Quote of the Day

"We, and all others who believe in freedom as deeply as we do, would rather die on our feet than live on our knees"

- Franklin D. Roosevelt

At the Vietnam Memorial

by George Bilgere

The last time I saw the name Paul Castle
it was printed in gold on the wall
above the showers in the boys'
locker room, next to the school
record for the mile. I don't recall
his time, but the year was 1968
and I can look across the infield
of memory to see him on the track,
legs flashing, body bending slightly
beyond the pack of runners at his back.

He couldn't spare a word for me,
two years younger, junior varsity,
and hardly worth the waste of breath.
He owned the hallways, a cool blonde
at his side, and aimed his interests
further down the line than we could guess.

Now, reading the name again,
I see us standing in the showers,
naked kids beneath his larger,
comprehensive force—the ones who trail
obscurely, in the wake of the swift,
like my shadow on this gleaming wall.

Tomato Pies, 25 Cents

by Grace Cavalieri

Tomato pies are what we called them, those days,
before Pizza came in,
at my Grandmother's restaurant,
in Trenton New Jersey.
My grandfather is rolling meatballs
in the back. He studied to be a priest in Sicily but
saved his sister Maggie from marrying a bad guy
by coming to America.
Uncle Joey is rolling dough and spooning sauce.
Uncle Joey, is always scrubbed clean,
sobered up, in a white starched shirt, after
cops delivered him home just hours before.
The waitresses are helping
themselves to handfuls of cash out of the drawer,
playing the numbers with Moon Mullin
and Shad, sent in from Broad Street. 1942,
tomato pies with cheese, 25 cents.
With anchovies, large, 50 cents.
A whole dinner is 60 cents (before 6 pm).
How the soldiers, bussed in from Fort Dix,
would stand outside all the way down Warren Street,
waiting for this new taste treat,
young guys in uniform,
lined up and laughing, learning Italian,
before being shipped out to fight the last great war.

At Gettysburg

by Linda Pastan

These fields can never be
simply themselves. Their green
seems such a tender green,
their contours so significant
to the tourists who stare


towards the far range of mountains
as if they are listening
to the page of history tearing
or to what they know themselves of warfare
between brothers. In this scenery


cows and cannons stand side by side
and motionless, as if they had grown here.
The cannons on their simple wheels
resemble farm carts, children
climb them. Thus function disappears almost entirely


into form, and what is left under
the impartial blue of the sky is a landscape
where dandelions lie in the tall grass
like so many spent cartridges, turning
at last to the smoke


of puffballs; where the only red
visible comes at sunset;
where the earth has grown so lovely
it seems to forgive us even as we are learning
to forgive ourselves.

Letter Home

by Ellen Steinbaum

I love you forever
my father's letter tells her
for forty-nine pages,
from the troopship crossing the Atlantic
before they'd ever heard of Anzio.

He misses her, the letter says,
counting out days of boredom, seasickness,
and changing weather,
poker games played for matches
when cash and cigarettes ran out,
a Red Cross package—soap,
cards, a mystery book he traded away
for The Rubaiyyat a bunkmate didn't want.
He stood night watch and thought
of her. Don't forget the payment
for insurance, he says.

My mother waits at home with me,
waits for the letter he writes day by day
moving farther across the ravenous ocean.
She will get it in three months and
her fingers will smooth the Army stationery
to suede.

He will come home, stand
beside her in the photograph, leaning
on crutches, holding
me against the rough wool
of his jacket. He will sit
alone and listen to Aïda

and they will pick up their
interrupted lives. Years later,
she will show her grandchildren
a yellow envelope with
forty-nine wilted pages telling her

of shimmering sequins on the water,
the moonlight catching sudden phosphorescence,
the churned wake that stretched a silver trail.

Happy Memorial Day

http://youtu.be/KGPKpIuX3cY

America's Truck

http://bcove.me/blrez5x7

Keep Calm Carry On

http://youtu.be/FrHkKXFRbCI

The Charge of the Light Brigade

by Alfred Tennyson

Half a league half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred:
'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns' he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do & die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd & thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack & Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke,
Shatter'd & sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse & hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

Quote of the Day

Protesters again.

Here I sit, at this conveniently placed stop light waiting to drive onto base. Having to stare at them forces me to wonder to myself what I actually feel about this situation.

Sure, part of me wants to roll down the window and tell them the truth. In a monotone, sardonic voice and using a few strategically placed hand gestures to emphasize that I think their cause is noble but feeble and wearing a blank, irritated facial expression, I would say, "You guys do know that we don't make decisions about the war at this base, right? There's no direct line to the president for the commander to pick up the phone and say that the protesters at the gate have a really good point and we should definitely bring the troops home now."

It doesn't work like that.

- William Luce

Happy Memorial Day

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5pfBUUZNbFM

Recently Read

“This is probably going to change me,” Kauzlarich had said at Fort Riley, and when he wasn’t around to overhear, a friend had predicted what the change was going to be: “You’re going to see a good man disintegrate before your eyes.”


- The Good Soldiers

Recently Read

After food, what every man wanted most was war news. The Japanese sealed their camps from outside information and went to some lengths to convince their captives of Allied annihilation, first by trumpeting Japanese victories, and later, when victories stopped coming, by inventing stories of Allied losses and ridiculously implausible Japanese feats. Once, they announced that their military had shot Abraham Lincoln and torpedoed Washington, D.C. “They couldn’t understand why we laughed,” said a prisoner.
Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption

The Good Soldiers

Just finished the Good Soldiers by David Finkel. The book chronicles the 15-month deployment of Army Battalion 2-16 during the Iraq "surge". The central figure is the Battalion Lieutenant Colonel Ralph Kauzlarich.

The book is a fast-paced read that really centers on the men in the battalion - what they are feeling, how they are changing. The book also describes in unrelenting honesty how totally screwed up Iraq was at the time. Reading the descriptions, I don't see how any reasonable person could have possibly stayed hopeful about the mission of the 2-16 and yet, like "Good Soldiers" they carried on - right down to the very last day of their combat operations.

Finkel's book does not hype the action (although there is plenty of it). Instead, you get a front-row seat in a story that tells you what it was like to be an army infantry soldier in Iraq. It is an amazing eye-opener.

If you like war/memoir books, add this one to your list.

Unbroken

I just finished an epic book called "Unbroken" by Laura Hillenbrand. It's a true story about a World War II pilot named Louis Zamparini. In fact, it is essentially his biography.

Louie Zamparini was a hoodlum growing up in Torrence, CA in the 30's until he discovered he could run - faster than almost anyone on earth. Nicknamed the Torrence Tornado, he had his eyes set on Olympic gold when Japan attacked Pearl Harbor.

He ended up a bomber on a B-24 flying fortress that went down in the Pacific and fought to survive with two of his crew mates.

=Spoiler Alert=

After an eternity at sea, he is captured by the Japanese and put in a POW camp. Without going into all the details (which are in the book), by almost every measurement Japanese POW camps were worse than Axis camps in Europe. All of which was made worse for Zamparini when a vicious guard made him the focus of all his hatred and abuse. That guard would later go on to be named #7 on America's list of top Japanese war criminals.

The book is an astonishing tale of resilience and survival under unimaginable conditions. For so many people, their understanding of our war with Japan starts at Pearl Harbor and ends at Hiroshima without much in between. Believe me, this book will educate you (at least concerning the POW viewpoint).

Over and over, while reading this book, I thought "This has got to be made into a movie!" Now that I have finished it, a movie wouldn't do it justice - this needs to be a mini-series.

Highly recommended.

The Crucible

I wish there was no such thing as war and yet, as long as there have been humans, war has been a reality. I don't see that changing any time soon. I confess that I find war fascinating; the public reasons and how they intersect with the private reasons; the stories of people who volunteer to go to war in an "appropriate way" and how their training and expectations collide with reality. It is one of the crucibles of human existence and yet what is gold and what is dross is open to interpretation.

This American Life is one of my favorite podcasts and they had a doosey on the Iraq / Afghanistan wars. The program historically leans left-of-center but I thought they made a fair treatment in this episode and it really struck me:

Hmmmm . . . .

http://thedawgrun.blogspot.com/2007/08/7-wonders-of-hey-wait-minute.html

First Night Floor is Deck

by Victor W. Pearn

Nomenclature
in the Marine Corps:
hat is a cover,
bathroom is a head,
Drill Instructor is a DI,
and we have become ladies.

Thoughts swirling
in your brain,
you have lived through
a worse nightmare
than you ever
dreamed possible.

You asked for it.
You enlisted.
This is temporary.
This will pass.
What is the best way to survive?
Go through with it. You will make it.

If you can call two hours sleep
a night. That first night
calm, silent, peaceful,
your eyes close, mind slows,
then you hear Gabriel
sounding his trumpet.

Ballad of the USS Arizona

Thanks Rachel!

LINK

Let Freedom Ring

Gettysburg Address from Adam Gault on Vimeo.