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A SOLDIER DIED TODAY
by A. Lawrence Vaincourt *
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, every one.
And tho’ sometimes, to his neighbors, his tales became a joke,
All his Legion buddies listened, for they knew whereof he spoke.
But we’ll hear his tales no longer for old Bill has passed away,
And the world’s a little poorer, for a soldier died today.
He will not be mourned by many, just his children and his wife,
For he lived an ordinary and quite uneventful life.
Held a job and raised a family, quietly going his own way,
And the world won’t note his passing, though 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 their whole 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
A guy who breaks his promises 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?
A politician’s stipend and the style in which he lives
Are sometimes 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 was so long ago
That the old Bills of our Country 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 want a politician with his ever-shifting stand?
Or would you prefer 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 a paper that would say,
“OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING, FOR A SOLDIER DIED TODAY”
* Copyright © 1985 by A. Lawrence Vaincourt. This poem and other works can be found in Mr. Vaincourt's book, Rhymes And Reflections (1991).
    
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Remember,
It is the soldier, not the reporter,
Who has given us freedom of the press.
It is the soldier, not the poet,
Who has given us freedom of speech.
It is the soldier, not the organizer,
Who has given us 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.
Written by Lt. Col. (Rev.) Denis Edward O'Brien, USMC
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Used by permission.
Used by permission.
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Wars And Their Aftermath
Things Seldom Spoken Of
Commentary by Fred Reed
The observant will have noticed that we hear little from the troops in Iraq and see almost nothing of the wounded. Why, one might wonder, does not CNN put an enlisted Marine before a camera and, for fifteen minutes without editing, let him say what he thinks? Is he not an adult and a citizen? Is he not engaged in important events on our behalf?
Sound political reasons exist. Soldiers are a risk PR-wise, the wounded a liability. No one can tell what they might say, and conspicuous dismemberment is bad for recruiting. An enlisted man in front of a camera is dangerous. He could wreck the governmental spin apparatus in five minutes. It is better to keep soldiers discreetly out of sight.
So we do not see much of the casualties, ours or theirs. Yet they are there, are somewhere, with missing legs, blind, becoming accustomed to groping at things in their new darkness, learning to use the wheelchairs that will be theirs for fifty years. Some face worse fates than others. Quadriplegics will be warehoused in VA hospitals where nurses will turn them at intervals, like hamburgers, to prevent bedsores. Friends and relatives will soon forget them. Suicide will be a frequent thought. The less damaged will get around. ...Continued... |
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A Young and
an Old Author
Weigh in on
Our Military
The Third Option
by Vince Flynn
[Senator] Clark studied a memo that one of his senior staffers had prepared at [his] request. It summarized the lack of affordable housing for military personnel. It was a sad state of affairs. The men and women in the military were getting the short end of the stick, living in conditions comparable to those of people on welfare. As could be predicted, morale was suffering, and readiness was way down. The cuts in military spending had gone too deep. This was going to be his issue. A newly commissioned officer in the armed forces made less than a new city bus driver in Washington. He made less than your average federal government administrative assistant, and he made far less than a teacher. . . . The men and women of the armed services were getting screwed.
pp. 212-213, Pocket Books, NY, Copyright © 2000 by Vince Flynn. |
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Hearts in Atlantis
by Stephen King
“You know something, Loot?” Sully asked. “We’ve uncovered some clear legacies of the Vietnam experience here.” He popped up a finger. “Vietnam vets get cancer, usually of the lungs or the brain, but other places, too.”
“All that cancer’s because of the Orange,” Dieffenbaker said. “Nobody can prove it but we all know it. Agent Orange, the gift that keeps on giving.”
Sully popped up a second finger . . . “Vietnam vets get depressed, get drunk at parties, threaten to jump off national landmarks.” Out with the third finger. “Vietnam vets have bad teeth.” Pinky finger. “Vietnam vets get divorced.”
Sully looked at his folded thumb. Looked at Dieffenbaker, who now wore bifocals and carried a potbelly (what Vietnam vets usually called “the house that Bud built”) but who still might have that skinny young man with the wax-candle complexion somewhere inside of him. Then he looked back at his thumb and popped it out like a guy trying to hitch a ride.
“Vietnam vets carry Zippos,” he said. “At least until they stop smoking.”
“Or until they get cancer,” Dieffenbaker said. “At which point their wives no doubt pry em out of their weakening palsied hands.”
“Except for the ones who’re divorced,” Sully said, and they both laughed.
pp. 616-617, Pocket Books, NY, Copyright © 1999 by Stephen King. |
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