Thank You to all our Veterans
Posted on 11/11/2003 3:31:06 AM PST by snippy_about_it
Thank You to all our Veterans
She is good at holding on to things. The last thing I expected was to see my dad and I on today's thread.
The Creation of the Soldier
When the Lord was creating Soldiers, he was into his sixth day of overtime
when an Angel appeared and said, "Your doing a lot of fiddling around on this one."
And the Lord said "Have you read the specification on this person?
Soldiers have to be able to go for hours fighting or tending to a
person that the usual every day person would never touch, all the while putting
in the back of their mind the circumstances.
They have to be able to move at a moments notice and not think twice of what
they are about to do, no matter what danger.
They have to be in top physical condition at all times, running on half-eaten MRE's,
and very little sleep.
They must have six pairs of hands."
The angel shook her head slowly and said, "Six pairs of hands...no way."
"It's not the hands that are causing me problems, " said the Lord,
"it's the three pairs of eyes a Soldier has to have."
That's on the standard model? " asked the angel.
The Lord nodded. "One pair that sees through the smoke and haze where they and
their fellow Soldiers should fight the enemy next. Another pair here in the
side of the head to see their fellow Soldiers and keep them safe.
And a third pair of eyes in the front so that they can look for the the wounded
caught in the fight that may need their help."
"Lord" said the angel, touching his sleeve, " Rest and work on this tomorrow."
"I can't, said the Lord, "I already have a model that can carry a 100 pounds of gear
for miles on end, or a fellow soldier to safety from a battle area, and can feed a
family of five on a Military service paycheck."
The angel circled the model of the Soldier very slowly, "Can it think?"
"You bet," said the Lord. "It can tell you the parts of a hundred different pieces
of equipment; and can recite many procedures in their sleep that are needed to
care for a wounded soldier until they are taken away by the medics.
And all the while they have to keep their wits about themselves.
This Soldier also must have phenomenal personal control.
They can deal with scenes full of pain, hurt, noise and smoke,
They can be laughing and joking one second and fierce and hard in the next.
And still they rarely get the recognition for a job well done from anybody, other than from fellow Soldiers."
Finally, the angel bent over and ran her finger across the cheek of the Soldier.
"There's a leak", she pronounced. "Lord, it's a tear."
"What's the tear for?" asked the angel.
"It's a tear from bottled-up emotions for fallen comrades.
A tear for commitment to that funny piece of cloth called the flag.
It's a tear for all the pain and suffering they have encountered.
And it's a tear for their commitment to defending our freedoms and
saving lives of their fellow man!"
"What a wonderful feature Lord, you're a genius" said the angel.
The Lord looked somber and said "I didn't put it there."
Reworded from a Firefighters poem, to honor our Troops 3/26/03
by David K. (aka Johnny Gage)
I died
... at Bunker Hill. Grapeshot tore through my body at New Orleans. Crushing hooves with riders as swirls of blue and grey ... and red ... crashed down upon me in strange-sounding places like Chickamauga, Antietam, and Shiloh.
The heat and swamp sucked at my last moments in the wilds of Cuba. A green fog of poisonous gas slithered over the side and into my trench, where water stood mixed with slime and blood
I lay face down in fetid pools clogged with jungle vines, felt the hot sands of Africa burning through my back, lay with cold cheek against wet beach sand and fell from gingerbread doorways into cobblestone streets. I gasped for air and breathed fire and oily water.
Snow clung to my lashes and ice formed at the corners of my mouth as a tiny wisp of steam wafted from the crimson flow of life out of my ears and stomach.
As I fell forward, I felt the jagged pain of bamboo beneath the water tearing at my flesh.
I fought and died when I didn't know why. I was killed before I was old enough to vote. I never knew the pleasure of savoring the memories that come with old age. I left mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, children and sweethearts to weep after me. I lay where names and landscapes and faces were all foreign to me. To this day, no one knows where the earth swallowed me.
I was called wop, nigger, dago, spic, kike, honky, and mic. I was tall and short and thin and heavy and young and old and cheerful and sad. I was a shop steward, an insurance agent, a writer, an orange picker, and the head of a grocery chain stretching from Baltimore to St. Louis.
I lived around the corner, up the street, next door, over the garage, across the tracks, on the hill and out of a suitcase. I came from a family farm, college campus, factory, new-car agency, and Broadway.
I died that we would remain free, that liberty would not perish, that women and children would be safe from terror, that my home would be protected, that an idea would be proven right, that my friend might live, that people back home could make overtime in the plants, and that a sagging economy might be helped.
Sometimes I served my country, sometimes my ideals and sometimes my own ego.
But I served.
On Veteran's Day, I hope you pause for a few moments to think on these things. You are still free to think ... and speak ... and publish whatever you wish because I gave the most I had ... my all.
Some of you have known some of my pain, my tears, and the sickness of soul for the waste of human life.
Yet, the giving of my life was not wasted. For perhaps somehow, in some way, people will do something to end my dying.
My death has extended the time given you to do that something.
After the next war there may be no one left to honor the dead.
...copied from an old newspaper clipping.
I try not to let too much get past me. LOL.
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