Nice Pics and some well spoken words Guys...To all...
Some pics of inspiration
- Thread starter Njaco
- Start date
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Njaco
The Pop-Tart Whisperer
Excellent!!!
Lucky13
Forum Mascot
Keep 'em coming...!
ToughOmbre
Senior Master Sergeant
Beautiful Njaco. The photo of that vet hugging the Marine really gets to me. Thanks.
TO
TO
B-17engineer
Colonel
Nice pictures.
Lucky13
Forum Mascot
The Cost of a Soldier
A True Soldier is tough indeed
standing tall and strong when there is a need
A Soldier also feels sadness, pain, and sorrow
Sometimes not looking forward to the trials of tomorrow
When a Soldier is wounded in battle
the nerves of his buddies it does rattle
When news reaches friends and family at home
how their worries and minds begin to roam
A wounded Soldier feels inadequate at best
stopping him from much needed healing rest
A wounded Soldiers wonders will he ever be alright,
trusting in God that he'll make it through the night.
When a Soldier is wounded far beyond repair
the loss and pain felt can not compare
The Cost of a Soldier is set so very high
they assure our freedom will always apply
To stand beside a Soldier and walk through his pain
will humble a civilian, no longer to complain
Love, patience, trust and hope is what a Soldier needs
to get them through some very treacherous deeds
Dear Lord please watch over our Military today
as they work to keep our freedom everyday
For the wounded and the families of Soldiers lost
Please Bless them with abundant love, for we know not the cost.
The Cost of a Soldier is set so very high
our support for them we should never deny
By Denise Girod
The Fallen Soldier
Fallen Soldier All Alone
Fallen Soldier Far From Home.
Trickling Down His Face A Tear,
Forgetting How It Feels To Fear
Death And All It's Fate And Glory.
Now It's Here, No Need To Worry.
Fallen Soldier All Alone
Fallen Soldier Far From Home
He's One Of Those They'll All Forget;
The Life He Lived, The Goals He Set,
The Ones He Loved, The Ones Who Wait
To See His Nearly Forgotten Face.
Fallen Soldier All Alone
Fallen Soldier Far From Home
Now Breathing's Just A Waste Of Breath
And Living's Just A Waste Of Death
As He Searches For A New Address;
A Brand New Home Free Of Loneliness.
Fallen Soldier All Alone
Fallen Soldier Far From Home
Lying Motionless On The Ground,
The Battle Raging All Around.
For Now He Is Not All Alone.
This Fallen Soldier Is Welcomed Home.
By Branden Hidalgo
Oh, Lord, please keep my Marine tonight,
Close by Your guiding hand of might.
Give him the strength to carry on
When all is dark and hope is gone.
Help him to trust and have no fear
For You are watching, ever near.
Let him know he's not alone;
Your light will always lead him home.
He's rough and tough-no emotions show-
But, God, he's just a boy, you know.
He claims the title and wears it proud;
Says he's the best and says it loud.
And though someday he'll guard Your heights,
Lord, please bring him safely home tonight.
Author Unknown
The Sands of Christmas
I had no Christmas spirit when I breathed a weary sigh, and looked
across the table where the bills were piled too high.
The laundry wasn't finished and the car I had to fix, My stocks were
down another point, the Dolphins lost by six.
And so with only minutes till my son got home from school, I gave up on
the drudgery and grabbed a wooden stool.
The burdens that I carried were about all I could take, and so I flipped
the TV on to catch a little break.
I came upon a desert scene in shades of tan and rust, No snowflakes hung
upon the wind, just clouds of swirling dust.
And where the reindeer should have stood before a laden sleigh, eight
hummers ran a column right behind an M1A.
A group of boys walked past the tank, not one was past his teens, Their
eyes were hard as polished flint, their faces drawn and lean.
They walked the street in armor with their rifles shouldered tight,
their dearest wish for Christmas, just to have a silent night.
Other soldiers gathered, hunkered down against the wind, To share a
scrap of mail and dreams of going home again.
There wasn't much at all to put their lonely hearts at ease, They had no
Christmas turkey, just a pack of MRE's.
They didn't have a garland or a stocking I could see, They didn't need
an ornament-- they lacked a Christmas Tree.
They didn't have a present even though it was tradition, the only boxes
I could see were labeled "ammunition".
I felt a little tug and found my son now by my side, He asked me what it
was I feared, and why it was I cried.
I swept him up into my arms and held him oh so near and kissed him on
the forehead as I whispered in his ear.
There's nothing wrong, my little son, for safe we sleep tonight, our
heroes stand on foreign land to give us all the right, to worry about
the things in life that really mean nothing at all, instead of wondering
each day if we will be the next to fall.
He looked at me as children do and said it's always right, to thank the
ones who help us and perhaps that we should write.
And so we pushed aside the bills and sat to draft a note, to thank the
many far from home, and this is what we wrote,
God bless you all and keep you safe, and speed your way back home.
Remember that we love you so, and that you're not alone.
The gift you give, you share with all, a present every day, You give the
gift of liberty and that we can't repay.
By Mike
Soldier's Christmas
TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS,
HE LIVED ALL ALONE,
IN A ONE BEDROOM HOUSE MADE OF
PLASTER AND STONE.
I HAD COME DOWN THE CHIMNEY
WITH PRESENTS TO GIVE,
AND TO SEE JUST WHO
IN THIS HOME DID LIVE.
I LOOKED ALL ABOUT,
A STRANGE SIGHT I DID SEE,
NO TINSEL, NO PRESENTS,
NOT EVEN A TREE.
NO STOCKING BY MANTLE,
JUST BOOTS FILLED WITH SAND,
ON THE WALL HUNG PICTURES
OF FAR DISTANT LANDS.
WITH MEDALS AND BADGES,
AWARDS OF ALL KINDS,
A SOBER THOUGHT
CAME THROUGH MY MIND.
FOR THIS HOUSE WAS DIFFERENT,
IT WAS DARK AND DREARY,
I FOUND THE HOME OF A SOLDIER,
ONCE I COULD SEE CLEARLY.
THE SOLDIER LAY SLEEPING,
SILENT, ALONE,
CURLED UP ON THE FLOOR
IN THIS ONE BEDROOM HOME.
THE FACE WAS SO GENTLE,
THE ROOM IN SUCH DISORDER,
NOT HOW I PICTURED
A UNITED STATES SOLDIER.
WAS THIS THE HERO
OF WHOM I'D JUST READ?
CURLED UP ON A PONCHO,
THE FLOOR FOR A BED?
I REALIZED THE FAMILIES
THAT I SAW THIS NIGHT,
OWED THEIR LIVES TO THESE SOLDIERS
WHO WERE WILLING TO FIGHT.
SOON ROUND THE WORLD,
THE CHILDREN WOULD PLAY,
AND GROWNUPS WOULD CELEBRATE
A BRIGHT CHRISTMAS DAY.
THEY ALL ENJOYED FREEDOM
EACH MONTH OF THE YEAR,
BECAUSE OF THE SOLDIERS,
LIKE THE ONE LYING HERE.
I COULDN'T HELP WONDER
HOW MANY LAY ALONE,
ON A COLD CHRISTMAS EVE
IN A LAND FAR FROM HOME.
THE VERY THOUGHT
BROUGHT A TEAR TO MY EYE,
I DROPPED TO MY KNEES
AND STARTED TO CRY.
THE SOLDIER AWAKENED
AND I HEARD A ROUGH VOICE,
"SANTA DON'T CRY,
THIS LIFE IS MY CHOICE;
I FIGHT FOR FREEDOM,
I DON'T ASK FOR MORE,
MY LIFE IS FOR MY GOD,
MY COUNTRY, MY CORPS."
THE SOLDIER ROLLED OVER
AND DRIFTED TO SLEEP,
I COULDN'T CONTROL IT,
I CONTINUED TO WEEP.
I KEPT WATCH FOR HOURS,
SO SILENT AND STILL
AND WE BOTH SHIVERED
FROM THE COLD NIGHT'S CHILL.
I DIDN'T WANT TO LEAVE
ON THAT COLD, DARK, NIGHT,
THIS GUARDIAN OF HONOR
SO WILLING TO FIGHT.
THEN THE SOLDIER ROLLED OVER,
WITH A VOICE SOFT AND PURE,
WHISPERED, "CARRY ON SANTA,
IT'S CHRISTMAS DAY, ALL IS SECURE."
ONE LOOK AT MY WATCH,
AND I KNEW HE WAS RIGHT.
"MERRY CHRISTMAS MY FRIEND,
AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT."
A True Soldier is tough indeed
standing tall and strong when there is a need
A Soldier also feels sadness, pain, and sorrow
Sometimes not looking forward to the trials of tomorrow
When a Soldier is wounded in battle
the nerves of his buddies it does rattle
When news reaches friends and family at home
how their worries and minds begin to roam
A wounded Soldier feels inadequate at best
stopping him from much needed healing rest
A wounded Soldiers wonders will he ever be alright,
trusting in God that he'll make it through the night.
When a Soldier is wounded far beyond repair
the loss and pain felt can not compare
The Cost of a Soldier is set so very high
they assure our freedom will always apply
To stand beside a Soldier and walk through his pain
will humble a civilian, no longer to complain
Love, patience, trust and hope is what a Soldier needs
to get them through some very treacherous deeds
Dear Lord please watch over our Military today
as they work to keep our freedom everyday
For the wounded and the families of Soldiers lost
Please Bless them with abundant love, for we know not the cost.
The Cost of a Soldier is set so very high
our support for them we should never deny
By Denise Girod
The Fallen Soldier
Fallen Soldier All Alone
Fallen Soldier Far From Home.
Trickling Down His Face A Tear,
Forgetting How It Feels To Fear
Death And All It's Fate And Glory.
Now It's Here, No Need To Worry.
Fallen Soldier All Alone
Fallen Soldier Far From Home
He's One Of Those They'll All Forget;
The Life He Lived, The Goals He Set,
The Ones He Loved, The Ones Who Wait
To See His Nearly Forgotten Face.
Fallen Soldier All Alone
Fallen Soldier Far From Home
Now Breathing's Just A Waste Of Breath
And Living's Just A Waste Of Death
As He Searches For A New Address;
A Brand New Home Free Of Loneliness.
Fallen Soldier All Alone
Fallen Soldier Far From Home
Lying Motionless On The Ground,
The Battle Raging All Around.
For Now He Is Not All Alone.
This Fallen Soldier Is Welcomed Home.
By Branden Hidalgo
Oh, Lord, please keep my Marine tonight,
Close by Your guiding hand of might.
Give him the strength to carry on
When all is dark and hope is gone.
Help him to trust and have no fear
For You are watching, ever near.
Let him know he's not alone;
Your light will always lead him home.
He's rough and tough-no emotions show-
But, God, he's just a boy, you know.
He claims the title and wears it proud;
Says he's the best and says it loud.
And though someday he'll guard Your heights,
Lord, please bring him safely home tonight.
Author Unknown
The Sands of Christmas
I had no Christmas spirit when I breathed a weary sigh, and looked
across the table where the bills were piled too high.
The laundry wasn't finished and the car I had to fix, My stocks were
down another point, the Dolphins lost by six.
And so with only minutes till my son got home from school, I gave up on
the drudgery and grabbed a wooden stool.
The burdens that I carried were about all I could take, and so I flipped
the TV on to catch a little break.
I came upon a desert scene in shades of tan and rust, No snowflakes hung
upon the wind, just clouds of swirling dust.
And where the reindeer should have stood before a laden sleigh, eight
hummers ran a column right behind an M1A.
A group of boys walked past the tank, not one was past his teens, Their
eyes were hard as polished flint, their faces drawn and lean.
They walked the street in armor with their rifles shouldered tight,
their dearest wish for Christmas, just to have a silent night.
Other soldiers gathered, hunkered down against the wind, To share a
scrap of mail and dreams of going home again.
There wasn't much at all to put their lonely hearts at ease, They had no
Christmas turkey, just a pack of MRE's.
They didn't have a garland or a stocking I could see, They didn't need
an ornament-- they lacked a Christmas Tree.
They didn't have a present even though it was tradition, the only boxes
I could see were labeled "ammunition".
I felt a little tug and found my son now by my side, He asked me what it
was I feared, and why it was I cried.
I swept him up into my arms and held him oh so near and kissed him on
the forehead as I whispered in his ear.
There's nothing wrong, my little son, for safe we sleep tonight, our
heroes stand on foreign land to give us all the right, to worry about
the things in life that really mean nothing at all, instead of wondering
each day if we will be the next to fall.
He looked at me as children do and said it's always right, to thank the
ones who help us and perhaps that we should write.
And so we pushed aside the bills and sat to draft a note, to thank the
many far from home, and this is what we wrote,
God bless you all and keep you safe, and speed your way back home.
Remember that we love you so, and that you're not alone.
The gift you give, you share with all, a present every day, You give the
gift of liberty and that we can't repay.
By Mike
Soldier's Christmas
TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS,
HE LIVED ALL ALONE,
IN A ONE BEDROOM HOUSE MADE OF
PLASTER AND STONE.
I HAD COME DOWN THE CHIMNEY
WITH PRESENTS TO GIVE,
AND TO SEE JUST WHO
IN THIS HOME DID LIVE.
I LOOKED ALL ABOUT,
A STRANGE SIGHT I DID SEE,
NO TINSEL, NO PRESENTS,
NOT EVEN A TREE.
NO STOCKING BY MANTLE,
JUST BOOTS FILLED WITH SAND,
ON THE WALL HUNG PICTURES
OF FAR DISTANT LANDS.
WITH MEDALS AND BADGES,
AWARDS OF ALL KINDS,
A SOBER THOUGHT
CAME THROUGH MY MIND.
FOR THIS HOUSE WAS DIFFERENT,
IT WAS DARK AND DREARY,
I FOUND THE HOME OF A SOLDIER,
ONCE I COULD SEE CLEARLY.
THE SOLDIER LAY SLEEPING,
SILENT, ALONE,
CURLED UP ON THE FLOOR
IN THIS ONE BEDROOM HOME.
THE FACE WAS SO GENTLE,
THE ROOM IN SUCH DISORDER,
NOT HOW I PICTURED
A UNITED STATES SOLDIER.
WAS THIS THE HERO
OF WHOM I'D JUST READ?
CURLED UP ON A PONCHO,
THE FLOOR FOR A BED?
I REALIZED THE FAMILIES
THAT I SAW THIS NIGHT,
OWED THEIR LIVES TO THESE SOLDIERS
WHO WERE WILLING TO FIGHT.
SOON ROUND THE WORLD,
THE CHILDREN WOULD PLAY,
AND GROWNUPS WOULD CELEBRATE
A BRIGHT CHRISTMAS DAY.
THEY ALL ENJOYED FREEDOM
EACH MONTH OF THE YEAR,
BECAUSE OF THE SOLDIERS,
LIKE THE ONE LYING HERE.
I COULDN'T HELP WONDER
HOW MANY LAY ALONE,
ON A COLD CHRISTMAS EVE
IN A LAND FAR FROM HOME.
THE VERY THOUGHT
BROUGHT A TEAR TO MY EYE,
I DROPPED TO MY KNEES
AND STARTED TO CRY.
THE SOLDIER AWAKENED
AND I HEARD A ROUGH VOICE,
"SANTA DON'T CRY,
THIS LIFE IS MY CHOICE;
I FIGHT FOR FREEDOM,
I DON'T ASK FOR MORE,
MY LIFE IS FOR MY GOD,
MY COUNTRY, MY CORPS."
THE SOLDIER ROLLED OVER
AND DRIFTED TO SLEEP,
I COULDN'T CONTROL IT,
I CONTINUED TO WEEP.
I KEPT WATCH FOR HOURS,
SO SILENT AND STILL
AND WE BOTH SHIVERED
FROM THE COLD NIGHT'S CHILL.
I DIDN'T WANT TO LEAVE
ON THAT COLD, DARK, NIGHT,
THIS GUARDIAN OF HONOR
SO WILLING TO FIGHT.
THEN THE SOLDIER ROLLED OVER,
WITH A VOICE SOFT AND PURE,
WHISPERED, "CARRY ON SANTA,
IT'S CHRISTMAS DAY, ALL IS SECURE."
ONE LOOK AT MY WATCH,
AND I KNEW HE WAS RIGHT.
"MERRY CHRISTMAS MY FRIEND,
AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT."
Lucky13
Forum Mascot
The Flag
A protest raged on a courthouse lawn,
round a makeshift stage they charged on.
Fifteen hundred or more they say,
had come to burn the Flag that day.
A boy held up the folded Flag,
cursed it and called it a dirty rag.
A man pushed through the angry crowd,
with an old gun shouldered proud.
His uniform jacket was old and tight,
he had polished each button, shiny and bright.
He crossed the stage with military grace,
until he and the boy stood face to face.
Then the old man broke the silence.
"Freedom of speech, is worth dying for,
Good men are gone, they live no more.
All so you can stand on this courthouse lawn,
and ramble on from dusk to dawn.
But before the Flag gets burned today,
this old veteran is going to have his say.
My father died on a foreign shore,
in a war they said would end all wars.
Tommy and I weren't even full grown,
before we fought in a war of our own.
Tommy died on Iwo Jima's beach,
in the shadow of a hill he couldn't reach.
Where five good men raised this Flag so high,
that the whole world could see it fly.
I got this bum leg that I still drag,
fighting for this same old Flag.
There's but one shot in this old gun, so now it's time to decide which one.
Which one of you will follow our lead, to stand and die for what you believe?"
The boy who had called it a dirty rag,handed the veteran the folded Flag.
The crowd got quiet as they walked away, to talk about what they heard that day.
So the battle for the Flag this day was won, by a loyal veteran with a single gun.
Who for one last time, had to show to some, That these colors will never, never run.
It is the veteran, not the preacher,who has given us freedom of religion.
It is the veteran, not the reporter, who has given us freedom of the press.
It is the veteran, not the poet, who has given us freedom of speech.
It is the veteran, not the campus organizer, who has given us freedom to assemble.
It is the veteran, not the lawyer, who has given us the right to a fair trial.
It is the veteran, not the politician,Who has given us the right to vote.
It is the veteran, who salutes the Flag, who serves under the Flag, whose coffin is draped by the Flag.
BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And Glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind;
Nor troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms;
No braying horn nor screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.
Their shriveled swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed,
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,
And the proud forms, by battle gashed
Are free from anguish now.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are past;
Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore may feel
The rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce northern hurricane
That sweeps the great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Came down the serried foe,
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew well the watchword of that day
Was "Victory or death!"
Long had the doubtful conflict raged
O'er all that stricken plain,
For never fiercer fight had waged
The vengeful blood of Spain;
And still the storm of battle blew,
Still swelled the gory tide;
Not long, our stout old chieftain knew,
Such odds his strength could bide.
Twas in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyr's grave
The flower of his beloved land,
The nation's flag to save.
By rivers of their father's gore
His first-born laurels grew,
And well he deemed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory too.
For many a mother's breath has swept
O'er Angostura's plain --
And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its moldered slain.
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,
Alone awakes each sullen height
That frowned o'er that dread fray.
Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground
Ye must not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air.
Your own proud land's heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave;
She claims from war his richest spoil --
The ashes of her brave.
Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast
On many a bloody shield;
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes sepulcher.
Rest on embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave;
No impious footstep shall here tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While fame her records keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanquished ago has flown,
The story how ye fell;
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor Time's remorseless doom,
Shall dim one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb.
The Soldier
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam;
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
By Rupert Brooke
Unknown Soldier
"The anthem of the Unknown dead"
The anthem of the unknown dead,
Baptized in a pool of red,
Forgotten through the mists of time,
Both their good deeds and their crimes,
Lost souls buried in foriegn lands,
Retaken by all nature's hands,
These men whose sacrifice was all,
From lives of sorrow blest they fall,
With naught to hold aloft but pain,
Forgotten soldiers die in vain,
But Nay, a bloody battle crown,
Is won on God forsaken ground,
When they fell to deaht's cold fierce bite,
Alone and friendless in the fight,
Life dripping from their face and brow,
They fall to knees and head they bow,
But spirit keeps it's loyal fire,
A belief in a cause that's higher,
One that conquers fear of death,
And give the dieing man new breath,
Honor, passion, quest for glory,
These create the lore of story,
These fuel the heart's desire,
and create the Mental fire,
To happ'ly sacrifice one's all,
To fight in foreign lands then fall,
The anthem of the unknown dead,
Spurs the hearts of man's heros bred,
To boldly conquer any height,
To fight a foe as dark as night,
The unknown dead are hero's born,
Their heart and soul on oath they've sworn,
These hero's are the greatest man,
Who proudly die to save the land.
The Final Roll Call
We thought of you with love today
But that is nothing new.
We thought about you yesterday
And days before that too.
We think of you in silence
We often speak your name.
Now all we have are memories
And your picture in a frame.
Your memory is our keepsake
With which we'll never part
God has you in His keeping
We have you in our Heart.
Author Unknown
A Fallen Soldier
He sleeps at peace beneath a foreign sod
At peace because he won his grim crusade,
For he kept faith with home and love and God
And boasted not the sacrifice he made.
For him no sacrifice too great to keep
His land unsullied in her virgin pride;
No bloody-minded tyrant's reeking feet
Should foul the soil for which his fathers died.
In splendid youth he cared not for the cost
But cast his all into that deadly game --
His life and all his unborn sons -- and lost
Them all. For with him died his father's name.
By John Temple Meyer, July 4th, 1944
A protest raged on a courthouse lawn,
round a makeshift stage they charged on.
Fifteen hundred or more they say,
had come to burn the Flag that day.
A boy held up the folded Flag,
cursed it and called it a dirty rag.
A man pushed through the angry crowd,
with an old gun shouldered proud.
His uniform jacket was old and tight,
he had polished each button, shiny and bright.
He crossed the stage with military grace,
until he and the boy stood face to face.
Then the old man broke the silence.
"Freedom of speech, is worth dying for,
Good men are gone, they live no more.
All so you can stand on this courthouse lawn,
and ramble on from dusk to dawn.
But before the Flag gets burned today,
this old veteran is going to have his say.
My father died on a foreign shore,
in a war they said would end all wars.
Tommy and I weren't even full grown,
before we fought in a war of our own.
Tommy died on Iwo Jima's beach,
in the shadow of a hill he couldn't reach.
Where five good men raised this Flag so high,
that the whole world could see it fly.
I got this bum leg that I still drag,
fighting for this same old Flag.
There's but one shot in this old gun, so now it's time to decide which one.
Which one of you will follow our lead, to stand and die for what you believe?"
The boy who had called it a dirty rag,handed the veteran the folded Flag.
The crowd got quiet as they walked away, to talk about what they heard that day.
So the battle for the Flag this day was won, by a loyal veteran with a single gun.
Who for one last time, had to show to some, That these colors will never, never run.
It is the veteran, not the preacher,who has given us freedom of religion.
It is the veteran, not the reporter, who has given us freedom of the press.
It is the veteran, not the poet, who has given us freedom of speech.
It is the veteran, not the campus organizer, who has given us freedom to assemble.
It is the veteran, not the lawyer, who has given us the right to a fair trial.
It is the veteran, not the politician,Who has given us the right to vote.
It is the veteran, who salutes the Flag, who serves under the Flag, whose coffin is draped by the Flag.
BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And Glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind;
Nor troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms;
No braying horn nor screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.
Their shriveled swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed,
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,
And the proud forms, by battle gashed
Are free from anguish now.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are past;
Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore may feel
The rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce northern hurricane
That sweeps the great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Came down the serried foe,
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew well the watchword of that day
Was "Victory or death!"
Long had the doubtful conflict raged
O'er all that stricken plain,
For never fiercer fight had waged
The vengeful blood of Spain;
And still the storm of battle blew,
Still swelled the gory tide;
Not long, our stout old chieftain knew,
Such odds his strength could bide.
Twas in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyr's grave
The flower of his beloved land,
The nation's flag to save.
By rivers of their father's gore
His first-born laurels grew,
And well he deemed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory too.
For many a mother's breath has swept
O'er Angostura's plain --
And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its moldered slain.
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,
Alone awakes each sullen height
That frowned o'er that dread fray.
Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground
Ye must not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air.
Your own proud land's heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave;
She claims from war his richest spoil --
The ashes of her brave.
Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast
On many a bloody shield;
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes sepulcher.
Rest on embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave;
No impious footstep shall here tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While fame her records keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanquished ago has flown,
The story how ye fell;
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor Time's remorseless doom,
Shall dim one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb.
The Soldier
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam;
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
By Rupert Brooke
Unknown Soldier
"The anthem of the Unknown dead"
The anthem of the unknown dead,
Baptized in a pool of red,
Forgotten through the mists of time,
Both their good deeds and their crimes,
Lost souls buried in foriegn lands,
Retaken by all nature's hands,
These men whose sacrifice was all,
From lives of sorrow blest they fall,
With naught to hold aloft but pain,
Forgotten soldiers die in vain,
But Nay, a bloody battle crown,
Is won on God forsaken ground,
When they fell to deaht's cold fierce bite,
Alone and friendless in the fight,
Life dripping from their face and brow,
They fall to knees and head they bow,
But spirit keeps it's loyal fire,
A belief in a cause that's higher,
One that conquers fear of death,
And give the dieing man new breath,
Honor, passion, quest for glory,
These create the lore of story,
These fuel the heart's desire,
and create the Mental fire,
To happ'ly sacrifice one's all,
To fight in foreign lands then fall,
The anthem of the unknown dead,
Spurs the hearts of man's heros bred,
To boldly conquer any height,
To fight a foe as dark as night,
The unknown dead are hero's born,
Their heart and soul on oath they've sworn,
These hero's are the greatest man,
Who proudly die to save the land.
The Final Roll Call
We thought of you with love today
But that is nothing new.
We thought about you yesterday
And days before that too.
We think of you in silence
We often speak your name.
Now all we have are memories
And your picture in a frame.
Your memory is our keepsake
With which we'll never part
God has you in His keeping
We have you in our Heart.
Author Unknown
A Fallen Soldier
He sleeps at peace beneath a foreign sod
At peace because he won his grim crusade,
For he kept faith with home and love and God
And boasted not the sacrifice he made.
For him no sacrifice too great to keep
His land unsullied in her virgin pride;
No bloody-minded tyrant's reeking feet
Should foul the soil for which his fathers died.
In splendid youth he cared not for the cost
But cast his all into that deadly game --
His life and all his unborn sons -- and lost
Them all. For with him died his father's name.
By John Temple Meyer, July 4th, 1944
Lucky13
Forum Mascot
When the final taps is sounded and we lay aside life's cares,
And we do the last and gloried parade on heaven's shining stairs,
And the angels bid us welcome and the harps begin to play
We can draw a million canteen checks and spend them in a day.
It is then we'll hear St. Peter tell us loudly with a yell,
"Take a front seat, you soldier men, you've done your hitch in Hell."
And we do the last and gloried parade on heaven's shining stairs,
And the angels bid us welcome and the harps begin to play
We can draw a million canteen checks and spend them in a day.
It is then we'll hear St. Peter tell us loudly with a yell,
"Take a front seat, you soldier men, you've done your hitch in Hell."
wilbur1
Tech Sergeant
Great ones lucky
- Thread starter
- #71
Njaco
The Pop-Tart Whisperer
Fantastic Lucky! Thanks!
Lucky13
Forum Mascot
The Unknown Soldier
He is known to the sun-white Majesties
Who stand at the gates of dawn.
He is known to the cloud-borne company
Whose souls but late have gone.
Like wind-flung stars through lattice bars
They throng to greet their own,
With voice of flame they sound his name
Who died to us unknown.
He is hailed by the time-crowned brotherhood,
By the Dauntless of Marathon,
By Raymond, Godfrey and Lion Heart
Whose dreams he carried on.
His name they call through the heavenly hall
Unheard by earthly ear,
He is claimed by the famed in Arcady
Who knew no title here.
Oh faint was the lamp of Sirius
And dim was the Milky Way.
Oh far was the floor of Paradise
From the soil where the soldier lay.
Oh chill and stark was the crimson dark
Where huddled men lay deep;
His comrades all denied his call
Long had they lain in sleep.
Oh strange how the lamp of Sirius
Drops low to the dazzled eyes,
Oh strange how the steel-red battlefields
Are floors of Paradise.
Oh strange how the ground with never a sound
Swings open, tier on tier,
And standing there in the shining air
Are the friends he cherished here.
They are known to the sun-shod sentinels
Who circle the morning's door,
They are led by a cloud-bright company
Through paths unseen before.
Like blossoms blown, their souls have flown
Past war and reeking sod,
In the book unbound their names are found
They are known in the courts of God!
by Angela Morgan
He is known to the sun-white Majesties
Who stand at the gates of dawn.
He is known to the cloud-borne company
Whose souls but late have gone.
Like wind-flung stars through lattice bars
They throng to greet their own,
With voice of flame they sound his name
Who died to us unknown.
He is hailed by the time-crowned brotherhood,
By the Dauntless of Marathon,
By Raymond, Godfrey and Lion Heart
Whose dreams he carried on.
His name they call through the heavenly hall
Unheard by earthly ear,
He is claimed by the famed in Arcady
Who knew no title here.
Oh faint was the lamp of Sirius
And dim was the Milky Way.
Oh far was the floor of Paradise
From the soil where the soldier lay.
Oh chill and stark was the crimson dark
Where huddled men lay deep;
His comrades all denied his call
Long had they lain in sleep.
Oh strange how the lamp of Sirius
Drops low to the dazzled eyes,
Oh strange how the steel-red battlefields
Are floors of Paradise.
Oh strange how the ground with never a sound
Swings open, tier on tier,
And standing there in the shining air
Are the friends he cherished here.
They are known to the sun-shod sentinels
Who circle the morning's door,
They are led by a cloud-bright company
Through paths unseen before.
Like blossoms blown, their souls have flown
Past war and reeking sod,
In the book unbound their names are found
They are known in the courts of God!
by Angela Morgan
syscom3
Pacific Historian
Lucky13
Forum Mascot
FOR THE FALLEN
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children
England mourns for her dead across the sea,
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eyes, steady and aglow,
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again,
They sit no more at familiar tables of home,
They have no lot in our labour of the daytime,
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires and hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the night.
As the stars shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are stary in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children
England mourns for her dead across the sea,
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eyes, steady and aglow,
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again,
They sit no more at familiar tables of home,
They have no lot in our labour of the daytime,
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires and hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the night.
As the stars shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are stary in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
Konigstiger205
Staff Sergeant
Lucky13
Forum Mascot
THE bugler sent a call of high romance—
"Lights out! Lights out!" to the deserted square.
On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer:
"God, if it's this for me next time in France,
O spare the phantom bugle as I lie
Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns,
Dead in a row with other broken ones,
Lying so stiff and still under the sky—
Jolly young Fusiliers, too good to die..."
The music ceased, and the red sunset flare
Was blood about his head as he stood there.
Robert Graves. 1895–1985
Taps
Day is done ...
Gone the sun ...
From the lakes ...
From the hills ...
From the sky ...
All is well ...
Safely rest ...
God is nigh...
Fading light ...
Dims the sight ...
And a star ...
Gems the sky...
Gleaming bright ...
From afar...
Drawing nigh ...
Falls the night ..
Thanks and praise ...
For our days ...
Neath the sun ...
Neath the stars ...
Neath the sky ...
As we go ...
This we know ...
God is nigh ...
Aaron Brooks Wolters
Brigadier General
Njaco, the photo I contacted you about you have already posted. Mine will not let me upload it to this thread but it has a caption that I think you all would be interested in. The photo is on page 5, 4th one down, the Marine being embraced by the elderly gentleman. Here's the caption; Pearl Harbor survivor Houston James of Dallas embraced Marine Staff Sgt.Mark Graunke Jr. during a Veterans Day commemoration in Dallas yesterday. Graunke lost a hand, a leg and an eye when he defused a bomb in Iraq last year. This weeks images of troops in combat in Fallujah deepened the day's significance for many who attended tributes held in San Diego and across the the nation. ( Associated Press)
- Thread starter
- #78
Njaco
The Pop-Tart Whisperer
Thanks Aaron, its even better when we have the story for the pic! Great!
Top stuff Lucky!
Emac44
Staff Sergeant
I have gone through this thread. I gazed upon the photos of Troops in Iraq and Afghanistan and other places that make you feel humble and grateful to those who sacrifice themselves for our FREEDOM. But I have no photos to share of strangers who inspire me. So I will share my Private Photos of my Father with you.
Every day I pass my Father's Photo I took an ANZAC Day 1992. He stands erect like the Digger he always was. His Campaign Medals polished and worn proudly upon his chest. He earned the Day for his mates and himself to commerate his Fellow ANZACs. Those who came home and those who didn't.
What inspires me every day I pass his Photo. Is to constantly live up to the standards of me being his son. Some days I look or think about my Dad. And say to myself in silent prayer and to him alone. Dad do I make you proud? Have I achieved all I can do or have I not finished in being a Father and a Husband myself and more importantly the man of who I am? And in my mind I hear this. Son you always make me proud. I take my inspiration from the memory of my late Father. Who passed away on 20th July 1994. Just barely 10 days of my Parents Golden Wedding Anniversary
My Father as you can see served in the 2nd AIF in the Middle East North Africa Papua New Giunea and later with 467 Squadron Royal Australian Air Force 5th Bomber Group Bomber Command Waddington. He joined the AIF at 18 years of age putting his age up by 2 years. He too was a boy soldier barely able to shave. Not abled to buy a beer as he was under age but old enough by lying to join and serve God King and Country. Dad served with the 6th Division 2nd AIF in North Africa Middle East and Papua New Giunea. In the Army he became what we Aussies call a Larrikin. And his charge sheets testify to his sense of humour and Army Military Officialdom clashing head long at times. Returning to Australia he joined the RAAF to become a Mid Upper Gunner for Bomber Command. And undertook training at Evan's Heads New South Wales in Air Gunnery School for RAAF Air Crew. After completion of Air Gunnery School he was posted to a Lancaster Squadron to serve as a MId Upper Gunner in England from 1944 to 1945. Where upon like other Gunners and Air Crew he was detailed to serve with 6 other men from various parts of United Kingdom, Australia and the Commonwealth. Flying 33 Missions over Germany and the Occupied Territories. On returning to Australia in 1946 with my Mother whom he had met and married in July 1944 and she became known as a War Bride. My Father and Mother settled to peace time life to raise a family of 3 daughters and 2 sons. Dad again had falsified his age a second time to join the RAAF. But on him being demobbed in London late 1945 he eventually gave his correct age.
Was my Father any one special? Was he a War Hero with a chest full of medals or a Victoria Cross won for Gallantry? No he was just an ordinary Aussie. Doing a job he volunteered for. First with the Army and later with the RAAF. And later still returning to the RAAF to serve his country once more but in peace time. Finally retiring from the RAAF in 1976.
How then you may ask do I gain inspiration from such a Man as my Father? Simpley put I just do. I see Monuments and War Memorials every day in Australia. I see today's RAAF Army and Navy. The new generation of Aussie Diggers. And I think of my Father. I see his old mates on ANZAC Day. Marching with pride but a little slower and ranks thinning each year. And then I think of today's ANZACs like yesterdays ANZACs (like my Father who served) and are serving my Country I gain pride and inspiration. For such men and women like my Father and the new Generation of Austrlian Military Air Force Army and Navy. Are placing themselves in danger for my freedom my liberty and my country. God Bless the Australian Service Men and Women of Australia. My Father like many of his mates has passed on to the New Generation of Australian Military the traditions of ANZAC. Mateship Loyalty and love of Country.
People let me say this. Its not always the Monuments or War Memorials or even the photographs Njaco placed on this thread. Those too inspire. But sometimes its the personal photos you have of a family member. No longer with you or has answered the call of the Last Post. That inspire and will continue to inspire long after they have gone to be with the Lord
Every day I pass my Father's Photo I took an ANZAC Day 1992. He stands erect like the Digger he always was. His Campaign Medals polished and worn proudly upon his chest. He earned the Day for his mates and himself to commerate his Fellow ANZACs. Those who came home and those who didn't.
What inspires me every day I pass his Photo. Is to constantly live up to the standards of me being his son. Some days I look or think about my Dad. And say to myself in silent prayer and to him alone. Dad do I make you proud? Have I achieved all I can do or have I not finished in being a Father and a Husband myself and more importantly the man of who I am? And in my mind I hear this. Son you always make me proud. I take my inspiration from the memory of my late Father. Who passed away on 20th July 1994. Just barely 10 days of my Parents Golden Wedding Anniversary
My Father as you can see served in the 2nd AIF in the Middle East North Africa Papua New Giunea and later with 467 Squadron Royal Australian Air Force 5th Bomber Group Bomber Command Waddington. He joined the AIF at 18 years of age putting his age up by 2 years. He too was a boy soldier barely able to shave. Not abled to buy a beer as he was under age but old enough by lying to join and serve God King and Country. Dad served with the 6th Division 2nd AIF in North Africa Middle East and Papua New Giunea. In the Army he became what we Aussies call a Larrikin. And his charge sheets testify to his sense of humour and Army Military Officialdom clashing head long at times. Returning to Australia he joined the RAAF to become a Mid Upper Gunner for Bomber Command. And undertook training at Evan's Heads New South Wales in Air Gunnery School for RAAF Air Crew. After completion of Air Gunnery School he was posted to a Lancaster Squadron to serve as a MId Upper Gunner in England from 1944 to 1945. Where upon like other Gunners and Air Crew he was detailed to serve with 6 other men from various parts of United Kingdom, Australia and the Commonwealth. Flying 33 Missions over Germany and the Occupied Territories. On returning to Australia in 1946 with my Mother whom he had met and married in July 1944 and she became known as a War Bride. My Father and Mother settled to peace time life to raise a family of 3 daughters and 2 sons. Dad again had falsified his age a second time to join the RAAF. But on him being demobbed in London late 1945 he eventually gave his correct age.
Was my Father any one special? Was he a War Hero with a chest full of medals or a Victoria Cross won for Gallantry? No he was just an ordinary Aussie. Doing a job he volunteered for. First with the Army and later with the RAAF. And later still returning to the RAAF to serve his country once more but in peace time. Finally retiring from the RAAF in 1976.
How then you may ask do I gain inspiration from such a Man as my Father? Simpley put I just do. I see Monuments and War Memorials every day in Australia. I see today's RAAF Army and Navy. The new generation of Aussie Diggers. And I think of my Father. I see his old mates on ANZAC Day. Marching with pride but a little slower and ranks thinning each year. And then I think of today's ANZACs like yesterdays ANZACs (like my Father who served) and are serving my Country I gain pride and inspiration. For such men and women like my Father and the new Generation of Austrlian Military Air Force Army and Navy. Are placing themselves in danger for my freedom my liberty and my country. God Bless the Australian Service Men and Women of Australia. My Father like many of his mates has passed on to the New Generation of Australian Military the traditions of ANZAC. Mateship Loyalty and love of Country.
People let me say this. Its not always the Monuments or War Memorials or even the photographs Njaco placed on this thread. Those too inspire. But sometimes its the personal photos you have of a family member. No longer with you or has answered the call of the Last Post. That inspire and will continue to inspire long after they have gone to be with the Lord
