While at the VA today, I saw a poem which I haven’t heard spoken since I was in the Marines back in 2002. We had a Colonel who recited the whole poem from heart and when I saw it today, it made me think about him and the brothers that I have lost overseas.
This blog, I dedicate to all of the Veterans and those who are still fighting in combat. You are not forgotten and I will always hold you each to a higher esteem than the rest of the nation, because like me, we have made the ultimate sacrifice as true patriots.
I know this is not on subject with anything current in Louisiana, however, as someone who loves the military as much as I do, I feel it must be something I share with everyone who reads this.
“The doom of a nation can be averted only by a storm of flowing passion, but only those who are passionate themselves can arouse passion in others.” –Adolf Hitler
“IN FLANDERS FIELDS”
By: Lt. Col. John McCrae, MD (1872-1918) Canadian Army
In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.
Take up quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.
Also, I joined the Army guard and went into the Cavalry. This is something we had the honor of knowing while in the CAV.
Halfway down the trail to hell
In a shady meadow green,
Are the souls of all dead troopers camped
Near a good old-time canteen
And this eternal resting place
Is known as Fiddler's Green.
Marching past, straight through to hell,
The infantry are seen, '
Accompanied by the Engineers,
Artillery and Marine,
For none but the shades of Cavalrymen
Dismount at Flddlers' Green.
Though some go curving down the trail
To seek a warmer scene,
No trooper ever gets to Hell
Ere he's emptied his canteen,
And so rides back to drink agaln
With friends at Fiddlers' Green.
And so when man and horse go down
Beneath a saber keen,
Or in a roaring charge or fierce melee
You stop a bullet clean,
And the hostiles come to get your scalp,
Just empty your canteen,
And put your pistol to your head
And go to Fiddlers' Green.