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At 54 I was too young for Vietnam too old for Desert Storm and Saddam....totally missed World War 1 & 2 my father was a MP in Korea he passed 17 years ago today...still makes my eyes Water ...God picked this day for a reason.would just like to say a big thank you to all all the veterans still out there.you will not be forgotten...your service was greatly appreciated and without it I would not have the freedom I have today again thank you to all the veterans
 

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NelsonHouseworth1859.jpg Stan Houseworth 1942.jpg BillDeVore.jpg JohnHouseworthatRehobethDelaware.jpg Mike me.jpg

Great-Grandfather, Nelson, Union Army Civil War/Dad, Stan, Army Air Corp WWII/Uncle Bill, Infantry Europe WWII Purple Heart/Uncle John, Army Europe WWII/ Brother Mike Air Force Thailand SE Asia/ Fire Protection/and Me, the only surviving Vet out of all of the 25+ direct family members to serve, Air Force Vietnam Security Police Specialist....

Salute to all those who served, especially those that paid the supreme price....
 

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One fellow Veteran saying thanks to my other fellow Veterans!! :D

Thanks for everything!! :)
 

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An additional THANK YOU from the middle of the world. I flunked my physical, so didn't serve. I've always felt a little shame/regret for my not serving. My brother served in the infantry Viet Nam. Thanks for the freedoms we enjoy today to those with us and those who have left this mortal coil.
 

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An additional THANK YOU from the middle of the world. I flunked my physical, so didn't serve. I've always felt a little shame/regret for my not serving. My brother served in the infantry Viet Nam. Thanks for the freedoms we enjoy today to those with us and those who have left this mortal coil.
But you were willing to go if you passed the physical, so thank you also Tom... :D
 

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View attachment 30701 View attachment 30702 View attachment 30703 View attachment 30704 View attachment 30705

Great-Grandfather, Nelson, Union Army Civil War/Dad, Stan, Army Air Corp WWII/Uncle Bill, Infantry Europe WWII Purple Heart/Uncle John, Army Europe WWII/ Brother Mike Air Force Thailand SE Asia/ Fire Protection/and Me, the only surviving Vet out of all of the 25+ direct family members to serve, Air Force Vietnam Security Police Specialist....

Salute to all those who served, especially those that paid the supreme price....
I, too, come from a family of spotty service.

I'm a Navy vet. It was service to my country and I was proud to do it; but it was also...selfish. I was ten years older than most recruits - and coming off a bad spell. Not an unusual story - the military no longer takes recruits who are ordered by judges to enlist, but at one time it was commonplace. I wasn't in legal trouble - just at a bad crossroads. Three hots and a cot, in a good cause.

My father was in another bad situation. He was 17; born in Ohio (made him a citizen) but grew up in Germany, of German parents. Shortly after his birth the Great Depression hit; and his parents wanted part of that German Economic Miracle that was going on.

It was a nightmare in the end. First the incremental losses of freedoms; then my father, an adolescent, forced into the Hitler Youth. Then...my swarthy grandfather, the son of a blond-haired man, father of another blond-haired man...was invited down to the local Gestapo office to discuss with Party Officials as to why he was not wearing a Star of David.

He died of lead-poisoning during that little visit.

My grandmother used connections to the American Consulate to arrange an exit visa for my father...and got forged papers for herself. They sailed to America, her under an assumed name...and found themselves in public housing.

And out of that, the Draft officials found my father. And when they found out he spoke perfect German and knew the land...they decided that's where he would go.

"But...but...Lieutenant...if the Nazis capture me, I'll get killed!"

"Kid...we're all gonna get killed. You a loyal American?...or do you want to be arrested as a Kraut spy?"


So it was. It was just his good luck that by the time he got there, the Nazis were pulling back faster than the Americans could advance. He participated in the Liberation of Paris, which was a high point...and then, after V-E Day, with all his fellow soldiers going back and being discharged...the Allied Forces made him a clerk and a driver, to translate the reams of Nazi documents.

What he saw and learned made him sick. Sick of Germany, which he never returned to until the 1990s. Sick of the Army. Sick of the THOUGHT of a military.

And he counseled me, strongly, NOT to enlist when I was a senior in high school. Worst thing I did in those years was take that bad advice.
 

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...continuing...

Going back on my mother's side...she had cousins, many times removed, two generations prior, who served in Union Blue, from the New York regiment out of Herkimer County...who died in the War Between the States. I don't think she knew it herself until late in life; but her family was blue-blood semi-aristocrat New York from its earliest settlement. Relatives came over on the Mayflower.

So...there's service in my family. Grudging service; fearful service; some of the Ultimate Sacrifice - and some of it wasteful.

And here we are...the nation my people built, and longed for from other lands, and defended under the most horrific circumstances...and me as well...is now coming apart.

Thanks to the crack-headed philosophies of two shiftless Austrians...Marx and Engels.
 

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Down the road there comes a soldier
17, maybe older
Beneath his grimy uniform
His wounded body tired and worn
Furrowed brow sunken eyes
Beleagured soul who pondered lies
That brought him here to spill his blood
Midst agony and gore and mud
His innocence lay scattered here
Across these fields where freedom dear
He'd purchased now with mortal sin
Upon a politicians' whim
 

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Down the road there comes a soldier
17, maybe older
Beneath his grimy uniform
His wounded body tired and worn
Furrowed brow sunken eyes
Beleagured soul who pondered lies
That brought him here to spill his blood
Midst agony and gore and mud
His innocence lay scattered here
Across these fields where freedom dear
He'd purchased now with mortal sin
Upon a politicians' whim
Is that Wilfred Owen?

It's the way of all wars. Of all human society. Leaders order their soldiers and other pawns to do their bidding.

Our society is unique in that we've kept that to a MINIMUM. Only someone woefully unaware, could argue that World War II was unnecessary.

Or other wars...and no, I don't want to rehash a hundred years of American history. Just compare our history to that of any number of European or Asian or other nations...to the Romans and before even that.
 

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Today is Memorial day, not Veterans day.
Truth.

It is and always was "for" those fallen in Military Service, defending our country.
But a very minor transgression, offering the remembrances, thanks, well-wishes & love to all Vets, dead or living.
No harm, no foul.

What really pisses me of is to see & hear, "Happy Memorial Day"!:mad:

Have a Great Memorial Day.

The eyes...
 

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Our country may be a cesspool at times but it's the BEST cesspool on the planet bar none.

That our countryman are still doing their part to keep his place worth bleeding to ground for is more thanks than I ever needed.

God bless us all. Especially the Fire Fighters...you guys are NUTS !
 
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I don't know who Wilfred Owen was. That was written by a Canadian vet. that I have ridden with.
Wilfred Owen

Wilfred Edward Salter Owen MC (18 March 1893 – 4 November 1918) was an English poet and soldier, one of the leading poets of the First World War. His shocking, realistic war poetry on the horrors of trenches and gas warfare was heavily influenced by his friend and mentor Siegfried Sassoon, and stood in stark contrast both to the public perception of war at the time and to the confidently patriotic verse written by earlier war poets such as Rupert Brooke. Among his best-known works – most of which were published posthumously – are "Dulce et Decorum est", "Insensibility", "Anthem for Doomed Youth", "Futility" and "Strange Meeting".

Your friend's poetry reads much like Owens. Ask him sometime - I'm sure he's familiar with Wilfred's work.
 

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Today is Memorial day, not Veterans day.

Actually Memorial Day is for all those that have served and have now passed on...especially those that served in time of war.....

I get your point....Veterans Day is for those that have or are serving....however I will choose to honor those, now gone. who stepped up, whether by design or draft, who did what they had to do...unlike the Obama, Klinton, and rest of the assholes...who protested and ripped those serving while they didn't have the guts or nuts to do so....

Not much lower on the face of the planet than a stinking Draft Dodger....who cut and ran, and then pissed on those that stood up.
 

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My old Security Police buddy of mine, Bob, is in the VA Nursing Facility in Dayton...he has been the foot soldier for our Sky Cop Reunion in Dayton these past 5 years, and no sure what I will do, or how I will handle the Reunion without him....anyway his time is likely short, and I wanted to talk with him at least one more time...

The Dayton VA Center is not a nightmare like some others....and even though I use the Columbus Regional one, this place is first class, including the nursing facility{AKA Nursing Home}...I visited an hour or so, then on my way out, I snapped a few Post Memorial Day photos of the Dayton VA National Cemetery....impressive it is:

DSC00271 (1).JPG DSC00275.JPG DSC00270.JPG
 

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Sorry about your friend Pat. :( I'll be praying for him.
 

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Possibly the greatest poet of world war1 was Robert Service. Yeah the same guy that wrote all those Yukon poems of the gold rush days.
He served in that war as an ambulance driver and gathered volumes of stories of men he knew. Some of his war poetry was humerus with soldiers humor.
Some was rousingly patriotic, but much of it was so tragic it could not be read with a dry eye. One of particular emotion was " The blood red fourragere".
Or another was, "Fleurette". His poetry of the war reads so true to life that he had to have obtained these stories from the men who lived them.

If you are interested in this sort of stuff, I post the first here.

The Blood-Red Fourragere

What was the blackest sight to me
Of all that campaign?
A naked woman tied to a tree
With jagged holes where her breasts should be,
Rotting there in the rain.

On we pressed to the battle fray,
Dogged and dour and spent.
Sudden I heard my Captain say:
"Voila\! Kultur has passed this way,
And left us a monument."

So I looked and I saw our Colonel there,
And his grand head, snowed with the years,
Unto the beat of the rain was bare;
And, oh, there was grief in his frozen stare,
And his cheeks were stung with tears!

Then at last he turned from the woeful tree,
And his face like stone was set;
"Go, march the Regiment past," said he,
"That every father and son may see,
And none may ever forget."

Oh, the crimson strands of her hair downpoured
Over her breasts of woe;
And our grim old Colonel leaned on his sword,
And the men filed past with their rifles lowered,
Solemn and sad and slow.

But I'll never forget till the day I die,
As I stood in the driving rain,
And the jaded columns of men slouched by,
How amazement leapt into every eye,
Then fury and grief and pain.

And some would like madmen stand aghast,
With their hands upclenched to the sky;
And some would cross themselves as they passed,
And some would curse in a scalding blast,
And some like children cry.

Yea, some would be sobbing, and some would pray,
And some hurl hateful names;
But the best had never a word to say;
They turned their twitching faces away,
And their eyes were like hot flames.

They passed; then down on his bended knee
The Colonel dropped to the Dead:
"Poor martyred daughter of France!" said he,
"O dearly, dearly avenged you'll be
Or ever a day be sped!"

Now they hold that we are the best of the best,
And each of our men may wear,
Like a gash of crimson across his chest,
As one fierce-proved in the battle-test,
The blood-red Fourragere.

For each as he leaps to the top can see,
Like an etching of blood on his brain,
A wife or a mother lashed to a tree,
With two black holes where her breasts should be,
Left to rot in the rain.

So we fight like fiends, and of us they say
That we neither yield nor spare.
Oh, we have the bitterest debt to pay. . . .
Have we paid it? -- Look -- how we wear to-day
Like a trophy, gallant and proud and gay,
Our blood-red Fourragere


Fleurette
Fleurette by Robert William Service
(The Wounded Canadian Speaks)

My leg? It's off at the knee.
Do I miss it? Well, some. You see
I've had it since I was born;
And lately a devilish corn.
(I rather chuckle with glee
To think how I've fooled that corn.)

But I'll hobble around all right.
It isn't that, it's my face.
Oh I know I'm a hideous sight,
Hardly a thing in place;
Sort of gargoyle, you'd say.
Nurse won't give me a glass,
But I see the folks as they pass
Shudder and turn away;
Turn away in distress . . .
Mirror enough, I guess.

I'm gay! You bet I AM gay;
But I wasn't a while ago.
If you'd seen me even to-day,
The darndest picture of woe,
With this Caliban mug of mine,
So ravaged and raw and red,
Turned to the wall -- in fine,
Wishing that I was dead. . . .
What has happened since then,
Since I lay with my face to the wall,
The most despairing of men?
Listen! I'll tell you all.

That poilu across the way,
With the shrapnel wound in his head,
Has a sister: she came to-day
To sit awhile by his bed.
All morning I heard him fret:
"Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?"

Then sudden, a joyous cry;
The tripping of little feet,
The softest, tenderest sigh,
A voice so fresh and sweet;
Clear as a silver bell,
Fresh as the morning dews:
"C'est toi, c'est toi, Marcel!
Mon frère, comme je suis heureuse!"

So over the blanket's rim
I raised my terrible face,
And I saw -- how I envied him!
A girl of such delicate grace;
Sixteen, all laughter and love;
As gay as a linnet, and yet
As tenderly sweet as a dove;
Half woman, half child -- Fleurette.

Then I turned to the wall again.
(I was awfully blue, you see),
And I thought with a bitter pain:
"Such visions are not for me."
So there like a log I lay,
All hidden, I thought, from view,
When sudden I heard her say:
"Ah! Who is that malheureux?"
Then briefly I heard him tell
(However he came to know)
How I'd smothered a bomb that fell
Into the trench, and so
None of my men were hit,
Though it busted me up a bit.

Well, I didn't quiver an eye,
And he chattered and there she sat;
And I fancied I heard her sigh --
But I wouldn't just swear to that.
And maybe she wasn't so bright,
Though she talked in a merry strain,
And I closed my eyes ever so tight,
Yet I saw her ever so plain:
Her dear little tilted nose,
Her delicate, dimpled chin,
Her mouth like a budding rose,
And the glistening pearls within;
Her eyes like the violet:
Such a rare little queen -- Fleurette.

And at last when she rose to go,
The light was a little dim,
And I ventured to peep, and so
I saw her, graceful and slim,
And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh
How I envied and envied him!

So when she was gone I said
In rather a dreary voice
To him of the opposite bed:
"Ah, friend, how you must rejoice!
But me, I'm a thing of dread.
For me nevermore the bliss,
The thrill of a woman's kiss."

Then I stopped, for lo! she was there,
And a great light shone in her eyes;
And me! I could only stare,
I was taken so by surprise,
When gently she bent her head:
"May I kiss you, Sergeant?" she said.

Then she kissed my burning lips
With her mouth like a scented flower,
And I thrilled to the finger-tips,
And I hadn't even the power
To say: "God bless you, dear!"
And I felt such a precious tear
Fall on my withered cheek,
And darn it! I couldn't speak.

And so she went sadly away,
And I knew that my eyes were wet.
Ah, not to my dying day
Will I forget, forget!
Can you wonder now I am gay?
God bless her, that little Fleurette!









 
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