For Our Country

This page is for all the men and women
who fought and died for our country
You might think at times that you have done all this for nothing,
Trust me you haven't, To the ones who died
You will always be in our hearts
To the ones who fought in the wars
My thanks to you
For the ones that are in the service now
Be safe and my thoughts are with you
To all of you. You will never be forgotten.
~ China Dawn ~

Ballad Of The Green Berets
Written & Performed by SSgt Barry Sadler

Fighting soldiers from the sky
Fearless men who jump and die
Men who mean just what they say
The brave men of the Green Beret
Silver wings upon their chest
These are men, America's best
One hundred men we'll test today
But only three win the Green Beret

Trained to live, off natures land
Trained in combat, hand to hand
Men who fight by night and day
Courage deep, from the Green Beret

Silver wings upon their chest
These are men, America's best
One hundred men we'll test today
But only three win the Green Beret

Back at home a young wife waits
Her Green Beret has met his fate
He has died for those oppressed
Leaving her this last request

Put silver wings on my son's chest
Make him one of America's best
He'll be a man they'll test one day
Have him win the Green Beret

The Green Beret

The men of the Special Forces are masters of their profession,
the profession of arms.

Theirs is more than a job or an occupation.
It is a way of life that requires
a personal commitment found nowhere
else in society. Its obligation is
dedication...it's demands, duty and
loyalty...it's principle, integrity
...and its reward, personal satisfaction.

Their countrymen see them as the
epitome of the American fighting man.
Their badge of distinction is the
Green Beret known and respected worldwide.

They wear it proudly!

Soldier

The average age of the military man 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.

This poem is to the people who lost love ones during the war.
May they always be honored

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the mornings hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there, I did not die.
Author Unknown

MEMORIAL DAY

A sea of white crosses, standing silent and still
Young men and women taken at the Almighty's will
Remembered in names engraved on a wall
America's Best, who answered a call

They walked through hell's fury, we call war
As they fought for Old Glory and all she stood for
To secure Freedom and Liberty to those yet born
They were cheered by many, by others were scorn

A flag on a casket, as they were laid to rest,
These Protectors of Freedom, America's Best,
They tell what courage and commitments about,
As twenty-one rounds of fire, rings out.

We pay our respect to all those who fell
Going back to a crack in the Liberty Bell
On Memorial Day, let us give them our Thanks
To those who gave their lives in the ranks

Our Fathers and Mothers, A daughter or son
Give meaning to the saying, "These colors don't run"
A flag waving gently, displayed by a door
Give Thanks for the Freedom, our Heros died for.

By
Barbara Cox

FREEDOM IS NOT FREE

I watched the flag pass by one day.
It fluttered in the breeze
A young Marine saluted it, and then
He stood at ease.

I looked at him in uniform
So young, so tall, so proud
With hair cut square and eyes alert
He'd stand out in any crowd.

I thought, how many men like him
Had fallen through the years?
How many died on foreign soil?
How many mothers' tears?

How many Pilots' planes shot down?
How many foxholes were soldiers' graves?
No, Freedom is not free.

I heard the sound of taps one night,
When everything was still.
I listened to the bugler play
And felt a sudden chill.

I wondered just how many times
That taps had meant "Amen"
When a flag had draped a coffin
of a brother or a friend.

I thought of all the children,
Of the mothers and the wives,
Of fathers, sons and husbands
With interrupted lives.

I thought about a graveyard
at the bottom of the sea
Of unmarked graves in Arlington.
No, Freedom isn't free!!

Copyright 1981 by Kelly Strong

The Wall
by Catherine Anne McNeill

I walked along that long black wall,
with names as far as I could see.
Friends I knew in childhood now etched in memories.
I've touched their names so many times,
remembered them with love.
I walk along, the rain pours down, tears from heaven above.

I watch a Vet, deep in thought, pain across his face.
He walks a mother to the wall; he's taken his friend's place.
She reaches out to touch a name, the one that was her son.
They pause together in the rain, their memories a bond.

The men who fought, the men who died, their names for all to see
Their lives so brief, fallen short, a page in history.
We can't forget what they had done, so many years ago.
Sacrifices they have made the bravery they showed.

I walked along that long black wall, crying in the rain.
For all those men who've touched our lives, we'll never see again.

28 May 2000

©Copyright 1999, Catherine Anne McNeill, All Rights Reserved

Dear America...

I was hardly a man when you called me to be,
A soldier in the battle to preserve liberty.

I remember those before me so willing to fight,
For a thing called freedom, a privilege, not a right.

I was willing to endure the horror and the pain.
Because a fight for freedom, is never in vain.

But, I have to ask you and hope you'll take a stand,
Please don't leave me in this foreign land.

I proudly gave my all, and my battle is won.
Please bring me home.
Sign,
Your Native Son
© Karen E. Springer

I can't find the words to say Thank-You here,
It is us who should be Thanking You.

China

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