that flag on that plane, on that morning, during that time in the life of America.

It was that same long night, after listening to Al's story, that I began to make judgments about how I had conducted myself during the Vietnam War. In the darkness of the sleeping Kroboth household, lying in the third-floor guest bedroom, I began to assess my role as a citizen in the '60s, when my country called my name and I shot her the bird. Unlike the stupid boys who wrapped themselves in Viet Cong flags and burned the American one, I knew how to demonstrate against the war without flirting with treason or astonishingly bad taste. I had come directly from the warrior culture of this country and I knew how to act. But in the 25 years that have passed since South Vietnam fell, I have immersed myself in the study of totalitarianism during the unspeakable century we just left behind. I have questioned survivors of Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen, talked to Italians who told me tales of the Nazi occupation, French partisans who had counted German tanks in the forests of Normandy, and officers who survived the Bataan Death March. I quiz journalists returning from wars in Bosnia, the Sudan, the Congo, Angola, Indonesia, Guatemala, San Salvador, Chile, Northern Ireland, Algeria. As I lay sleepless, I realized I'd done all this research to better understand my country. I now revere words like democracy, freedom, the right to vote, and the grandeur of the extraordinary vision of the founding fathers. Do I see America's flaws? Of course. But I now can honor her basic, incorruptible virtues, the ones that let me walk the streets screaming my ass off that my country had no idea what it was doing in South Vietnam. My country let me scream to my heart's content--the same country that produced both Al Kroboth and me.

Now, at this moment in New Jersey, I come to a conclusion about my actions as a young man when Vietnam was a dirty word to me. I wish I'd led a platoon of marines in Vietnam. I would like to think I would have trained my troops well and that the Viet Cong would have had their hands full if they entered a firefight with us. From the day of my birth, I was programmed to enter the Marine Corps. I was the son of a marine fighter pilot, and I had grown up on marine bases where I had watched the men of the corps perform simulated war games in the forests of my childhood. That a novelist and poet bloomed darkly in the house of Santini strikes me as a remarkable irony. My mother and father had raised me to be an Al Kroboth, and during the Vietnam era they watched in horror as I metamorphosed into another breed of fanatic entirely. I understand now that I should have protested the war after my return from Vietnam, after I had done my duty for my country. I have come to a conclusion about my country that I knew then in my bones but lacked the courage to act on: America is good enough to die for even when she is wrong.

I looked for some conclusion, a summation of this trip to my teammate's house. I wanted to come to the single right thing, a true thing that I may not like but that I could live with. After hearing Al Kroboth's story of his walk across Vietnam and his brutal imprisonment in the North, I found myself passing harrowing, remorseless judgment on myself. I had not turned out to be the man I had once envisioned myself to be. I thought I would be the kind of man that America could point to and say, "There. That's the guy. That's the one who got it right. The whole package. The one I can depend on." It had never once occurred to me that I would find myself in the position I did on that night in Al Kroboth's house in Roselle, New Jersey: an American coward spending the night with an American hero.

-----

Pat Conroy's novels include The Prince of Tides, The Great Santini, The Lords of Discipline, and Beach Music. This essay is from his book, My Losing Season.

Source (http://www.forbes.com/asap/2000/1002/112.html)

[The_Sonarman]

Memorial Day History

http://www.usmemorialday.org/backgrnd.html

[TheRealLobo]

<CENTER>Saint Crispin's Day Speech
from Henry V by William Shakespeare

</CENTER><HR width="40%"><CENTER>

This day is called the feast of Crispian:He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,And rouse him at the name of Crispian.He that shall live this day, and see old age,Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,But he'll remember with advantagesWhat feats he did that day: then shall our names.Familiar in his mouth as household wordsHarry the king, Bedford and Exeter,Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.This story shall the good man teach his son;And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,From this day to the ending of the world,But we in it shall be remember'd;We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;For he to-day that sheds his blood with meShall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,This day shall gentle his condition:And gentlemen in England now a-bedShall think themselves accursed they were not here,And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaksThat fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.</PRE></CENTER>

[TheRealLobo]

By Walt Whitman

O Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up--for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

[Peachdiane]

A big :patriot: salute to our vets. :thankyou:

[Warlady]

I want this thread in Hall of Fame when it's finished.

[TheRealLobo]

Sorry about the spacing on St Crispin's day. It was supposed to be centered, but I'm having issues with my HTML.

If someone can find a better spaced copy of it somewhere, I'd appreciate it.

If anyone can read O Captain! My Captain! without being touched, they have no heart.

Every time I come back to this thread, there are more and more things that tug at my heart.

A salute, and a hearty thank you to all our men and women, vets and those still serving in any capacity. God bless you all.

[Peachdiane]

If anyone can read O Captain! My Captain! without being touched, they have no heart.

It's odd. I'd read Whitman's poems while growing up. However, I didn't hear of the one you mentioned until I saw Dead Poets Society. Keating said:

O Captain, my Captain. Who knows where that comes from? Anybody? Not a clue? It's from a poem by Walt Whitman about Mr. Abraham Lincoln. Now in this class you can either call me Mr. Keating, or if you're slightly more daring, O Captain my Captain.

Naturally I had to look it up!!!

Speaking of Lincoln, tonight my town is re-enacting the Freeport Lincoln-Douglas debate of August 27, 1858 at Lincoln-Douglas square, where it happened.

[tacitus]

It was impossible to hold back the tears as I scrolled through this thread. That is what America is about, loving our country and the people that keep us safe. We owe a huge debt to those that have served and are serving a debt we can never repay. We can make a small down payment by supporting our troops and our Constitution against those that seek to destroy both.

WL is right, this is going to the Hall of Fame! :claps:

[EveningStar]

If anyone can read O Captain! My Captain! without being touched, they have no heart.

It's one of my favorites, Lobo. Thank you for posting it.

[Naturalized-Texan]

On this Memorial Day, we honor those who fought and died to gain and preserve our freedom and preserve the rights guaranteed by the Constitution of the United States, including especially my 5th great-grandfather who was killed August 27, 1776 in the Battle of Long Island while serving under George Washington. He was an immigrant from Germany who arrived in this country in 1742.<p>The Battle of Long Island took place in the vicinity of what is now known as Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn. He was among the 500 Americans who were slaughtered by the Hessians as they were withdrawing to escape across the East River to Manhattan Island where they were to regroup. Those dead Americans were buried in a mass grave on a Dutchman's farm. In the 1950s, their remains were found under an auto-body shop in Brooklyn.

Ironically, the Hessians who slaughtered Washington's troops in Long Island were the same Hessians who were defeated by Washington at Trenton, NJ, following his crossing of the Delaware River.

[Naturalized-Texan]

I took these photos the summer of 2004:

http://tex.connectingzone.com/WW%20II-2.jpg
World War II Memorial

http://tex.connectingzone.com/Korea-2.jpg
Korean War Memorial

http://tex.connectingzone.com/Vietnam_2.jpg
Vietnam War Memorial

[Beowulf]

http://suvcw.org/gif/logan_engraving.jpg


Headquarters, Grand Army of the Republic
Washington, D.C., May 5, 1868


I. The 30th day of May, 1868, is designated for the purpose of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village, and hamlet churchyard in the land. In this observance no form or ceremony is prescribed, but posts and comrades will in their own way arrange such fitting services and testimonials of respect as circumstances may permit.

We are organized, comrades, as our regulations tell us, for the purpose, among other things, "of preserving and strengthening those kind and fraternal feelings which have bound together the soldiers, sailors, and marines who united to suppress the late rebellion." What can aid more to assure this result than by cherishing tenderly the memory of our heroic dead, who made their breasts a barricade between our country and its foe? Their soldier lives were the reveille of freedom to a race in chains, and their death a tattoo of rebellious tyranny in arms. We should guard their graves with sacred vigilance. All that the consecrated wealth and taste of the Nation can add to their adornment and security is but a fitting tribute to the memory of her slain defenders. Let no wanton foot tread rudely on such hallowed grounds. Let pleasant paths invite the coming and going of reverent visitors and found mourners. Let no vandalism of avarice or neglect, no ravages of time, testify to the present or to the coming generations that we have forgotten, as a people, the cost of free and undivided republic.

If other eyes grow dull and other hands slack, and other hearts cold in the solemn trust, ours shall keep it well as long as the light and warmth of life remain in us.

Let us, then, at the time appointed, gather around their sacred remains and garland the passionless mounds above them with choicest flowers of springtime; let us raise above them the dear old flag they saved from dishonor; let us in this solemn presence renew our pledges to aid and assist those whom they have left among us as sacred charges upon the Nation's gratitude,--the soldier's and sailor's widow and orphan.

II. It is the purpose of the Commander-in-Chief to inaugurate this observance with the hope it will be kept up from year to year, while a survivor of the war remains to honor the memory of his departed comrades. He earnestly desires the public press to call attention to this Order, and lend its friendly aid in bringing it to the notice of comrades in all parts of the country in time for simultaneous compliance therewith.

III. Department commanders will use every effort to make this order effective.

By command of:
JOHN A. LOGAN,
Commander-in-Chief.

N. P. CHIPMAN,
Adjutant-General.

[MSGT]

A Young Marine Thanks a Realty Office

Michael Mendez, Cpl USMC

Young Marine...

Golden Pen Award Each Sunday, The Orange Register recognizes a letter that eloquently expresses a viewpoint or engenders a debate on a topic of public interest.

It was our normal Thursday morning business meeting at our real-estate office. No big deal. Before the meeting we hung around the bagel table, as usual, with our coffee. He stood aside, looking a little shy and awkward and very young, a new face in a room full of extroverted salespeople. An average looking guy, maybe 5 feet 8 inches. A clean-cut, sweet-faced kid. I went over to chat with him. Maybe he was a new salesman?

He said he was just back from Kabul, Afghanistan. A Marine. Our office (and a local school) had been supportive by sending letters to him and other troops, which he had posted on the American Embassy door in Kabul. He stood guard there for four months and was shot at daily. He had come to our office to thank us for our support, for all the letters during those scary times. I couldn't believe my ears. He wanted to thank us? We should be thanking him. But how? How can I ever show him my appreciation?

At the end of the sales meeting, he stepped quietly forward, no incredible hulk. As a matter of fact, he looked for all the world 15 years old to me. (The older I get, the younger they look.) This young Marine, this clean-faced boy, had no qualms stepping up to the plate and dodging bullets so that I might enjoy the freedom to live my peaceful life in the land of the free. No matter the risk. Suddenly the most stressful concerns of my life seemed as nothing, my complacency flew right out the window with his every word. Somewhere, somehow, he had taken the words honor, courage and commitment into his very soul and laid his life on the line daily for me and us. A man of principle.

He wants to do it. Relishes it. And he came to thank us? For a few letters? I fought back the tears as he spoke so briefly and softly. He walked forward to our manager and placed a properly folded American flag in his hands. It had flown over the Embassy. He said thanks again. You could hear a pin drop. As I looked around I saw red faces everywhere fighting back the tears.

In a heartbeat, my disillusionment with young people today quickly vanished. In ordinary homes, in ordinary towns, kids like him are growing up proud to be an American and willing to die for it. Wow. We'll frame the flag and put it in the lobby. He only came to my office once, for just a few minutes. But I realize I rubbed shoulders with greatness in the flesh and in the twinkling of an eye my life is forever changed.

His name is Michael Mendez, a corporal in the USMC. We are a great nation. We know because the makings of it walked into my office that day.



Ann Baker Huntington Beach

[MSGT]

Sorry I copied the whole thing. I didn't want it to get lost. Can anyone get batman out of there?

[EveningStar]

<center>Saint Crispin's Day Speech
from Henry V by William Shakespeare
</center>

This is wonderful, Lobo. I would never have thought of this and neither would most people.

And we can listen to it too. :) (http://www.americanrhetoric.com/MovieSpeeches/moviespeechhenryV.html)

[EveningStar]

Can anyone get batman out of there?

Nope. It's stuck there forever. Tough! :tongue:


Just kidding. I'm sure a mod will be along soon to fix it. :grin:

[Turret Gunner A20]

Please Wear A Poppy

"Please wear a poppy," the lady said
And held one forth, but I shook my head.
Then I stopped and watched as she offered them there,
And her face was old and lined with care;
But beneath the scars the years had made
There remained a smile that refused to fade.

A boy came whistling down the street,
Bouncing along on care-free feet.
His smile was full of joy and fun,
"Lady," said he, "may I have one?"
When she's pinned in on he turned to say,
"Why do we wear a poppy today?"

The lady smiled in her wistful way
And answered, "This is Remembrance Day,
And the poppy there is the symbol for
The gallant men who died in war.
And because they did, you and I are free -
That's why we wear a poppy, you see.

"I had a boy about your size,
With golden hair and big blue eyes.
He loved to play and jump and shout,
Free as a bird he would race about.
As the years went by he learned and grew
and became a man - as you will, too.

"He was fine and strong, with a boyish smile,
But he'd seemed with us such a little while
When war broke out and he went away.
I still remember his face that day
When he smiled at me and said, Goodbye,
I'll be back soon, Mom, so please don't cry.

"But the war went on and he had to stay,
And all I could do was wait and pray.
His letters told of the awful fight,
(I can see it still in my dreams at night),
With the tanks and guns and cruel barbed wire,
And the mines and bullets, the bombs and fire.

"Till at last, at last, the war was won-
And that's why we wear a poppy son."
The small boy turned as if to go,
Then said, "Thanks, lady, I'm glad to know.
That sure did sound like an awful fight,
But your son - did he come back all right?"

A tear rolled down each faded check;
She shook her head, but didn't speak.
I slunk away in a sort of shame,
And if you were me you'd have done the same;
For our thanks, in giving, if oft delayed,
Though our freedom was bought - and thousands paid!

And so when we see a poppy worn,
Let us reflect on the burden borne,
By those who gave their very all
When asked to answer their country's call
That we at home in peace might live.
Then wear a poppy! Remember - and give!

by Don Crawford

[Turret Gunner A20]

RAGGED OLD FLAG

I walked through a county courthouse square,
On a park bench an old man was sitting there.
I said, "Your old courthouse is kinda run down."
He said, "Naw, it'll do for our little town."

I said, "Your flagpole has leaned a little bit,
And that's a Ragged Old Flag you got hanging on it.
He said, "Have a seat", and I sat down.
"Is this the first time you've been to our little town?"

I said, "I think it is." He said, "I don't like to brag,
But we're kinda proud of that Ragged Old Flag."
"You see, we got a little hole in that flag there
When Washington took it across the Delaware.

And it got powder-burned the night Francis Scott Key
Sat watching it writing _Oh Say Can You See_.
And it got a bad rip in New Orleans
With Packingham and Jackson tuggin' at its seams."

"And it almost fell at the Alamo
Beside the Texas flag, but she waved on through.
She got cut with a sword at Chancellorsville
And she got cut again at Shiloh Hill.

There was Robert E. Lee, Beauregard, and Bragg,
And the south wind blew hard on that Ragged Old Flag."
"On Flanders Field in World War I
She got a big hole from a Bertha gun.

She turned blood red in World War II
She hung limp and low by the time it was through.
She was in Korea and Vietnam.
She went where she was sent by her Uncle Sam."

"She waved from our ships upon the briny foam,
And now they've about quit waving her back here at home.
In her own good land she's been abused --
She's been burned, dishonored, denied and refused."

"And the government for which she stands
Is scandalized throughout the land.
And she's getting threadbare and wearing thin,
But she's in good shape for the shape she's in.

'Cause she's been through the fire before
And I believe she can take a whole lot more."
"So we raise her up every morning,
Take her down every night.
We don't let her touch the ground
And we fold her up right.

On second thought I DO like to brag,
'Cause I'm mighty proud of that Ragged Old Flag."

Written by Johnny Cash

[Ron]

http://publish.hometown.aol.com/stubbyprs/images/memoriald.gif



God Bless America

[Bold_Fighter]

It was impossible to hold back the tears as I scrolled through this thread. That is what America is about, loving our country and the people that keep us safe. We owe a huge debt to those that have served and are serving a debt we can never repay. We can make a small down payment by supporting our troops and our Constitution against those that seek to destroy both.

WL is right, this is going to the Hall of Fame! :claps:


this is why the libs hate memorial day.

Anyway, I would like to give a special shout out to all my black brothers who have fought and died in wars. Especially the ones in WW2, what a sacrifice they gave...for they did not know freedom just yet, as so many libs wanted them set back into the culture. Their fight, which many of the libs say all came in the radical sixties, were not really in the lsd-60s, but in these wars, when my brave brothers in race laid down their lives for freedom. Not just for the freedom of their opressed families...but for the nation, black...white..red..you name it.

AMERICA!!!!

[TheRealLobo]

Bravo BF. Your brothers were fighting as Americans, though they sometimes weren't treated as such at home. Bless them, you, and all our brothers, in spirit, in flesh, and in heart.

[Beowulf]

Bold Fighter, to me, war is color blind. We all fight on the same team against a common enemy. I'm just sorry that Libs have made society anything BUT color blind. It's an honor to know you, Sir.

[Naturalized-Texan]

this is why the libs hate memorial day.

Anyway, I would like to give a special shout out to all my black brothers who have fought and died in wars. Especially the ones in WW2, what a sacrifice they gave...for they did not know freedom just yet, as so many libs wanted them set back into the culture. Their fight, which many of the libs say all came in the radical sixties, were not really in the lsd-60s, but in these wars, when my brave brothers in race laid down their lives for freedom. Not just for the freedom of their opressed families...but for the nation, black...white..red..you name it.

AMERICA!!!!
The Tuskegee Airmen flew fighter escort for American bombers in WW II and not one of the bombers thay were protecting was lost. We Americans owe them a big debt of gratitude.

[Bold_Fighter]

The Tuskegee Airmen!!!

Say no more my friend. Say no more.

[EveningStar]

Bump for 2007

[Naturalized-Texan]

http://images.chron.com/apps/comics/images/2007/5/28/Gasoline_Alley.532.g.gif

[EveningStar]

2008 bump

[EveningStar]

Reveille (http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-2487638612433437293)

A short film starring David Huddleston and James McEachin

[EveningStar]

Memorial Day 2008 - A Tribute (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y9hWrddLfPs)

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[Taylor1]

Happy memorial day, thank you everyone who has served, will serve and is serving at the moment.

http://www.coxandforkum.com/archives/Futures.07.gif

[EveningStar]

http://www.investors.com/editorial/cartoons/IMAGES/cartoons/toon052708.gif

[Taylor1]

<object width="425" height="355"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/WO5tPf9LUC4&hl=en"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/WO5tPf9LUC4&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="355"></embed></object>

[Wyatt_Junker]

Good stuff folks.