A few years ago on Veteran's Day, Salty (aka PoppaGringo), & I visited Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery in San Diego, California, the west coast's equivalent to Arlington National Cemetery. The following story reminds me of our meeting a young Marine, also visiting, in Dress Blues near the entrance of that hallowed ground. We spoke with him for a few minutes and were left quite impressed with him, while wondering if we looked as dashing in our times of service...though, I'm quite certain Salty had. Often since then, I have thought of that young man and his possible fate.
'The thing that struck me most when we visited Rosecrans was the vastness. No photo can capture just how many, many, many dead there are. It's humbling and overwhelming. And, that's only a small slice of the real toll our wars have taken. Very few are buried there. Most are scattered around the country in thousands upon thousands of graves, seen by few, and remembered by fewer.'
Although the following story is fictional, it captures the emotions and sentiments of many who served in combat and made it home. Some are often haunted by the feelings of sadness and despair in having lost buddies for reasons we could not & can not always completely fathom. My heart goes out to all families who paid the ultimate sacrifice and to my fellow Veterans who remember all too well the horrors of war.
"All gave some...some gave all."
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
By Mark E Andersen
The grizzled old man arrived at his destination, his back hunched over and using a cane. He surveyed the scene before him with what combat veterans describe as the thousand-yard stare, a gaze that looks right through you, a look that says he has seen the horrors of war and that he cannot forget them some sixty years later. A vast sea of white lay before him. It was as if someone had planted the seeds for the garden of stone that was before him, ready for harvest.
“How many?” He asked himself, knowing that while there was no finite answer, the true answer was too many.
He trudged his way across the field of marble, stopping at each headstone to take a f**g out of his bag and placing one in front of each marker. He read every name and calculated every age. He was tempted to say that a few were too young to be here; however, he realized that all the men and women that were here were all too young to be here, every soul here was cut down in its prime.
“What a waste,” he exclaimed while shaking his head.
Silent and respectful of the sacrifices of those just below his feet he soldiered on, he was determined to complete his mission before nightfall. Across the field he could hear a lone bugler play "Taps," the mournful sound echoed across the landscape.
The forlorn notes of "Taps" brought back memories of long ago when he was a much younger man. He could still hear their voices, still see their faces as if they were standing next to him. The thoughts of the war came rushing back to him. He remembered each death, he was one of a handful that had survived the entire war.
They were so young then, so full of life and ready to take on the world. Few of them had that chance, many of them were chewed up on foreign soil, never to see home again. They gave their lives for a cause they may not have understood or believed in, but, they knew that their country needed them, so they answered the call. He could see himself as a young man trying to comprehend the savagery around him. Trying to understand why he lived and others died.
As he was reflecting on his past life, a young man with close-cropped hair, a muscular build and a thousand-yard stare approached the old man.
“Excuse me, sir, may I help you put those f**gs out?”
“Son, this is something I have done every year since I got home in 1946. There were a lot fewer stones then, every year it seems like more and more stones are here. And every year this mission takes me longer and longer to complete. This old vet would appreciate any help you could give me.”
“Sir, I have fallen brothers here as well. It would be an honor to help you.”
“Where and when did you serve, son?”
“I was with the Bravo company, 1/502nd Infantry, 101st Airborne Division. I served in both Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“Awful business is what those wars are. I would be honored to have a fellow Screaming Eagle help me. What is your name, son?”
“Troy Miller, sir.”
“Nice to meet you, son, I am Mike Samson, I was with Bravo Company, 326th Engineers, 101st Airborne during WWII. I jumped into Normandy and was with the 101st throughout the war. What was your rank?”
“I was a corporal, sir.”
“You don’t need to call me sir. I was never anything more than a private.”
The two of them soldiered on, placing a f**g in front of each headstone. They talked about the different wars and how the wars had changed them.
“What are your thoughts on the war,” asked the old man.
Troy stared off into the distance and sighed, and then said, “I am not sure I can sum up how I feel about the current wars, they are too close to me yet. But, in general, I feel that mankind has great potential, yet that potential gets wasted by old men with big egos. Those big egos do nothing more than send young men to die, those that live don’t come home the same. They are broken, yet try to hide it as best they can. All the while the leaders from both sides proclaim the young men are heroes and martyrs. Nothing is learned, nothing is gained, and the next generation of young men is g***med to go to war for old men with big egos. There has to be a better way to solve the world's problems.”
The old man took in what the young man had said—they walked a bit, putting more f**gs in front of the headstones. After ten minutes of silence he responded, “Son, if only my generation had your thoughts—sadly, after WWII, there was Korea, then Vietnam, and ever more wars. My only wish now is that we stop adding young men and women to this cemetery. Where one day Memorial Day would no longer be necessary. But, I don’t think that dream will ever happen.”
The young man nodded in agreement as they approached the last headstone. The soil was freshly turned, another addition to the fallen.
“I have to get going,” said the young man.
“You sure you don’t want to go and get a beer with me?”
“I would love to, but I have to go.”
“All right. It has been a pleasure to meet you. Maybe I will see you here next Memorial Day.”
"I will be here, sir. You will see me again."
The old man watched as the young man disappeared over the horizon. After pausing, he then looked down at the marble headstone over the fresh grave:
Troy S. Miller
Corporal
U.S. Army
1990-2010
Operation Enduring Freedom
The old man wept for the first time in 60 years, all he could think was “what a damn waste.”
slatten49 wrote:
A few years ago on Veteran's Day, Salty (aka PoppaGringo), & I visited Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery in San Diego, California, the west coast's equivalent to Arlington National Cemetery. The following story reminds me of our meeting a young Marine, also visiting, in Dress Blues near the entrance of that hallowed ground. We spoke with him for a few minutes and were left quite impressed with him, while wondering if we looked as dashing in our times of service...though, I'm quite certain Salty had. Often since then, I have thought of that young man and his possible fate.
'The thing that struck me most when we visited Rosecrans was the vastness. No photo can capture just how many, many, many dead there are. It's humbling and overwhelming. And, that's only a small slice of the real toll our wars have taken. Very few are buried there. Most are scattered around the country in thousands upon thousands of graves, seen by few, and remembered by fewer.'
Although the following story is fictional, it captures the emotions and sentiments of many who served in combat and made it home. Some are often haunted by the feelings of sadness and despair in having lost buddies for reasons we could not & can not always completely fathom. My heart goes out to all families who paid the ultimate sacrifice and to my fellow Veterans who remember all too well the horrors of war.
"All gave some...some gave all."
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
By Mark E Andersen
The grizzled old man arrived at his destination, his back hunched over and using a cane. He surveyed the scene before him with what combat veterans describe as the thousand-yard stare, a gaze that looks right through you, a look that says he has seen the horrors of war and that he cannot forget them some sixty years later. A vast sea of white lay before him. It was as if someone had planted the seeds for the garden of stone that was before him, ready for harvest.
“How many?” He asked himself, knowing that while there was no finite answer, the true answer was too many.
He trudged his way across the field of marble, stopping at each headstone to take a f**g out of his bag and placing one in front of each marker. He read every name and calculated every age. He was tempted to say that a few were too young to be here; however, he realized that all the men and women that were here were all too young to be here, every soul here was cut down in its prime.
“What a waste,” he exclaimed while shaking his head.
Silent and respectful of the sacrifices of those just below his feet he soldiered on, he was determined to complete his mission before nightfall. Across the field he could hear a lone bugler play "Taps," the mournful sound echoed across the landscape.
The forlorn notes of "Taps" brought back memories of long ago when he was a much younger man. He could still hear their voices, still see their faces as if they were standing next to him. The thoughts of the war came rushing back to him. He remembered each death, he was one of a handful that had survived the entire war.
They were so young then, so full of life and ready to take on the world. Few of them had that chance, many of them were chewed up on foreign soil, never to see home again. They gave their lives for a cause they may not have understood or believed in, but, they knew that their country needed them, so they answered the call. He could see himself as a young man trying to comprehend the savagery around him. Trying to understand why he lived and others died.
As he was reflecting on his past life, a young man with close-cropped hair, a muscular build and a thousand-yard stare approached the old man.
“Excuse me, sir, may I help you put those f**gs out?”
“Son, this is something I have done every year since I got home in 1946. There were a lot fewer stones then, every year it seems like more and more stones are here. And every year this mission takes me longer and longer to complete. This old vet would appreciate any help you could give me.”
“Sir, I have fallen brothers here as well. It would be an honor to help you.”
“Where and when did you serve, son?”
“I was with the Bravo company, 1/502nd Infantry, 101st Airborne Division. I served in both Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“Awful business is what those wars are. I would be honored to have a fellow Screaming Eagle help me. What is your name, son?”
“Troy Miller, sir.”
“Nice to meet you, son, I am Mike Samson, I was with Bravo Company, 326th Engineers, 101st Airborne during WWII. I jumped into Normandy and was with the 101st throughout the war. What was your rank?”
“I was a corporal, sir.”
“You don’t need to call me sir. I was never anything more than a private.”
The two of them soldiered on, placing a f**g in front of each headstone. They talked about the different wars and how the wars had changed them.
“What are your thoughts on the war,” asked the old man.
Troy stared off into the distance and sighed, and then said, “I am not sure I can sum up how I feel about the current wars, they are too close to me yet. But, in general, I feel that mankind has great potential, yet that potential gets wasted by old men with big egos. Those big egos do nothing more than send young men to die, those that live don’t come home the same. They are broken, yet try to hide it as best they can. All the while the leaders from both sides proclaim the young men are heroes and martyrs. Nothing is learned, nothing is gained, and the next generation of young men is g***med to go to war for old men with big egos. There has to be a better way to solve the world's problems.”
The old man took in what the young man had said—they walked a bit, putting more f**gs in front of the headstones. After ten minutes of silence he responded, “Son, if only my generation had your thoughts—sadly, after WWII, there was Korea, then Vietnam, and ever more wars. My only wish now is that we stop adding young men and women to this cemetery. Where one day Memorial Day would no longer be necessary. But, I don’t think that dream will ever happen.”
The young man nodded in agreement as they approached the last headstone. The soil was freshly turned, another addition to the fallen.
“I have to get going,” said the young man.
“You sure you don’t want to go and get a beer with me?”
“I would love to, but I have to go.”
“All right. It has been a pleasure to meet you. Maybe I will see you here next Memorial Day.”
"I will be here, sir. You will see me again."
The old man watched as the young man disappeared over the horizon. After pausing, he then looked down at the marble headstone over the fresh grave:
Troy S. Miller
Corporal
U.S. Army
1990-2010
Operation Enduring Freedom
The old man wept for the first time in 60 years, all he could think was “what a damn waste.”
A few years ago on Veteran's Day, Salty (aka Poppa... (
show quote)
Excellent post --- SEMPER_FI !!!!!!
slatten49 wrote:
A few years ago on Veteran's Day, Salty (aka PoppaGringo), & I visited Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery in San Diego, California, the west coast's equivalent to Arlington National Cemetery. The following story reminds me of our meeting a young Marine, also visiting, in Dress Blues near the entrance of that hallowed ground. We spoke with him for a few minutes and were left quite impressed with him, while wondering if we looked as dashing in our times of service...though, I'm quite certain Salty had. Often since then, I have thought of that young man and his possible fate.
'The thing that struck me most when we visited Rosecrans was the vastness. No photo can capture just how many, many, many dead there are. It's humbling and overwhelming. And, that's only a small slice of the real toll our wars have taken. Very few are buried there. Most are scattered around the country in thousands upon thousands of graves, seen by few, and remembered by fewer.'
Although the following story is fictional, it captures the emotions and sentiments of many who served in combat and made it home. Some are often haunted by the feelings of sadness and despair in having lost buddies for reasons we could not & can not always completely fathom. My heart goes out to all families who paid the ultimate sacrifice and to my fellow Veterans who remember all too well the horrors of war.
"All gave some...some gave all."
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
By Mark E Andersen
The grizzled old man arrived at his destination, his back hunched over and using a cane. He surveyed the scene before him with what combat veterans describe as the thousand-yard stare, a gaze that looks right through you, a look that says he has seen the horrors of war and that he cannot forget them some sixty years later. A vast sea of white lay before him. It was as if someone had planted the seeds for the garden of stone that was before him, ready for harvest.
“How many?” He asked himself, knowing that while there was no finite answer, the true answer was too many.
He trudged his way across the field of marble, stopping at each headstone to take a f**g out of his bag and placing one in front of each marker. He read every name and calculated every age. He was tempted to say that a few were too young to be here; however, he realized that all the men and women that were here were all too young to be here, every soul here was cut down in its prime.
“What a waste,” he exclaimed while shaking his head.
Silent and respectful of the sacrifices of those just below his feet he soldiered on, he was determined to complete his mission before nightfall. Across the field he could hear a lone bugler play "Taps," the mournful sound echoed across the landscape.
The forlorn notes of "Taps" brought back memories of long ago when he was a much younger man. He could still hear their voices, still see their faces as if they were standing next to him. The thoughts of the war came rushing back to him. He remembered each death, he was one of a handful that had survived the entire war.
They were so young then, so full of life and ready to take on the world. Few of them had that chance, many of them were chewed up on foreign soil, never to see home again. They gave their lives for a cause they may not have understood or believed in, but, they knew that their country needed them, so they answered the call. He could see himself as a young man trying to comprehend the savagery around him. Trying to understand why he lived and others died.
As he was reflecting on his past life, a young man with close-cropped hair, a muscular build and a thousand-yard stare approached the old man.
“Excuse me, sir, may I help you put those f**gs out?”
“Son, this is something I have done every year since I got home in 1946. There were a lot fewer stones then, every year it seems like more and more stones are here. And every year this mission takes me longer and longer to complete. This old vet would appreciate any help you could give me.”
“Sir, I have fallen brothers here as well. It would be an honor to help you.”
“Where and when did you serve, son?”
“I was with the Bravo company, 1/502nd Infantry, 101st Airborne Division. I served in both Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“Awful business is what those wars are. I would be honored to have a fellow Screaming Eagle help me. What is your name, son?”
“Troy Miller, sir.”
“Nice to meet you, son, I am Mike Samson, I was with Bravo Company, 326th Engineers, 101st Airborne during WWII. I jumped into Normandy and was with the 101st throughout the war. What was your rank?”
“I was a corporal, sir.”
“You don’t need to call me sir. I was never anything more than a private.”
The two of them soldiered on, placing a f**g in front of each headstone. They talked about the different wars and how the wars had changed them.
“What are your thoughts on the war,” asked the old man.
Troy stared off into the distance and sighed, and then said, “I am not sure I can sum up how I feel about the current wars, they are too close to me yet. But, in general, I feel that mankind has great potential, yet that potential gets wasted by old men with big egos. Those big egos do nothing more than send young men to die, those that live don’t come home the same. They are broken, yet try to hide it as best they can. All the while the leaders from both sides proclaim the young men are heroes and martyrs. Nothing is learned, nothing is gained, and the next generation of young men is g***med to go to war for old men with big egos. There has to be a better way to solve the world's problems.”
The old man took in what the young man had said—they walked a bit, putting more f**gs in front of the headstones. After ten minutes of silence he responded, “Son, if only my generation had your thoughts—sadly, after WWII, there was Korea, then Vietnam, and ever more wars. My only wish now is that we stop adding young men and women to this cemetery. Where one day Memorial Day would no longer be necessary. But, I don’t think that dream will ever happen.”
The young man nodded in agreement as they approached the last headstone. The soil was freshly turned, another addition to the fallen.
“I have to get going,” said the young man.
“You sure you don’t want to go and get a beer with me?”
“I would love to, but I have to go.”
“All right. It has been a pleasure to meet you. Maybe I will see you here next Memorial Day.”
"I will be here, sir. You will see me again."
The old man watched as the young man disappeared over the horizon. After pausing, he then looked down at the marble headstone over the fresh grave:
Troy S. Miller
Corporal
U.S. Army
1990-2010
Operation Enduring Freedom
The old man wept for the first time in 60 years, all he could think was “what a damn waste.”
A few years ago on Veteran's Day, Salty (aka Poppa... (
show quote)
I should not have read that this morning. I have work to do and I can't see through my tears to do it.
Don't know if I should thank you for posting it or not. When the tears stop i will go with friends to visit the cemmetary next to our property and help put flowers on a few graves. It is the least I can do.
This should make all of us think, and ask why.
no propaganda please wrote:
I should not have read that this morning. I have work to do and I can't see through my tears to do it.
Don't know if I should thank you for posting it or not. When the tears stop i will go with friends to visit the cemmetary next to our property and help put flowers on a few graves. It is the least I can do.
Sorry, NPP/SWMBO. I had previously posted this some time ago. But, given that tomorrow is Memorial Day, I deemed it one worth reposting.
slatten49 wrote:
A few years ago on Veteran's Day, Salty (aka PoppaGringo), & I visited Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery in San Diego, California, the west coast's equivalent to Arlington National Cemetery. The following story reminds me of our meeting a young Marine, also visiting, in Dress Blues near the entrance of that hallowed ground. We spoke with him for a few minutes and were left quite impressed with him, while wondering if we looked as dashing in our times of service...though, I'm quite certain Salty had. Often since then, I have thought of that young man and his possible fate.
'The thing that struck me most when we visited Rosecrans was the vastness. No photo can capture just how many, many, many dead there are. It's humbling and overwhelming. And, that's only a small slice of the real toll our wars have taken. Very few are buried there. Most are scattered around the country in thousands upon thousands of graves, seen by few, and remembered by fewer.'
Although the following story is fictional, it captures the emotions and sentiments of many who served in combat and made it home. Some are often haunted by the feelings of sadness and despair in having lost buddies for reasons we could not & can not always completely fathom. My heart goes out to all families who paid the ultimate sacrifice and to my fellow Veterans who remember all too well the horrors of war.
"All gave some...some gave all."
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
By Mark E Andersen
The grizzled old man arrived at his destination, his back hunched over and using a cane. He surveyed the scene before him with what combat veterans describe as the thousand-yard stare, a gaze that looks right through you, a look that says he has seen the horrors of war and that he cannot forget them some sixty years later. A vast sea of white lay before him. It was as if someone had planted the seeds for the garden of stone that was before him, ready for harvest.
“How many?” He asked himself, knowing that while there was no finite answer, the true answer was too many.
He trudged his way across the field of marble, stopping at each headstone to take a f**g out of his bag and placing one in front of each marker. He read every name and calculated every age. He was tempted to say that a few were too young to be here; however, he realized that all the men and women that were here were all too young to be here, every soul here was cut down in its prime.
“What a waste,” he exclaimed while shaking his head.
Silent and respectful of the sacrifices of those just below his feet he soldiered on, he was determined to complete his mission before nightfall. Across the field he could hear a lone bugler play "Taps," the mournful sound echoed across the landscape.
The forlorn notes of "Taps" brought back memories of long ago when he was a much younger man. He could still hear their voices, still see their faces as if they were standing next to him. The thoughts of the war came rushing back to him. He remembered each death, he was one of a handful that had survived the entire war.
They were so young then, so full of life and ready to take on the world. Few of them had that chance, many of them were chewed up on foreign soil, never to see home again. They gave their lives for a cause they may not have understood or believed in, but, they knew that their country needed them, so they answered the call. He could see himself as a young man trying to comprehend the savagery around him. Trying to understand why he lived and others died.
As he was reflecting on his past life, a young man with close-cropped hair, a muscular build and a thousand-yard stare approached the old man.
“Excuse me, sir, may I help you put those f**gs out?”
“Son, this is something I have done every year since I got home in 1946. There were a lot fewer stones then, every year it seems like more and more stones are here. And every year this mission takes me longer and longer to complete. This old vet would appreciate any help you could give me.”
“Sir, I have fallen brothers here as well. It would be an honor to help you.”
“Where and when did you serve, son?”
“I was with the Bravo company, 1/502nd Infantry, 101st Airborne Division. I served in both Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“Awful business is what those wars are. I would be honored to have a fellow Screaming Eagle help me. What is your name, son?”
“Troy Miller, sir.”
“Nice to meet you, son, I am Mike Samson, I was with Bravo Company, 326th Engineers, 101st Airborne during WWII. I jumped into Normandy and was with the 101st throughout the war. What was your rank?”
“I was a corporal, sir.”
“You don’t need to call me sir. I was never anything more than a private.”
The two of them soldiered on, placing a f**g in front of each headstone. They talked about the different wars and how the wars had changed them.
“What are your thoughts on the war,” asked the old man.
Troy stared off into the distance and sighed, and then said, “I am not sure I can sum up how I feel about the current wars, they are too close to me yet. But, in general, I feel that mankind has great potential, yet that potential gets wasted by old men with big egos. Those big egos do nothing more than send young men to die, those that live don’t come home the same. They are broken, yet try to hide it as best they can. All the while the leaders from both sides proclaim the young men are heroes and martyrs. Nothing is learned, nothing is gained, and the next generation of young men is g***med to go to war for old men with big egos. There has to be a better way to solve the world's problems.”
The old man took in what the young man had said—they walked a bit, putting more f**gs in front of the headstones. After ten minutes of silence he responded, “Son, if only my generation had your thoughts—sadly, after WWII, there was Korea, then Vietnam, and ever more wars. My only wish now is that we stop adding young men and women to this cemetery. Where one day Memorial Day would no longer be necessary. But, I don’t think that dream will ever happen.”
The young man nodded in agreement as they approached the last headstone. The soil was freshly turned, another addition to the fallen.
“I have to get going,” said the young man.
“You sure you don’t want to go and get a beer with me?”
“I would love to, but I have to go.”
“All right. It has been a pleasure to meet you. Maybe I will see you here next Memorial Day.”
"I will be here, sir. You will see me again."
The old man watched as the young man disappeared over the horizon. After pausing, he then looked down at the marble headstone over the fresh grave:
Troy S. Miller
Corporal
U.S. Army
1990-2010
Operation Enduring Freedom
The old man wept for the first time in 60 years, all he could think was “what a damn waste.”
A few years ago on Veteran's Day, Salty (aka Poppa... (
show quote)
So sad. I wish America would become self sufficient again and only do trade deals with other countries. And if they dont want to trade, c'est la vie. Who cares. I lost many friends and classmates in Vietnam. For what? Same in the middle east. If the stinking pols want to go in and just fight and die without any specific goal? Screw that, IMO
slatten49 wrote:
Sorry, NPP/SWMBO. I had previously posted this some time ago. But, given that tomorrow is Memorial Day, I deemed it one worth reposting.
Actually I am glad you did, I have printed it to give to the people whose graves we put flowers and an American f**g. NPP is having trouble with his hips today but insisted on walking up the steep hill with us.
SWMBO
slatten49 wrote:
A few years ago on Veteran's Day, Salty (aka PoppaGringo), & I visited Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery in San Diego, California, the west coast's equivalent to Arlington National Cemetery. The following story reminds me of our meeting a young Marine, also visiting, in Dress Blues near the entrance of that hallowed ground. We spoke with him for a few minutes and were left quite impressed with him, while wondering if we looked as dashing in our times of service...though, I'm quite certain Salty had. Often since then, I have thought of that young man and his possible fate.
'The thing that struck me most when we visited Rosecrans was the vastness. No photo can capture just how many, many, many dead there are. It's humbling and overwhelming. And, that's only a small slice of the real toll our wars have taken. Very few are buried there. Most are scattered around the country in thousands upon thousands of graves, seen by few, and remembered by fewer.'
Although the following story is fictional, it captures the emotions and sentiments of many who served in combat and made it home. Some are often haunted by the feelings of sadness and despair in having lost buddies for reasons we could not & can not always completely fathom. My heart goes out to all families who paid the ultimate sacrifice and to my fellow Veterans who remember all too well the horrors of war.
"All gave some...some gave all."
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
By Mark E Andersen
The grizzled old man arrived at his destination, his back hunched over and using a cane. He surveyed the scene before him with what combat veterans describe as the thousand-yard stare, a gaze that looks right through you, a look that says he has seen the horrors of war and that he cannot forget them some sixty years later. A vast sea of white lay before him. It was as if someone had planted the seeds for the garden of stone that was before him, ready for harvest.
“How many?” He asked himself, knowing that while there was no finite answer, the true answer was too many.
He trudged his way across the field of marble, stopping at each headstone to take a f**g out of his bag and placing one in front of each marker. He read every name and calculated every age. He was tempted to say that a few were too young to be here; however, he realized that all the men and women that were here were all too young to be here, every soul here was cut down in its prime.
“What a waste,” he exclaimed while shaking his head.
Silent and respectful of the sacrifices of those just below his feet he soldiered on, he was determined to complete his mission before nightfall. Across the field he could hear a lone bugler play "Taps," the mournful sound echoed across the landscape.
The forlorn notes of "Taps" brought back memories of long ago when he was a much younger man. He could still hear their voices, still see their faces as if they were standing next to him. The thoughts of the war came rushing back to him. He remembered each death, he was one of a handful that had survived the entire war.
They were so young then, so full of life and ready to take on the world. Few of them had that chance, many of them were chewed up on foreign soil, never to see home again. They gave their lives for a cause they may not have understood or believed in, but, they knew that their country needed them, so they answered the call. He could see himself as a young man trying to comprehend the savagery around him. Trying to understand why he lived and others died.
As he was reflecting on his past life, a young man with close-cropped hair, a muscular build and a thousand-yard stare approached the old man.
“Excuse me, sir, may I help you put those f**gs out?”
“Son, this is something I have done every year since I got home in 1946. There were a lot fewer stones then, every year it seems like more and more stones are here. And every year this mission takes me longer and longer to complete. This old vet would appreciate any help you could give me.”
“Sir, I have fallen brothers here as well. It would be an honor to help you.”
“Where and when did you serve, son?”
“I was with the Bravo company, 1/502nd Infantry, 101st Airborne Division. I served in both Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“Awful business is what those wars are. I would be honored to have a fellow Screaming Eagle help me. What is your name, son?”
“Troy Miller, sir.”
“Nice to meet you, son, I am Mike Samson, I was with Bravo Company, 326th Engineers, 101st Airborne during WWII. I jumped into Normandy and was with the 101st throughout the war. What was your rank?”
“I was a corporal, sir.”
“You don’t need to call me sir. I was never anything more than a private.”
The two of them soldiered on, placing a f**g in front of each headstone. They talked about the different wars and how the wars had changed them.
“What are your thoughts on the war,” asked the old man.
Troy stared off into the distance and sighed, and then said, “I am not sure I can sum up how I feel about the current wars, they are too close to me yet. But, in general, I feel that mankind has great potential, yet that potential gets wasted by old men with big egos. Those big egos do nothing more than send young men to die, those that live don’t come home the same. They are broken, yet try to hide it as best they can. All the while the leaders from both sides proclaim the young men are heroes and martyrs. Nothing is learned, nothing is gained, and the next generation of young men is g***med to go to war for old men with big egos. There has to be a better way to solve the world's problems.”
The old man took in what the young man had said—they walked a bit, putting more f**gs in front of the headstones. After ten minutes of silence he responded, “Son, if only my generation had your thoughts—sadly, after WWII, there was Korea, then Vietnam, and ever more wars. My only wish now is that we stop adding young men and women to this cemetery. Where one day Memorial Day would no longer be necessary. But, I don’t think that dream will ever happen.”
The young man nodded in agreement as they approached the last headstone. The soil was freshly turned, another addition to the fallen.
“I have to get going,” said the young man.
“You sure you don’t want to go and get a beer with me?”
“I would love to, but I have to go.”
“All right. It has been a pleasure to meet you. Maybe I will see you here next Memorial Day.”
"I will be here, sir. You will see me again."
The old man watched as the young man disappeared over the horizon. After pausing, he then looked down at the marble headstone over the fresh grave:
Troy S. Miller
Corporal
U.S. Army
1990-2010
Operation Enduring Freedom
The old man wept for the first time in 60 years, all he could think was “what a damn waste.”
A few years ago on Veteran's Day, Salty (aka Poppa... (
show quote)
Visiting every National cemetery in the US, Europe and the South Pacific, gives a picture of just a fraction of the true cost of war. The 1000's still MIA, the 10's of 1000's forever entombed in sea/ocean graves, the 1000's lost AFTER battle to addiction and suicide and the 10's of 1000's who's lives are irreparably altered, gives a clearer picture of the cost of war.
Perhaps, if every American were forced to count all those casualties at least once a year on Memorial day, they might be more reluctant to allow politicians to spend more lives with reckless abandon.
All should remember: "Memorial Day isn't just about honoring Veterans, its honoring those who lost their lives. Veterans had the fortune of coming home. For us, that's a reminder of when we come home we still have a responsibility to serve. It's a continuation of service that honors our country and those who fell defending it." --- Pete Hegseth
slatten49 wrote:
A few years ago on Veteran's Day, Salty (aka PoppaGringo), & I visited Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery in San Diego, California, the west coast's equivalent to Arlington National Cemetery. The following story reminds me of our meeting a young Marine, also visiting, in Dress Blues near the entrance of that hallowed ground. We spoke with him for a few minutes and were left quite impressed with him, while wondering if we looked as dashing in our times of service...though, I'm quite certain Salty had. Often since then, I have thought of that young man and his possible fate.
'The thing that struck me most when we visited Rosecrans was the vastness. No photo can capture just how many, many, many dead there are. It's humbling and overwhelming. And, that's only a small slice of the real toll our wars have taken. Very few are buried there. Most are scattered around the country in thousands upon thousands of graves, seen by few, and remembered by fewer.'
Although the following story is fictional, it captures the emotions and sentiments of many who served in combat and made it home. Some are often haunted by the feelings of sadness and despair in having lost buddies for reasons we could not & can not always completely fathom. My heart goes out to all families who paid the ultimate sacrifice and to my fellow Veterans who remember all too well the horrors of war.
"All gave some...some gave all."
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
By Mark E Andersen
The grizzled old man arrived at his destination, his back hunched over and using a cane. He surveyed the scene before him with what combat veterans describe as the thousand-yard stare, a gaze that looks right through you, a look that says he has seen the horrors of war and that he cannot forget them some sixty years later. A vast sea of white lay before him. It was as if someone had planted the seeds for the garden of stone that was before him, ready for harvest.
“How many?” He asked himself, knowing that while there was no finite answer, the true answer was too many.
He trudged his way across the field of marble, stopping at each headstone to take a f**g out of his bag and placing one in front of each marker. He read every name and calculated every age. He was tempted to say that a few were too young to be here; however, he realized that all the men and women that were here were all too young to be here, every soul here was cut down in its prime.
“What a waste,” he exclaimed while shaking his head.
Silent and respectful of the sacrifices of those just below his feet he soldiered on, he was determined to complete his mission before nightfall. Across the field he could hear a lone bugler play "Taps," the mournful sound echoed across the landscape.
The forlorn notes of "Taps" brought back memories of long ago when he was a much younger man. He could still hear their voices, still see their faces as if they were standing next to him. The thoughts of the war came rushing back to him. He remembered each death, he was one of a handful that had survived the entire war.
They were so young then, so full of life and ready to take on the world. Few of them had that chance, many of them were chewed up on foreign soil, never to see home again. They gave their lives for a cause they may not have understood or believed in, but, they knew that their country needed them, so they answered the call. He could see himself as a young man trying to comprehend the savagery around him. Trying to understand why he lived and others died.
As he was reflecting on his past life, a young man with close-cropped hair, a muscular build and a thousand-yard stare approached the old man.
“Excuse me, sir, may I help you put those f**gs out?”
“Son, this is something I have done every year since I got home in 1946. There were a lot fewer stones then, every year it seems like more and more stones are here. And every year this mission takes me longer and longer to complete. This old vet would appreciate any help you could give me.”
“Sir, I have fallen brothers here as well. It would be an honor to help you.”
“Where and when did you serve, son?”
“I was with the Bravo company, 1/502nd Infantry, 101st Airborne Division. I served in both Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“Awful business is what those wars are. I would be honored to have a fellow Screaming Eagle help me. What is your name, son?”
“Troy Miller, sir.”
“Nice to meet you, son, I am Mike Samson, I was with Bravo Company, 326th Engineers, 101st Airborne during WWII. I jumped into Normandy and was with the 101st throughout the war. What was your rank?”
“I was a corporal, sir.”
“You don’t need to call me sir. I was never anything more than a private.”
The two of them soldiered on, placing a f**g in front of each headstone. They talked about the different wars and how the wars had changed them.
“What are your thoughts on the war,” asked the old man.
Troy stared off into the distance and sighed, and then said, “I am not sure I can sum up how I feel about the current wars, they are too close to me yet. But, in general, I feel that mankind has great potential, yet that potential gets wasted by old men with big egos. Those big egos do nothing more than send young men to die, those that live don’t come home the same. They are broken, yet try to hide it as best they can. All the while the leaders from both sides proclaim the young men are heroes and martyrs. Nothing is learned, nothing is gained, and the next generation of young men is g***med to go to war for old men with big egos. There has to be a better way to solve the world's problems.”
The old man took in what the young man had said—they walked a bit, putting more f**gs in front of the headstones. After ten minutes of silence he responded, “Son, if only my generation had your thoughts—sadly, after WWII, there was Korea, then Vietnam, and ever more wars. My only wish now is that we stop adding young men and women to this cemetery. Where one day Memorial Day would no longer be necessary. But, I don’t think that dream will ever happen.”
The young man nodded in agreement as they approached the last headstone. The soil was freshly turned, another addition to the fallen.
“I have to get going,” said the young man.
“You sure you don’t want to go and get a beer with me?”
“I would love to, but I have to go.”
“All right. It has been a pleasure to meet you. Maybe I will see you here next Memorial Day.”
"I will be here, sir. You will see me again."
The old man watched as the young man disappeared over the horizon. After pausing, he then looked down at the marble headstone over the fresh grave:
Troy S. Miller
Corporal
U.S. Army
1990-2010
Operation Enduring Freedom
The old man wept for the first time in 60 years, all he could think was “what a damn waste.”
A few years ago on Veteran's Day, Salty (aka Poppa... (
show quote)
Brought tears to my eyes, but a warm feeling in my heart 💜.
slatten49 wrote:
A few years ago on Veteran's Day, Salty (aka PoppaGringo), & I visited Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery in San Diego, California, the west coast's equivalent to Arlington National Cemetery. The following story reminds me of our meeting a young Marine, also visiting, in Dress Blues near the entrance of that hallowed ground. We spoke with him for a few minutes and were left quite impressed with him, while wondering if we looked as dashing in our times of service...though, I'm quite certain Salty had. Often since then, I have thought of that young man and his possible fate.
'The thing that struck me most when we visited Rosecrans was the vastness. No photo can capture just how many, many, many dead there are. It's humbling and overwhelming. And, that's only a small slice of the real toll our wars have taken. Very few are buried there. Most are scattered around the country in thousands upon thousands of graves, seen by few, and remembered by fewer.'
Although the following story is fictional, it captures the emotions and sentiments of many who served in combat and made it home. Some are often haunted by the feelings of sadness and despair in having lost buddies for reasons we could not & can not always completely fathom. My heart goes out to all families who paid the ultimate sacrifice and to my fellow Veterans who remember all too well the horrors of war.
"All gave some...some gave all."
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
By Mark E Andersen
The grizzled old man arrived at his destination, his back hunched over and using a cane. He surveyed the scene before him with what combat veterans describe as the thousand-yard stare, a gaze that looks right through you, a look that says he has seen the horrors of war and that he cannot forget them some sixty years later. A vast sea of white lay before him. It was as if someone had planted the seeds for the garden of stone that was before him, ready for harvest.
“How many?” He asked himself, knowing that while there was no finite answer, the true answer was too many.
He trudged his way across the field of marble, stopping at each headstone to take a f**g out of his bag and placing one in front of each marker. He read every name and calculated every age. He was tempted to say that a few were too young to be here; however, he realized that all the men and women that were here were all too young to be here, every soul here was cut down in its prime.
“What a waste,” he exclaimed while shaking his head.
Silent and respectful of the sacrifices of those just below his feet he soldiered on, he was determined to complete his mission before nightfall. Across the field he could hear a lone bugler play "Taps," the mournful sound echoed across the landscape.
The forlorn notes of "Taps" brought back memories of long ago when he was a much younger man. He could still hear their voices, still see their faces as if they were standing next to him. The thoughts of the war came rushing back to him. He remembered each death, he was one of a handful that had survived the entire war.
They were so young then, so full of life and ready to take on the world. Few of them had that chance, many of them were chewed up on foreign soil, never to see home again. They gave their lives for a cause they may not have understood or believed in, but, they knew that their country needed them, so they answered the call. He could see himself as a young man trying to comprehend the savagery around him. Trying to understand why he lived and others died.
As he was reflecting on his past life, a young man with close-cropped hair, a muscular build and a thousand-yard stare approached the old man.
“Excuse me, sir, may I help you put those f**gs out?”
“Son, this is something I have done every year since I got home in 1946. There were a lot fewer stones then, every year it seems like more and more stones are here. And every year this mission takes me longer and longer to complete. This old vet would appreciate any help you could give me.”
“Sir, I have fallen brothers here as well. It would be an honor to help you.”
“Where and when did you serve, son?”
“I was with the Bravo company, 1/502nd Infantry, 101st Airborne Division. I served in both Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“Awful business is what those wars are. I would be honored to have a fellow Screaming Eagle help me. What is your name, son?”
“Troy Miller, sir.”
“Nice to meet you, son, I am Mike Samson, I was with Bravo Company, 326th Engineers, 101st Airborne during WWII. I jumped into Normandy and was with the 101st throughout the war. What was your rank?”
“I was a corporal, sir.”
“You don’t need to call me sir. I was never anything more than a private.”
The two of them soldiered on, placing a f**g in front of each headstone. They talked about the different wars and how the wars had changed them.
“What are your thoughts on the war,” asked the old man.
Troy stared off into the distance and sighed, and then said, “I am not sure I can sum up how I feel about the current wars, they are too close to me yet. But, in general, I feel that mankind has great potential, yet that potential gets wasted by old men with big egos. Those big egos do nothing more than send young men to die, those that live don’t come home the same. They are broken, yet try to hide it as best they can. All the while the leaders from both sides proclaim the young men are heroes and martyrs. Nothing is learned, nothing is gained, and the next generation of young men is g***med to go to war for old men with big egos. There has to be a better way to solve the world's problems.”
The old man took in what the young man had said—they walked a bit, putting more f**gs in front of the headstones. After ten minutes of silence he responded, “Son, if only my generation had your thoughts—sadly, after WWII, there was Korea, then Vietnam, and ever more wars. My only wish now is that we stop adding young men and women to this cemetery. Where one day Memorial Day would no longer be necessary. But, I don’t think that dream will ever happen.”
The young man nodded in agreement as they approached the last headstone. The soil was freshly turned, another addition to the fallen.
“I have to get going,” said the young man.
“You sure you don’t want to go and get a beer with me?”
“I would love to, but I have to go.”
“All right. It has been a pleasure to meet you. Maybe I will see you here next Memorial Day.”
"I will be here, sir. You will see me again."
The old man watched as the young man disappeared over the horizon. After pausing, he then looked down at the marble headstone over the fresh grave:
Troy S. Miller
Corporal
U.S. Army
1990-2010
Operation Enduring Freedom
The old man wept for the first time in 60 years, all he could think was “what a damn waste.”
A few years ago on Veteran's Day, Salty (aka Poppa... (
show quote)
This is the first time I can remember weeping out loud.
RIP all.
slatten49 wrote:
A few years ago on Veteran's Day, Salty (aka PoppaGringo), & I visited Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery in San Diego, California, the west coast's equivalent to Arlington National Cemetery. The following story reminds me of our meeting a young Marine, also visiting, in Dress Blues near the entrance of that hallowed ground. We spoke with him for a few minutes and were left quite impressed with him, while wondering if we looked as dashing in our times of service...though, I'm quite certain Salty had. Often since then, I have thought of that young man and his possible fate.
'The thing that struck me most when we visited Rosecrans was the vastness. No photo can capture just how many, many, many dead there are. It's humbling and overwhelming. And, that's only a small slice of the real toll our wars have taken. Very few are buried there. Most are scattered around the country in thousands upon thousands of graves, seen by few, and remembered by fewer.'
Although the following story is fictional, it captures the emotions and sentiments of many who served in combat and made it home. Some are often haunted by the feelings of sadness and despair in having lost buddies for reasons we could not & can not always completely fathom. My heart goes out to all families who paid the ultimate sacrifice and to my fellow Veterans who remember all too well the horrors of war.
"All gave some...some gave all."
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
By Mark E Andersen
The grizzled old man arrived at his destination, his back hunched over and using a cane. He surveyed the scene before him with what combat veterans describe as the thousand-yard stare, a gaze that looks right through you, a look that says he has seen the horrors of war and that he cannot forget them some sixty years later. A vast sea of white lay before him. It was as if someone had planted the seeds for the garden of stone that was before him, ready for harvest.
“How many?” He asked himself, knowing that while there was no finite answer, the true answer was too many.
He trudged his way across the field of marble, stopping at each headstone to take a f**g out of his bag and placing one in front of each marker. He read every name and calculated every age. He was tempted to say that a few were too young to be here; however, he realized that all the men and women that were here were all too young to be here, every soul here was cut down in its prime.
“What a waste,” he exclaimed while shaking his head.
Silent and respectful of the sacrifices of those just below his feet he soldiered on, he was determined to complete his mission before nightfall. Across the field he could hear a lone bugler play "Taps," the mournful sound echoed across the landscape.
The forlorn notes of "Taps" brought back memories of long ago when he was a much younger man. He could still hear their voices, still see their faces as if they were standing next to him. The thoughts of the war came rushing back to him. He remembered each death, he was one of a handful that had survived the entire war.
They were so young then, so full of life and ready to take on the world. Few of them had that chance, many of them were chewed up on foreign soil, never to see home again. They gave their lives for a cause they may not have understood or believed in, but, they knew that their country needed them, so they answered the call. He could see himself as a young man trying to comprehend the savagery around him. Trying to understand why he lived and others died.
As he was reflecting on his past life, a young man with close-cropped hair, a muscular build and a thousand-yard stare approached the old man.
“Excuse me, sir, may I help you put those f**gs out?”
“Son, this is something I have done every year since I got home in 1946. There were a lot fewer stones then, every year it seems like more and more stones are here. And every year this mission takes me longer and longer to complete. This old vet would appreciate any help you could give me.”
“Sir, I have fallen brothers here as well. It would be an honor to help you.”
“Where and when did you serve, son?”
“I was with the Bravo company, 1/502nd Infantry, 101st Airborne Division. I served in both Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“Awful business is what those wars are. I would be honored to have a fellow Screaming Eagle help me. What is your name, son?”
“Troy Miller, sir.”
“Nice to meet you, son, I am Mike Samson, I was with Bravo Company, 326th Engineers, 101st Airborne during WWII. I jumped into Normandy and was with the 101st throughout the war. What was your rank?”
“I was a corporal, sir.”
“You don’t need to call me sir. I was never anything more than a private.”
The two of them soldiered on, placing a f**g in front of each headstone. They talked about the different wars and how the wars had changed them.
“What are your thoughts on the war,” asked the old man.
Troy stared off into the distance and sighed, and then said, “I am not sure I can sum up how I feel about the current wars, they are too close to me yet. But, in general, I feel that mankind has great potential, yet that potential gets wasted by old men with big egos. Those big egos do nothing more than send young men to die, those that live don’t come home the same. They are broken, yet try to hide it as best they can. All the while the leaders from both sides proclaim the young men are heroes and martyrs. Nothing is learned, nothing is gained, and the next generation of young men is g***med to go to war for old men with big egos. There has to be a better way to solve the world's problems.”
The old man took in what the young man had said—they walked a bit, putting more f**gs in front of the headstones. After ten minutes of silence he responded, “Son, if only my generation had your thoughts—sadly, after WWII, there was Korea, then Vietnam, and ever more wars. My only wish now is that we stop adding young men and women to this cemetery. Where one day Memorial Day would no longer be necessary. But, I don’t think that dream will ever happen.”
The young man nodded in agreement as they approached the last headstone. The soil was freshly turned, another addition to the fallen.
“I have to get going,” said the young man.
“You sure you don’t want to go and get a beer with me?”
“I would love to, but I have to go.”
“All right. It has been a pleasure to meet you. Maybe I will see you here next Memorial Day.”
"I will be here, sir. You will see me again."
The old man watched as the young man disappeared over the horizon. After pausing, he then looked down at the marble headstone over the fresh grave:
Troy S. Miller
Corporal
U.S. Army
1990-2010
Operation Enduring Freedom
The old man wept for the first time in 60 years, all he could think was “what a damn waste.”
A few years ago on Veteran's Day, Salty (aka Poppa... (
show quote)
Amen and Amen it made my eyes water thanks for that Slats.
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