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21 Comments!
They forever deserve our honor and thanksgiving. This is one of the best tributes I have ever seen. It is a heart mover and gives them the glory due them. Song Mansions of the Lord plays, with words and of course its the pictures all the way through that really does it.
OOh RAH and Amen with all.
Fucking right.
Been there last april. Though I’m a foreigner, I still pay my respects to those brave soldiers (men&women) that died so I have not to say hail to some loony moron, be on a gulag or use a burka …
To those who meet a soldier today, send him the best regards from a Brazilian old lady, please! And thank you all!
I thought the porch might like to read a speech by Brig. Gen. Alan Farrell to the VMI cadet corps, on 11 Nov 2005:
“Ladies and Gentlemen; young Ladies and Gentlemen:
Thanks for having me here on Veterans’ Day. I’m a veteran. Was a soldier. Guess that’s my bona fides here. And, of course, I’m a teacher. Used to was, those were compatible conditions. Not so sure any more. One day I’m dozing through a meeting of the English Comp section at the little college where I’ve washed up. I’m nodding quietly in the corner while my colleagues vaporize about essays to foist off on the students for a timed writing exam. Idea is to give a common text, ask a couple of saccharine questions, extort from students some kinda expository prose. Couple of the more animated young teachers, whom the profession hasn’t yet beaten in and who still cling to shreds of imagination, are reading aloud passages from the selections they want to urge on the group. It’s the catalogue of the times: Acid rain. Urban crisis. Nuclear winter. Violence in the movies. Campaign finance. Some kinda owl.
I feel my chin sagging to my chest. Lids settling. Breath coming… sloooooo-wer. May be drooling. I’m in a state of grace. Through the cotton I can hear a voice reading out the first lines of a specimen essay: “I am ashamed to be a man. Ashamed. Being a man means being vulgar, brutal, obedient, soldierly, stupid…” Soldierly. Stupid.
No. Hey. Now it’s a Faculty meeting and we’re hammering out a new curriculum for our little college. Some guy is bloviating about a “problem-solving curriculum,” where we put… I dunno: “problems” before the students and they come up with… whaddya figure? “solutions.” One prof gets up and says: “Problem-solving? That’s what Kennedy and his advisors tried in Viet Nam. Problem solving. And look at the stupid solutions he came up with… enclaves, carpet bombs, Green Berets…” Green Berets. Stupid.
No. Hey. I’m just outta the war. Trying to hide back on campus at a large New England University. Snoozing through graduate courses in French, schlurfing beer, chasing girls. One afternoon, I lured a coed into a yogurt stand where I spring for a carob bean cone. “You got drafted?” she asks between flicks of her tongue… “No. I enlisted,” I say without thinking. Pause. “That was stupid…” Enlisted. Stupid. Hunh…
So, now it’s inauguration day for that Black Wall up in DC. Civilians all mooing about it. Some guy in fatigue blouse and scraggly beard comes up, says “Welcome home, brother. Gimme a dollar.” Another one squats at the foot of the thing banging his head against it: “They’re all dead, mannnnnnn. They’re all dead.” I’m thinking: “Whoa!” I wander along its length, look down at the stuff laid along the Wall. Mementos: poems, six-pack of beer, flowers, combat boots. A popcycle stick jammed in the ground with little banner glued to it. Catches my eye. I stoop, pick it up. It reads: “Nomina stultorum parietibus haerent.” What? Figure it’s some kinda tribute for the dead? You know: “Dulce et decorum…” “Here lie in in honored repose…” Something like that? It’s Quintus Horatius Flaccus… Horace, the Roman poet: “The names of stupid men appear on walls…” Dead. Stupid.
Well, I was a soldier. 25 years, peace and war. And I suppose that if I’m not all those things just this minute– vulgar, brutal, obedient, soldierly, stupid–I have been over time.
Long time. I come from the fifties. Big screens. Big fins. Big mills. Big hips. Cheerleaders. French fries. Forty-five RPM records. Annnnnnnd… soldiers. I come from a time when everybody was a soldier.
I was born in the New Hampshire mountains where my family has tried to grow corn on granite since 1690. I ate supper–that’s suppah–in a clapboard farmhouse under portraits of a great-grandfather killed at Antietam Creek, a grandfather who fought in France, a father who served in the Pacific. It was pretty clear whose picture was going up next on that wall.
My teachers were all soldiers. Most had gotten over it. There were few professional veterans in those days when everyone had served. And few strangers, seems to me, from a time when every man had had to surrender his private identity and learn to live and cooperate with strangers, learn to trust his bunkmate, like him or not, and to live up to the expectations of other men. And take risk. Or simply put up with nothing more serious than discomfort. Deprivation. Boredom. In the name of the Republic. And among her citizens. They hadn’t all seen war, but they had all seen duty. And like it or not, they’d done it.
I loved those guys. Those men who, when they were violent and arrogant, had earned the right. And served us well that way. Who, when they were tolerant and patient, had learned that in common effort and common struggle. Who, when they became obsessed with accountability, detail, fact and number, had come by that obsession through knowledge of the consequences of carelessness and laxity. Who, when they spoke of fear, did so with the memory fresh of ordeal suffered with others and for others, for us. Who, when they spoke of victory, had something to show. I loved those guys. I enjoyed their company. I swallowed their stories. I admired their scars. I envied their victory. Still do.
And I tell you without bitterness… I’m not so sure the word citizen carries the same weight now that it did then, in my mind or in theirs.
I see men on the street now who, when they are violent and arrogant, are that out of self-indulgence and contempt. Who, when they are tolerant and patient, are that largely out of indifference. Who, when they become obsessed with accountability, detail, fact and number, have come by that obsession through greed and ambition. Who, when they speak of fear, mean fear of growing old or fat, of losing privilege or property or hair. Who, when they speak of victory, mean someone else’s… and they speak of it meanly. They had no national mandate to answer, so they didn’t. They went straight on to life. The smart thing to do. To do anything else would be… well, stupid. But somehow, I just can’t love these guys. And I don’t enjoy their company. They don’t have stories. They don’t have scars. I don’t necessarily blame them for the life they’ve chosen. I just can’t love them.
I dunno why soldiers seem stupid. Maybe because so many of them are so young. And uncritical. Maybe because so many of them lack education. Or because so many of them seem to embrace a service, a misery, a sacrifice which they could plausibly elude and from which they derive no gain. But somehow, the moniker has stuck. And I hafta tell you that sometimes it’s a blessing to be stupid. So you can tell yourself that this kid died for something. So you don’t see yourself like that, on the ground, in the widening pool of dark dust. So maybe you don’t really see the big terrors in the fight. And maybe don’t notice the little slights back home.
Of course, a lot of the soldier’s life can seem stupid. Soldiering is, after all, a traditional profession. And tradition amounts to no more than continuing to do certain things in the same way, for old times’ sake, long after any original purpose has faded away. And that’s stupid, I suppose. And trusting complete strangers, often enough with your life? If that’s not stupid, I dunno what is. And a soldier’s value system can seem upside down, backwards, stupid.
We actually mistrust courage, as you may know it. Our own, but particularly that of a leader. We value the guy whose bravery takes the form of going out again after a bad mission, a loss, a wound. Of making the mission work, even when he doesn’t believe in it. We take valor to be stepping out into the open first, across the trail first, over the ridgeline first. Consistent yet small acts of knowing defiance of human weakness and inertia… and good sense. Moving out last, staying back till everyone has cleared an obstacle, covering from behind with fire. Those small demonstrations of disregard for self, for comfort, for safety are the ones I recall: the nerve to be first… or last, whichever no one else wanted to be. And that, of course, is stupid.
But there is, God save me, a sense in which soldiers are stupid, or at least subscribe to a code or ethos that is irrational, non-linear, unreasoned… stupid in the word an outsider might choose. The values of the soldier’s world are necessarily limited but for that reason intense, and they are revealed values, not intellectual. They are, oddly enough, the values that education indicts or erodes because they aren’t analytical: loyalty, faith, honor, courage. And, I admit, they’re dangerous… all the more so back in the social circle from which us stupid soldiers got exiled by the multitude in the name of the multitude. It’s order, tension, calculus, measure that holds this mess together.
Out there and very quickly, soldiers bond–you’ve heard the word–but to each other and not infrequently with profound disdain for the society that tossed them out… and tosed them together. And sure enough, you wind up dying not for the Free World Military Assistance Effort in Viet Nam, Republic of, but for some lemon from New Jersey, some jerk from Alabama, some butcher’s son from Idaho, some surfer from California, some derelict from Iowa, some farmboy from New Hampshire. And that… that’s stupid. But back here, back in the circle, I suppose we can seem like a fly between the window panes: logy, distracted, slow, awkward, clumsy… stupid.
I was feeling thataway one mangy January afternoon few weeks ago, stumbled outta my office to stretch my legs, wander around Post, air out my head for a minute. First thing happened I bumped into a man who won the Navy Cross on Iwo Jima and shook his hand, looked into those eyes. Not five minutes later I ran into another guy, shot the first day on Guadalcanal, and who gave me his hand. Crossing the street, I was hailed by a third who’d spent two years in a Korean prisoner of war camp. On the way home, I bought ten pounds of roofing nails from a guy who’d spent six years in the Hanoi Hilton.
Simple communions. Everyday transactions. Guys on a little town street. Maybe. Maybe, though, such men are what James Joyce calls “secret messengers.” Citizens among the rest, who look like the rest, yet who, unlike the rest, know prodigious secrets and a wisdom other, apart, but entirely useless here. Just seems to me that there might be other words for these guys’… what? qualities, if I may. Uncritical isn’t necessarily stupid. Uneducated isn’t necessarily stupid. Stoic isn’t, either.
Right now there’s a war going on, fought by a tiny fraction of the population of this great Republic. Right now, somewhere around five percent of Americans have ever even served. Among young Americans, that percentage drops sharply. In my profession, teaching, military service is virtually unheard of. It’s just not smart to give up a life’s momentum, ambition’s edge, youth’s liberty to serve. And who sets the example? When I was a kid, a meeting like the one I had with those guys on Lexington street was only too common; now what struck me about it was that it was so rare as to be exceptional.
Jesus Christ says: “Blessed are the poor in spirit.” The weak of mind. The stupid. I guess that’ll have to be our consolation. That and assemblies like this one, which bring together everyone in the community to celebrate that flag and the things–the stupid things–done in her name and the men and women–the stupid ones–who do them. I’m terribly proud to count myself among their number. And to address you today. Thank you for havin me. The Lord love you for that.”
B.G. Farrell served 2 tours in Laos with MACV-SOG
In memory of two men I never met, but wish I had:
Bugler Howard I. Carroll, my grandfather
117th Trench Mortar Battery, 42nd (Rainbow) Division, WW1, 1917 – 1919
The 117th fired for every infantry regiment in the Rainbow and for other divisions in their sectors at
(1) Luneville sector, Lorraine, February 21 to March 23, 1918;
(2) Baccarat sector, Lorraine, March 31 to June 21, 1918;
(3) Esperance-Souain sector, Champagne, July 4 to July 15, 1918;
(4) Champagne-Marne defensive, July 15 to 17, 1918;
(5) Aisne-Marne offensive July 25 to August 11, 1918;
(6) St. Mihiel offensive, September 12 to 16, 1918;
(7) Essey and Pannes sector, Woevre, September 17 to 30, 1918;
(8) Meuse-Argonne offensive, October 12 to November 1, 1918;
(9) Meuse-Argonne offensive, November 5 to 10, 1918;
They stood before Sedan with the most advanced units of the AEF, and participated in the Rhine Occupation
Awards: Victory Medal with 5 bars, Occupation Medal, Croix de Guerre
Granddaddy Irvine died after the war from effects of being gassed.
Capt. Donald L. Gambrill, my father’s best friend, best man and my Godfather,
485th Bomb Group (Heavy), WW2
55 missions as B-24 pilot over Germany & Italy
Awards: Distinguished Flying Cross, Air Medal with 2 Oak Leaf Clusters, Purple Heart
KIA 10-Apr-45
They shall not grow 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.
I will focus today on the HEROES who showed BRAVERY and COURAGE in the face of overwhelming odds, giving their lives for this still great REPUBLIC.
I gotta stop now. For some reason, the computer screen is getting all blurry.
Memorial Day for me has always been a recollection of the same event since 1966. The 2nd Bn/3rd Marines locked horns with the 4th NVA Regt way back in a valley surrounded by mountains in I Corps. Though outnumbered we were hammering them with artillery and airstrikes. The XO of Hotel Company, 1st/Lt Holden came to my position on a small river, just as I finished controlling 4 A6 Intruders doing close air support. We chatted, he left to visit positions of Hotel Company Marines. About 15 minutes later a Marine ran up and said He needed an emergency medevac chopper. I put my radio team on it and followed him back to his position. It was 1st/Lt Holden and he had been shot through the neck.
He was conscious but pouring blood out of his wound and mouth. I held his hand while a corpsman tried to staunch the bleeding.
I was talking to him and holding his hand when he went unconscious and died!
In his memory, I recall this every Memorial Day since and will do so as long as I live. Semper Fidelis, Tom…
I’ve had the honor of visiting Arlington twice, ‘Tis a very powerful and humbling experience.
Hope you don’t mind a post in memory of my old friend Norman Crabb.
SSG US Army Ranger E/50 LRP Vietnam 68-69. Silver and Bronze Star recipient.
You can read how he earned the Silver Star here if you’d like. Very scary stuff. Just search the page for “Crabb”.
I memory of three high school classmates:
- Roy Douglas Hurlbert
Corporal
C CO, 1ST BN, 9TH MARINES, 3RD MARDIV, III MAF
United States Marine Corps
Wheat Ridge, Colorado
August 02, 1945 to April 16, 1968
- Clayton Charles “Chuck” Kemp, Jr
Aviation Antisubmarine Warfare Technician 3rd Class
HS-8, CVSG-59, USS BENNINGTON
United States Navy
Wheat Ridge, Colorado
09 October 1947 – 12 January 1967
- Donald P. Yarrington, Jr
Staff Sergeant
C CO, 4TH BN, 9TH INFANTRY, 25TH INF DIV, USARV
Army of the United States
Wheat Ridge, Colorado
January 10, 1947 to October 21, 1967
Grandpa, Lt. Col Edward Wyatte Mooring
Joined Virginia Vols out of Richmond in 1907 a month before turning 15.
With the 116th Infantry Co B in WW1. Engagements in Meuse-Argonne, Alsace. Survived mustard gas but slightly wounded Oct 11th, 1918 which left him with bouts of cluster headaches remainder of his life.
Remained Inf Res and ordered back to active duty July 1941- Fort Ord, CA.
Transferred to newly formed Transportation Corps. As XO at Camp Claiborne and Camp Plauche, LA. was left in charge to tell a colonel in D.C. that the son of the
SenatorLabor Leader he was “pals” with wasn’t fit for the rank of 2nd Lt. His rank froze at that point.He headed for Europe for the 2nd time in 25 years. Grandpa suffered a wound in the chest in March 1945 while attempting to remove a burnt up vehicle out of the roadway. At age 53 not quite fast enough to get out of the way as the 3-4 younger soldiers who were helping when it rolled the wrong way. Grandpa made it home but a lung infection killed him before the end of the war.
RIP all who never came home.
I’m humbled to know so many gave all so I can sit on my rear end typing this and I can say pretty much what I want without too much fear of retribution. We owe the ones killed, the ones still alive, the ones serving now, AND their families.
God bless them all.
In honor of Private 1st Class Cale Miller, 4th Battalion, 23rd Infantry Regiment, 2nd Stryker Brigade Combat Team, 2nd Infantry Division, U.S. Army
Who gave his life for you and me in Maiwand, Kandahar province, Afghanistan four days ago.
My father flew 34 missions over Germany as a B-17 pilot. He recalled one day they had more crews than planes available, so he tossed a coin with another crew commander; the other guy won and took the mission. The plane didn’t come back.
He’s now in a nursing home up in Indiana. I was talking to him last week, and he asked if I knew where his mission videotapes were. “What videos?” “We had video recorders in the cockpits; got copies of all my missions. I can’t find them.” I kind of suspicioned they didn’t have that technology back then. After more circular discussion, I figured out that he had found his DVD of the movie “Memphis Belle” and he had gotten in his mind that they videotaped their missions back in WW2. Alzheimer’s sucks.
Compared to that, I had it easy. Babysat ICBMs for most of my career. Never went overseas.
CPT Richard Galan. KIA two hours after we shared breakfast conversation.
WO1 Russell Moldenhauer. KIA trying to rescue us.
Col. Jack Dempsey. KIA trying to rescue downed chopper crew on Easter Sunday 1967. My Bn. CO.
CPT. Edward Nushke. KIA flying FAC mission from our advisory team. He also served in WWII and Korea.
SP4 Wayne Emerson and USMC Sgt Robert Rudd. Two high school friends. Both KIA at the same time I was in RVN.
Outstanding representatives of what is right about America.
“It is rather for us, the living, we here be dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that, from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they here, gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve these dead shall not have died in vain; that the nation, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people by the people for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”
After reading all of your posts all I can say is God Bless.
God bless each and every one who gave their lives for freedom.
May the good Lord allow us to KEEP that freedom they paid for with their lives.
Captain Aaron Boggs Anthony
13th Air Force, 5th Heavy Bomber Group, 31st Bomber Squadron – South Pacific Theater, Philippine Island group.
According to his squad commander, Dad flew between 49 and 52 missions, almost double the required number. He told me that once he took off in the ungainly Consolidated B-24 bomber, he never knew where he would be told to land. He never lost a crew member.
However, on one of his last missions, he told me (after a couple of stiff belts of Black Jack) that his squad flew into heavy flack. They took one hit that blew up through the cockpit, missing hydraulics, eletronics and hard wire controls.
Once he landed the ol’ bird, he *knew* for a fact that God had something better in life for him to pursue.
He was not my biological father….that didn’t matter. He always treated me as his blood.
I still miss the ornery ol’ South Carolinian gentleman.
Sven,
You reminded me of the luckiest B17 Flying Fortress story I ever read about. It took place in the South Pacific, as I recall, somewhere around the huge Jap base at Rabaul & Australia. The B17 was flying as a singleton, maybe a recon mission.
She was jumped by Jap Zeroes (…a shit load of them…) who made firing runs on her for 45 FUCKING MINUTES!!!!! The Zeroes all ran out of ammunition and/or fuel trying to shoot the B17 down! As I recall every crew member of the B17 was hit and wounded, yet they returned to base and made a crash landing…..Not sure, but I seem to recall the pilot was awarded a MOH.
^ Col Jerry Sir! Was that B-17 “Old 666″? Sarnoski (posthumously) and pilot Zeamer were the two CMOH recipients.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Im086TCu3I
Yep, that`s it…..