A Soldier Died Today
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 once fought in
And the deeds that he had done,
In his exploits with his buddies;
They were heroes, every one.
And 'tho sometimes to his neighbors
His tales became a joke,
All his buddies listened quietly
For they knew where of he spoke.
But we'll hear his tales no longer,
For ol' Bob has passed away,
And the world's a little poorer
For a Soldier died today.
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,
Going quietly 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 politician's stipend
And the style in which he lives,
Are often disproportionate,
To the service that 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 is so many times
That our Bobs and Jims and Johnnys,
Went to battle, but we know,
It is 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--
His home, his country, his kin,
Just a common Soldier,
Who 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,
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 simply headline
In the paper that might say:
"OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING,
A SOLDIER DIED TODAY."
Author unknown
Sent by a subscriber
"WHAT IS A VET?"
Some veterans bear visible signs of their service: a
missing limb, a jagged scar, a certain look in the eye.
Others may carry the evidence inside them: a pin
holding a bone together, a piece of shrapnel in the
leg - or perhaps another sort of inner steel: the
soul's ally forged in the refinery of adversity.
Except in parades, however, the men and women who
have kept America safe wear no badge or emblem.
You can't tell a vet just by looking.
What is a vet?
He is the cop on the beat who spent six months in
Saudi Arabia sweating two gallons a day making sure
the armored personnel carriers didn't run out of fuel.
He is the barroom loudmouth, dumber than five wooden
planks, whose overgrown frat-boy behavior is outweighed
a hundred times in the cosmic scales by four
hours of exquisite bravery near the 38th parallel.
She or he -- is the nurse who fought against futility
and went to sleep sobbing every night for two solid
years in Da Nang.
He is the POW who went away one person and came back
another -- or didn't come back AT ALL.
He is the Quantico drill instructor who has never
seen combat -- but has saved countless lives by
turning slouchy, no-account rednecks and gang members
into Marines, and teaching them to watch each other's backs.
He is the parade -- riding Legionnaire who pins on
his ribbons and medals with a prosthetic hand.
He is the career quartermaster who watches the ribbons
and medals pass him by.
He is the three anonymous heroes in The Tomb Of The
Unknowns, whose presence at the Arlington National
Cemetery must forever preserve the memory of all the
anonymous heroes whose valor dies unrecognized with
them on the battlefield or in the ocean's sunless deep.
He is the old guy bagging groceries at the supermarket
-- palsied now and aggravatingly slow -- who helped
liberate a Nazi death camp and who wishes all day long
that his wife were still alive to hold him when the
nightmares come.
He is an ordinary and yet an extraordinary human
being -- a person who offered some of his life's
most vital years in the service of his country,
and who sacrificed his ambitions so others would
not have to sacrifice theirs.
He is a soldier and a savior and a sword against the
darkness, and he is nothing more than the finest,
greatest testimony on behalf of the finest,
greatest nation ever known.
So remember, each time you see someone who has
served our country, just lean over and say
Thank You. That's all most people need, and in
most cases it will mean more than any medals they
could have been awarded or were awarded.
Two little words that mean a lot, "THANK YOU."
It is the soldier, not the poet, Who has given us
freedom of speech.
It is the soldier, not the campus organizer, Who
has given us the freedom to demonstrate.
It is the soldier, who salutes the flag, who serves
beneath the flag, and whose coffin is draped by
the flag, who allows the protester to burn the flag."
Father Dennis Edward O'Brien, USMC
Reprinted from Inspire Today
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OUR GROUND FIGHTING
FORCES
The average age of
the Ground Military Man who is going to face enemy troops
head-on is 19 years. He is a short haired,
tight-muscled kid who, under normal circumstances is considered by society as
half man, half boy. Not yet dry behind the ears, not old enough to buy a beer,
but old enough to die for his country.
He never really cared much for work and he would rather wax
his own car than wash his father's; but he has never collected unemployment
either.
He's a recent High School graduate; he was probably an
average student, pursued some form of sport activities, drives a ten year old
jalopy, and has a steady girlfriend that either broke up with him when he left,
or swears to be waiting when he returns from half a world away.
He listens to rock and roll or hip-hop or rap or jazz or
swing and 155mm Howitzers.
He is 10 or 15! pounds lighter now than when he was at home
because he is working or fighting from before dawn to well after
dusk.
He has trouble spelling, thus letter writing is a pain for
him, but he can field strip a rifle in 30 seconds and reassemble it in less time
in the dark.
He can recite to you the nomenclature of a machine gun or
grenade launcher and use either one effectively if he must.
He digs foxholes and latrines and can apply first aid like a
professional.
He can march until he is told to stop or stop until he is
told to march.
He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation, but he is
not without spirit or individual dignity.
He is self-sufficient. He has two sets of fatigues: he
washes one and wears the other. He keeps his canteens full and his feet
dry.
He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never to clean
his rifle. He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes, and fix his own
hurts. If you're thirsty, he'll share his water with you; if you are
hungry, his food. He'll even split his ammunition with you in the midst of
battle when you run low.
He has learned to use his hands like weapons and weapons
like they were his hands. He can save your life - or take it, because that is
his job.
He will often do twice the work of a civilian, draw half the
pay and still find ironic humor in it all.
He has seen more suffering and death then he should have in
his short lifetime.
He has stood atop mountains of dead bodies, and helped to
create them.
He has wept in public and in private, for friends who have
fallen in combat and is unashamed.
He feels every note of the National Anthem vibrate through
his body while at rigid attention, while tempering the burning desire to
'square-away' those around him who haven't bothered to stand, remove their hat,
or even stop talking. In an odd twist, day in and day ! out, far from home, he
defends their right to be disrespectful. Just as did his Father, Grandfather,
and Great-grandfather, he is paying the price for our freedom. Beardless or not,
he is not a boy.
He is the American Fighting Man that has kept this country
free for over 200 years.
He has asked nothing in return, except our friendship and
understanding. Remember him, always, for he has earned our respect and
admiration with his blood.
Submitted by Encourager John
Dise
Mankind must put an end to war before war puts an end to
mankind. ~John F. Kennedy
Reprinted from eEncourager
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The Complete Prayer For Protection
The Light of God surrounds me.
The Love of God enfolds me.
The Power of God protects me.
The Presence of God watches over me.
The Mind of God guides me.
The Life of God flows through me.
The Laws of God direct me.
The Power of God abides within me.
The Joy of God uplifts me.
The Strength of God renews me.
The Beauty of God inspires me.
Wherever I am, God is!
This beloved prayer was written by
James Dilate Freeman
for all soldiers during WW II
Reprinted from The Inspired Buffalo
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