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My War

By -Ron Leonard

Look, Look at the soldiers

Some young, some old

Some Cowards, Some Bold

Drowning, Drowning in their own blood

Will it ever stop?

Will it ever end?

Listen,Listen to the war

Bombs bursting,Artillery pounding

Children, screaming in the night

Will it ever stop?

Will it ever end?

Feel,Feel the war

The anguish, the pain

The humility,the despair

Will It ever stop?

Will it ever end?

Smell, Smell the war

The smoke, the seared flesh

The pungent odor of death is everywhere

Will it ever stop?

Will it ever end?

Taste, taste the war

The bitterness, the defeat

The Victory, bittersweet

Will it ever stop?

Will it ever end?

Will it, EVER

God And The Soldier

By- (unknown)

God and the Soldier we adore,

In times of danger, but not before.

When the danger is past,

and all things are righted,

Then God is forgotten,

And the Soldier slighted.

The Thin Copper Wire

By- Swashplate

While on a mission in TwoCorps,many years ago, a flight was flown,

A little act of valor,not widely known.

A slick was coming back from an ash and trash,and took fire,

Turning a routine flight into something dire.

While in flight.over those beautiful lush foilage,a .51 cal lay in wait,

These little yellow mutha fuka's, popped smoke as bait.

Cautious and careful the crew came to near,

Then what happened, was a crew members worst fear.

The .51 cal opened up, to bring this bird down,

The pilots reaction was to get out of the way, to not take a round.

CE and door gunner opens up to try to make Charlie duck,

A round smashes through the copilots door,Oh FUCK!

The round hits the copilot in the helmet, finding its mark,

Blood and brains splatter the overhead console and panel, so stark.

Another round enters the floor and shatters the pilots leg, yet he maintains control,

All this happends in seconds, Fear that runs deep into ones soul.

We are out of danger, and the CE knows his role,

He breaks the thin copper wires on the armor seat of the co-pilot, body cold.

The CE steps into the front of the seat and pulls the seat right,

His mind stays focused, even amongst the gory site.

He remembers well, by his training and from sight,

How to help control this bird in forward and stable flight.

Help me with the tail rotor chief," GOD! THE PAIN!!!, the pilot said,

Scared shitless, Got it sir! The pilot ties a tourniquet tight! He really bled!

Weaving in and out of consiousness, the pilot radios ahead,

"We need medical attention,one dead!"

Ahead is a welcomed sight, base camp, and helipads with a red cross,

The pilot weak, but maintains the ship, we bounce about, but not a loss.

So, the pilots and crew were teams,

But we ALL have our heros, from Scouts, Guns, or Slicks, it seems!

But the crew had wings of silver, that sometimes tarnish a bit,

But I know I could fly my ship, If we ran into SHIT!

Sniper

By-Christopher Ziebarth

Through this jungle there lurks a soldier

One man who's smarter, stronger, bolder

A match grade rifle in his hand

He is known as White Feather through this land

He's the best soldier of his breed

One with very special skills indeed

He's crept along in the brush for hours

Along the floor he quickly scours

He has his mission, it's set in its ways

He's been alone in the jungle for six days

Ever so slowly he's getting very near

The enemy hears something and is stricken with fear

The leader searches in the grass-like hay

But he won't find his man for he's a mile away

He sets up his hide and gets his rifle ready

On two sandbags his rifle rests steady

He can't find the enemy and doesn't know their

distance

But he searches the jungle with everlasting

persistence

He finds the enemy, four in all

The first one is hit, the rest stricken with awe

One tries to run after he fired

But little does he know he'll only die tired

The others run for cover behind a massive rock

Way in the distance lies Carlos Hathcock

There he lays for two hours ready

His rifle to his shoulder, his cheek rested steady

In a while the enemy comes out from cover

To little surprise, two dead comrades they discover

He works his magic one more time

The last one lets out a chilling cry

Even though that scene may give you a chill

That was the last for Carlos, his 93rd kill

Even now at home he is remembered as brave

Not for the lives that he took, but for the lives that

he saved.

Fiddlers Green

By-(unknown)

Halfway down the trail to Hell,

In a shady meadow green

Are the Souls of all dead troopers camped,

Near a good old-time canteen.

And this eternal resting place

Is known as Fiddlers' Green.

Marching past, straight through to Hell

The Infantry are seen. Accompanied by the Engineers,

Artillery and Marines,

For none but the shades of Cavalrymen

Dismount at Fiddlers' Green.

Though some go curving down the trail

To seek a warmer scene.

No trooper ever gets to Hell

Ere he's emptied his canteen.

And so rides back to drink again

With friends at Fiddlers' Green.

And so when man and horse go down

Beneath a saber keen,

Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee

You stop a bullet clean,

And the hostiles come to get your scalp,

Just empty your canteen,

And put your pistol to your head

And go to Fiddlers' Green.

(The origin and author of Fiddlers' Green is unknown. It was believed to

have originated in the 1800's and was composed as a song sung by the

soldiers of the 6th and 7th Cavalry. Its first known appearance in

published form was in a 1923 Cavalry Journal.)

Just One Arrow

By- An American Indian

On the road is long and narrow, and I'm down to just one arrow, and

my old paint, he can hardly stand, but you can point me

towards the battle, put me back up in the saddle, it's time for me to take my own last stand.

I've been looking for away to cross the rockies in my mind,

tryin to decide about my own great divide.

There is a mighty mississippi ragin' some where in my soul,

I've got to cross this desert before I reach my goal.

Cause the road is long and narrow, and I'm down to just one arrow, and

my old paint, he can hardly stand, but you point me

toward the battle, put me back up in my saddle, it's time for me to make my own last stand.

Night Flight

By- Swashplate

Nestled in my bunk of rocket box wood,

I try for restful sleep if only I could.

For instant replays dance in my brain,

As the nightly chorus lulls me,Monsoon rain.

I finish my dailys and repair my bird,

I contend with fustrations without a word,

Snippets of what was done and what needed to be,

Faces are blured, I truely didnt want to see.

The vibration and sound was tolerable in my dreams,

Only to be amplified when it came to screams.

The gray padded soundproofing turned brite red,

When a .51 cal, killed my gunner dead.

I clinch my trigger finger tighter,on my sleeping hand,

As I sweep away the dirt,blood,and sand.

Screams of TAKE OFF! TAKE OFF! leaves my lip,

Reaching for th 45 Colt at my hip.

Enter my girlfriend at home with soft face and breast,

Then getting the DEAR JOHN letter,like the rest.

The face of a VC,dirty and bloody attack,

I wrestle with this demonic ghost in my rack.

As the president pins the medals to my chest,

I notice I am a corpse,Mom cradles the flag at her breast.

I bolt up from sleep,sweat pours from my face,

I realize, I am still alive in this God Damned place!

I still take these Night Flights today,

I wish God would take them away.

But, Would that be the right thing to do?

Someone has to remember,

My war isnt through!

The Things They Carried

By-Tim O'Brian

They carried P-38 can openers and heat tabs, watches and dog tags, insect repellent, gum, cigarettes, Zippo lighters, salt tablets, compress bandages, ponchos, Kool-Aid, two or three canteens of water, iodine tablets, sterno, LRRP- rations, and C-rations stuffed in socks.

They carried standard fatigues, jungle boots, bush hats, flak jackets and steel pots.

They carried the M-16 assault rifle.

They carried trip flares and Claymore mines, M-60 machine guns, the M-79 grenade launcher, M-14's, CAR-15's, Stoners, Swedish K's, 66mm Laws, shotguns, .45 caliber pistols, silencers, the sound of bullets, rockets, and choppers, and sometimes the sound of silence.

They carried C-4 plastic explosives, an assortment of hand grenades, PRC-25 radios, knives and machetes. Some carried napalm, CBU's and large bombs; some risked their lives to rescue others. Some escaped the fear, but dealt with the death and damage.Some made very hard decisions, and some just tried to survive.

They carried malaria, dysentery, ringworms and leaches. They carried the land itself as it hardened on their boots.

They carried stationery, pencils, and pictures of their loved ones - real and imagined.

They carried love for people in the real world and love for one another. And sometimes they disguised that love: "Don't mean nothin'!"

They carried memories for the most part, they carried themselves with poise and a kind of dignity. Now and then, there were times when panic set in, and people squealed or wanted to, but couldn't; when they twitched and made moaning sounds and covered their heads and said "Dear God" and hugged the earth and fired their weapons blindly and cringed and begged for the noise to stop and went wild and made stupid promises to themselves and God and their parents, hoping not to die.

They carried the traditions of the United States military, and memories and images of those who served before them.

They carried grief, terror, longing and their reputations.

They carried the soldier's greatest fear: The embarrassment of dishonor. They crawled into tunnels, walked point, and advanced under fire, so as not to die of embarrassment. They were afraid of dying, but too afraid to show it.

They carried the emotional baggage of men and women who might die at any moment.

They carried the weight of the world.

THEY CARRIED EACH OTHER

We Did It All For You

By Sarah Leah Blum

In remembrance of so many of us, nurses, and what we experienced.

Dedicated to so many of you, soldiers of an unwanted war.

We heard about you on the radio,

We saw you on the TV.

We knew you were hurting so,

We went to the Nam Country.

We took you as you came,

We felt the mud and dirt.

We knew we would go insane,

We knew we couldn¹t stop the hurt.

We tore off your fatigues and boots,

We searched your parts and your holes.

We saw your limbs torn off like roots,

We suffered with you, for all our souls.

We stood for hours in your lost blood.

We screamed inside at those awful sights.

We cursed and raged and slid in the mud.

We knew the results of your frustrated fights.

We held your hand and said to hang in,

We prayed in silence for your sweet life.

We know full well our country¹s sin,

We hoped in vain for an end to the strife.

We went to be with you and help you too,

We weren¹t prepared and neither were you.

We couldn¹t believe what we all went through,

We worked to heal but who ever knew?

We pumped the blood and helped you sleep.

We changed your dressings and cut the pain.

We turned you over and scrubbed your feet.

We talked and listened and went insane.

We couldn¹t cry or we couldn¹t work,

We tried to be calm to do our job.

We never knew where the enemy lurked,

We daren¹t let out, even one sob.

We sorted you one from another,

We chose - if you live or die.

We struggled so much for you our brother,

We knew in our hearts we needed to cry.

We were there inside the operating room.

We cleaned your wounds, we put you to sleep.

We cut and sawed from noon til noon.

We swallowed and choked and sighed so deep.

We saw you at your very best, proud and smart.

We saw you at your worst, torn and wounded,

We held your maimed and mangled parts,

We lifted, pulled, pushed and turned your head.

We yelled for supplies that we didn¹t have,

We cringed when we read the media lies.

We held our breath as we applied the salve,

We wondered when America would open her eyes.

We hated the mud and rain and dust.

We hated the protests and lack of support.

We drank and danced and how we cussed.

We hoped and prayed for the war to be "short".

We wondered how you did perceive us,

We worried how well we were really doing.

We came to help, to heal and not to fuss.

We couldn¹t control the ugly war we were veiwing.

We felt angry, enraged, sad and sick inside.

We wanted to protect you from anything more.

We didn¹t understand and we wanted to hide.

We couldn¹t leave you, we were all in a war.

We were frustrated and mad at all the news.

We hoped in vain for the telling of the truth.

We found some solace in beer and Œmoody blues¹,

We took pictures of war to record the truth.

We didn¹t all make it, and neither did you.

We became numbers, counts and stats!

We were killed and lost, and wondered who knew?

We were people but were counted like rats!

We came home in the dark, broken or boxed.

We were the shame of this Country we served.

We were attacked or shunned like we were poxed,

We whores and dykes, names so undeserved.

We loved America and you dear sweet brothers,

We were nurses true blue and oh so few.

We cared, we suffered Nam sisters and brothers,

We want you to know we did it all for you!

Written by Sarah Leah Blum May 1984

Operating Room Nurse

12th Evacuation Hospital

Cu Chi, Vietnam, 1967

Christmas Ode To Helicopter Warriors

By- David"Doc" Hyatt(Medic/gunner)

Christmas brings for some,an odd,eerie feeling,memories of distant times,

of gunfire,bullets,screams, a hellhole endured amid radically different climes.

Those who flew and did their job,Christmas,Thanksgiving,or other Hollidays

all, flew with Honor,Duty,Courage,spouting their motto,"ain`t nuttin at all".

These were the Warriors of the Helicopter war,living to fly,fight,die and soar,

saving their brothers,kicking ass,taking names,amid the deathly battle roar.

Ask any one of them,hell,ask them all, and you will quickly see,

in their days of war,twas no such thing,to them, as a TOO hot LZ!

Again this year,I give them their accord,their just due,their "Right",

To be called Warriors,Heros,Patriots,of the great Helicopter fight.

Now,many years later,at home with their families,but united with their peers,

possibly they can remember,reflect,and be very proud,of those terrible years.

But about the Fallen Warriors,gone now,one thing more I will say of this,

they will ALWAYS,in our hearts and minds,be REMEMBERED,and MISSED!

God Bless the Warriors of the Helicopter War!

The Other Things We Carry

By-Ron Leonard

It's been 35 years since a Huey's whine

And midnight missions in the nick of time

It's been 35 years since a claymore mine

And ground attacks so clear in your mind.

And only yesterday it was 69

We carried Ammo, and Rockets, and beer, and mail

We carried body bags that would make you wail

We carried friends in our arms, as we turned pale

We carried buckets of water to wash out blood stale

We carried medals of valor for feats unbelieved

We carried purple hearts for wounds we received

But most of all we carried each other

Today we carry other things, some real, some imagined

We carry cancer of every kind known to man

Agent Orange poisoning,

and malaria,

and Lymphomia,

and Diabetes,

and Hepatitis C,

And many still have PTSD.

We carry arms with no hands,

and legs with no feet,

and scars both mental and real.

We carry crutches and walkers,

and wheelchairs and canes,

with honor its no big deal.

We carry horror stories of the Veterans Administration,

of six months waits,

and lack of funds,

and shoddy care,

of indifferent employees,

and crummy food,

and broken promises

and downright lies.

But we still carry each other

We carry memories from the past,

and pictures of our youth,

and through it all still have our dignity.

For many it is all we have.

Now and then, there are times when panic will set in

and we have hideous dreams,

And people squeal, they twitch and make moaning sounds,

and cover their heads and say "Dear God",

and hug the pillow and cringe and beg for the dreams to stop,

and make stupid promises to themselves and God and their wives, hoping they will all go away, but they don't.

But we still carry each other.

We carry the weight of shattered dreams,

and broken marriages,

and deformed children with insidious wounds,

and twisted faces,

and deformed legs,

and broken spines, lost for all time.

We carry the thoughts of the future, of honor and duty, and pride, and tradition.

We carry fear for our children in far off lands,

The outcome can only be in Gods hands

The midnight runs as the Huey whines,

The rescue missions in the nick of time,

The muffled blast of a claymore mine,

And only yesterday it was 69.

But we still carry each other.

The Man In The Doorway

Mike Ryerson

They came in low and hot, close to the trees

and dropped their tail in a flare,

rocked forward

and we raced for the open doorways.

This was always the worst for us;

we couldn't hear anything

and our backs were turned to the tree line.

The best you could hope for was a sign

on the face of the man in the doorway,

leaning out waiting to help with a tug

or to lay down some lead.

Sometimes you could glance quickly at his face

and pick up a clue

as to what was about to happen.

We would pitch ourselves in headfirst

and tumble against the scuffed riveted aluminum,

grab for a handhold

and will that son-of-a-bitch into the air.

Sometimes the deck was slick with blood or worse,

sometimes something had been left

in the shadows under the web seats,

and sometimes they landed in a shallow river

to wash them out.

Sometimes they were late,

sometimes...they were parked

in some other LZ

with their rotors turning a lazy arc,

a ghost crew strapped in once too often,

motionless,

waiting for their own lift,

their own bags,

once too often into the margins.

The getting on and the getting off

were the worst for us

but this was all he knew,

the man in the doorway,

he was always standing there in the noise,

watching, urging...swinging out with his gun,

grabbing the black plastic and heaving,

leaning out and spitting, spitting the taste away,

as though it would go away...

They came in low and hot,

close to the trees

and dropped their tail in a flare,

rocked forward

and began to kick the boxes out,

bouncing against the skids,

piling up on each other, food and water, and bullets...

a thousand pounds of C's, warm water and rounds,

7.62mm,

half a ton of life and death.

And when the deck was clear,

we would pile the bags,

swing them against their weight

and throw them through the doorway,

his doorway,

onto his deck

and nod

and he'd speak into that little mike

and they'd go nose down

and lift into their last flight,

their last extraction.

Sometimes he'd raise a thumb

or perhaps a fist

or sometimes just a sly, knowing smile,

knowing we were staying

and he was going

but also knowing he'd be back,

he'd be back in a blink,

standing in the swirling noise

and the rotor wash,

back to let us rush

through his door

and skid across his deck

and will that son-of-a-bitch into the air.

They came in low and hot,

close to the trees

and dropped their tail in a flare,

rocked forward,

kicked out the boxes

and slipped the litter

across the deck

and sometimes he'd lean down

and hold the IV

and brush the dirt off of a bloodless face,

or hold back the flailing arms

and the tears,

a thumbs-up to the right seat

and you're only minutes away

from the white sheets, the saws and the plasma.

They came in low and hot,

close to the trees

and dropped their tail in a flare,

rocked forward

and we'd never hear that sound again

without feeling our stomachs go just a bit weightless,

listen just a bit closer

for the gunfire

and look up

for the man in the doorway.

One More Night

220 more days.

Remembering war, and women and drunken brawls,

As with drunken anger I smash the table top.

When do you end a day." I say.

"At sunset. at midnight.at dawn."

Came the answers.

No real discussion as the mood turned to silence,

Only to be broken by someone at the door, "D-Troop, saddle up!"

"The spirit of the cavalry." I thought.

220 more days.

"The worst thought of being drunk is that of being sober,"

Someone said as we loaded into the slick.

Twenty-five minutes in the air, then all night in the dirt.

"It's always the same." I thought.

220 more days

Chilled by the wind in the slicks,

As the heat on the ground is scarcely bearable.

Another mundane task.

Move out and stop, Move out and stop,

Until the repetition evolves into dusk.

Set up and go sit in your own personal hole,

Draw branches over your head and wait in silence.

It's dark now and you wait.

Let the ratios take over,

Everything, even your worth is in the count. and you wait in silence.

Damn mosquitoes.

220 more days.

You live through the days with inert insomnia,

Unconsciously you know better than to sleep.

Three, four days and more if you have to.

Even at night you sweat.

220 more days.

Listen, You hear nothing, but human movement.

It's a natural thing after a while.

Wait and listen, Wait and listen as the night grows deeper into darkness.

Hours pass - until - listen,

You can count the passing silhouettes,

One - two - three, There's one dude combing his hair,

Eleven - twelve - thirteen, they're there.

Someone's gonna die

With only 220 more days.

Along the path they move,

Like a low fog in the trees.

Then a deadening orange flash rips though the night.

Like a deafening silent dream

And nature and man is thrown through the darkness

And into your face.

Still they're there.

Not the same though.

They're dropping, confused and shattered they're running,

but they don't know where.

Like ants on a small limb,

How, when you spray them with insecticide

They twist and jerk and finally drop.

It's silent again,

But an inhuman knowing silence.

Everyone knows what's gonna happen,

Them - us - me. 220 fun filled days.

They come,

Running, they charge like a thin, pathetic wave.

and you sit and you fire and fire and fire and you know your killing and you fire.

And Kramer, Medic, Kramer. Kramer's dead.

He's dead and I know him.

and they're coming and you fire and you scream

Damn you LBJ !!

You killed him and you fire.

and they die and they come

and Carrol's jumps up and Topolewski's up

and I'm up and there is no more they're coming there here.

And you fire at the living and you bayonet the dead and shoot and stab the half dead, for they must know vengeance and they are gone.

You fall back in your hole, and midnight seems like noon.

You smoke a cigarette, almost laughingly,

Because you know it doesn't matter any more.

Wait, you can even sleep now,

In shifts. Hours till dawn.

The night turns to gray.

The stench of powder and blood and steel permeates the stillness of the rising sun.

219 more days

The Real Me

By Bruce K. Glenn

For a short time

I can be me

My mask is down

For the world to see

My dark glasses

which mask my pain

Are cast aside

Am I insane?

If only the world

Around me could feel

Just for one moment

The me that is real.

Then they would know night

After sleepless night

Wondering until dawn

What is wrong, what is right

And as thay'd watch

The rise of the sun

They'd finally feel safe

To lay down the gun

And they'd feel lonliness

That knows no end

And a longing for

Just one good friend

And they'd know compassion

For others turned cold

And emotions that died

In a soul that was sold

And they would know death

Of all of their trust

And the feeling that life

Is just one big bust

And they would know

How it feels to cry

And wish for nothing more

Than to die

Do you think maybe then

They'd understand

How it feels to be

Just a shell, not a man?

TET 68

By Richard L. Earls

Like angry hornets they rise from mangled nests

Thrashing wildly, churning early morning mists to fluffy swirls

They beat the air with metal wings

Each doorway carries their deadly stings

And pods of lethal rockets hang

Blasting a target with a blistering bang

The jungle floor becomes a killing field

For any life that seeks it as a shield

Both man and beast

And body bags are counted with each date

This is the terror of TET 68

Richard L. Earls

The Sky

By- Ron Leonard

Another year has passed me by.

And no matter how hard I try

I never forget my love for the sky

I can't figure it out, What's it all about

The Autorotation that will make you shout

The joy in my heart and the wind in my face

The adrenaline rush that just took place

Will I ever before I die

Give up my love for the sky ?

To push a Huey to the edge

To drag it's skids through the hedge

To sail so high through the billowing mist

Just to get an Angels kiss

Will I ever before I die

Give up my love for the sky?

To feel again the taste of steel

The tracers flying that make you squeal

Pulling triggers to the max

Loading rockets watching tachs

Will I ever before I die

Give up my love for the sky?

The Glowing Red Light

By-Ron Leonard

Late at night in the twilight of sleep

That time of nightmares and slaughtered sheep

The ring of a telephone shatters the night

And sends us into, the glowing red light.

We fly along in the cool night air

The adrenaline flowing,

The wind in your hair

The radio chatter, it pierces the night

The despair in the voices, describes their plight

And .sends us farther, into the glowing red light

Is this the night that nightmares come true?

Is this the night the beast devours you?

Only god knows the answer, all mixed with this fear

Only god know the answer, is it my time, is it near?

And sends us .farther, into the glowing red light.

I wish this was over, my body is tense

This war is so stupid and don't make much sense

And sends us farther, into the glowing red light.

Closer now the battle below, you can see it

Tracers bouncing in the air, green, and white, and red

How many's wounded, how many's dead ?

Is this the night, that nightmares come true?

Is this the night, the beast devours you?

The radio chatter, it pierces the night

The despair in the voices, describes their plight

Dustoff we need you, or he'll die he just might

And sends us yet farther, into the glowing red light

Ground this is Dustoff, we're inbound in one

Pop a strobe, get um ready, we won't leave none

Is this the night that nightmares come true?

Is this the night the beast devours you?

Only god knows the answer, all mixed with this fear

Only god know the answer, is it my time, is it near?

And sends us yet farther, into the glowing red light

Bury Me With Soldiers

I've played a lot of roles in life; I've met a lot of men,

I've done a lot of things I'd like to think I wouldn't do again.

And though I'm young, I'm old enough To know someday I'll die.

And to think about what lies beyond, Beside whom I would lie.

Perhaps it doesn't matter much; Still if I had my choice,

I'd want a grave 'mongst Soldiers when At last death quells my voice.

I'm sick of the hypocrisy Of lectures of the wise.

I'll take the man, with all the flaws, Who goes, though scared, and dies.

The troops I knew were commonplace They didn't want the war;

They fought because their fathers and Their fathers had before.

They cursed and killed and wept... God knows They're easy to deride...

But bury me with men like these; They faced the guns and died.

It's funny when you think of it, The way we got along.

We'd come from different worlds To live in one where no one belongs,

I didn't even like them all; I'm sure they'd all agree.

Yet I would give my life for them, I know some did for me..

So bury me with soldiers, please, Though much maligned they be.

Yes, bury me with soldiers, for I miss their company.

We'll not soon see their likes again; We've had our fill of war.

But bury me with men like them Till someone else does more.

In Search Of

By-Ron Leonard

In search of happiness which I never new

In search of understanding my heart never new

In search of a smile that was gentle and true

In search of someone that cares to just talk to

In search of forgiveness for not having died

In search of compassion for those that never tried

In search of the answers in vain I can't find

In search of a clock to rewind

In search of a night, just one, I don't wake

In search of a night a sweat I don't break

In search of the feelings I no longer see

In search of the meaning of Me

The Note

Dear World. ..My name is George.

I am nineteen years old, and they are sending me to Vietnam.

Dear World... I am scared.

I won't try to be a hero, but I'll try to be brave.

Dear World... I miss my family.

I hope they don't worry about me, but I hope they are proud.

Dear World. ..the fighting is getting worse and I am so tired. We've been

humping for days looking for Charlie.

Dear World... I lost a good friend today.

That makes three this week .I have learned not to cry.

Dear World...Don't worry about me.I pretty well know the ropes~ I'll be

okay.I turned 20 today.

Dear World... I am still scared.I'm getting short, but the fighting

continues.

Dear World... I won't be coming home.

Please Remember...

Remember that I have a mother and a father.

Remember that I have two brothers and eight sisters.

...they meant the world to me, and I left them to fight for you.

Remember that I did not wish to fight,

Remember I did not want to kill.

Yet, I did what any child does, and yes, remember...

I was just a boy.

I did what I was told.. .as bravely and proudly as I knew how.

And I was scared the first time I saw war.

And I cried the first time I saw death.

And I held my brothers while they died.

Up until the day they held me.

...for you.

Remember.

CW2 George Grinnell

Company B 25th Aviation Battalion

KIA 21 July 1968

We'll remember George Grinnell, and Bobby Staggs and the rest of our brave souls..

Dream On

By-Ron Leonard

I've dreamed many dreams that never came true,

I've seen them vanish at dawn.

But I've realized enough of my dreams, thank God,

To make me want to dream on.

I've prayed many prayers, when no answers came,

Though I waited so patient and long,

But answers came to enough of my prayers

To make me keep praying on.

I've trusted many a friend who failed

And left me to weep alone,

But I've found enough of my friends to be true

To make me keep trusting on.

I've sown many seeds that fell by the way For the birds to feed upon,

But I've held enough golden sheaves in my hands To make me keep sowing on.

I've drained the cup of disappointment and pain

And gone many days without song,

But I've sipped enough nectar from the roses of life

To enjoy living on.

3.A.M. Musings

By- Ron Leonard

Well here we are once again. 3 am and its musing time and I can finally

Be me

It's the time when I can think of the past, which is now and now which

Is the past.

I find no difference in my life, the stones are thrown, the die is cast

I write the stories some of you know and the poetry that some times

flows.

Like a mountain river that twists and it turns and no one knows where it goes but

It's 3 am and it's musing time, and finally I am free. I can write

What I want and say what I want with no one to care but me

I remember the nightmares and the sweating in vain.

I remember the heartbreak and endure the pain.

I can cry if I want to with no one to see,

I can scream at everything ,at no one, at me.

but It's 3 am and it's musing time, and finally I am free.

I can write what I want and say what I want with no one to care but me

I remember the friends I long ago had

and the smiles and the tears that we shared.

I remember the pranks and joy not all bad

We had one thing in common we cared

Now I sit here a staring and just writing this down

my thoughts are so near but so far from clear

Like a man in a river that's drown

but

It's 3 am and it's musing time, and finally I am free.

I can write What I want and say what I want

with no one to care but me

Answer

By- Anthony Pahl

Were we old enough to shave?

We really must have been!

We had a nation to save.

Were we old enough to vote?

We really should have been!

We wore a jungle for a coat.

Were we old enough to cry?

We really could have been!

We were old enough to die.

Were we old enough to live?

We really might have been!

If our lives we didn’t give.

Are we to be remembered?

We really ought to be!

really

ought

be…

Eleven Thousand Days

By Anthony Pahl

The drums of war keep pounding in the minds of aged young men

who came home so very long ago but left their minds back when

the sounds of life were very faint because the sound of death was loud.

And the deadened eyes of those aged young men stand out in any crowd.

For thirty years and more they’ve fought the demons of that war

and when they think they’ve conquered them, those demons shout for more

blood and life from those aged young men who gave their very soul;

and thirty years of life in hell have extracted Satan’s toll.

With sweat and tears and dreams and fears and all the memories,

those aged young men lose time and track of truth and sanity

and when, in a moment’s lucid thought, they know they can’t go on

they cry inside and face the wall; eleven thousand days have gone.

Eleven thousand days - each wrapped in fifty-eight thousand names!

And these old young men try to allow themselves to feel that awful pain.

But deep inscribed in each of them is an all-consuming guilt;

the memory of their friends is etched upon the memorial that’s been built.

Look at these aged and old young men; look deep inside their hearts.

What do you see? Can you feel and find what is tearing them apart?

Give them your hand and hold it firm while the pain inside them burns

and pray to Him who hears your prayers that the young men may return

The Sweetest Sound

by Ernie Smiling Hawk

Not songs of choice or lover’s voice will ever compare

To the sweet sound of rotor blades as they beat through thick humid air

I am a Viet Nam vet I served in the Infantry

The word Grunt refers to men like me

I have seen war at its worst and men at their best

Sadly, I’ve wrapped brothers in ponchos and sent them to their final rest

Now many years later as I lie here in bed

The visions come back to race through my head

The scars on my body will forever remain

As I touch them, once again I feel the pain

Once again I find myself on the ground

With blood, my blood, all around

As I lay there in unconscionable pain and fear

Came the sweet sound of rotor blades as my Dust-Off drew near

When at long last I reach my final day

I will look back on my life and say

I’ve heard beautiful songs of choice and the sweetness in my lover’s voice,

And yet these cannot compare

To the sweet, sweet sounds of rotor blades

As they beat through thick humid air.

To Freedom

By Ron Leonard and Dave Henard

Your number came up with the sunrise this morn,

This 365's, the best since you were born,

The crew will carry you to Freedom today

With smiles on their faces low and fast, all the way

On this my last day I reflect on it all

Those midnight missions as the infantry'd call,

“Bring the guns, bring the beer, get me the hell out of here”

We never would question their needs or their call

They were our purpose in life, do a little, do it all

The crew will carry you to Freedom today

With smiles on their faces low and fast, all the way

You climb aboard the Huey as the blades beat time,

The rotor gains speed to the engines shear whine,

The crew shares your joy on this final day,

To freedom you go, low and fast all the way,

We came from most parts of the old USA,

And loved it the same, still patriots today,

It mattered little that our war wasn't favored,

30 years later, the camaraderie's still savored

We served for each other, these brothers of mine,

Shared many missions through good times,

and the dark part of time,

We conquered fear together, these brothers so fine,

A team, crew and pilots, fought together to win,

A band of brothers, so brave, to the death, to the end.

The crew will carry you to Freedom today

With smiles on their faces low and fast, all the way

One regret remains for these brothers of mine,

That all didn't experience this last final ride,

God took them instead, to the heavens in stride

Their names as reminders in a solid black shrine

Your number came up with the sunrise this morn,

This 365's, the best since you were born,

The crew will carry you to Freedom today

With smiles on their faces low and fast, all the way

A Piece Of My Heart

By Ron Leonard

On a plane and gone away,

Just to watch a high school play

It’s just insane so many say

To pay the price, to make a way

To help a child, to mold a mind

To give them a chance, to spend some time,

To just be kind

To make a difference, in but one

The war is over, the battle won

So many kids, I never knew

A teacher, a cast and crew

They laid bare their souls for me

They portrayed life, so I could see

Children so young, so brave, so strong

Portraying lessons of life of a world gone wrong

These lessons they reached inside to find

In the farthest reaches of their mind

To find the emotions, to play the part

To color it, and call it art.

I watched through tears

From many years ago

The memories of a child,

I couldn’t let go

This play you did, you played the part

Has taken from me,

“A Piece of My Heart”

War

By Jim Smith

A long time ago

On early FM radio

A guy named Edwin Starr

Sang a song of war

It did not go far

But he became a star

“War, what good is it?”

“Absolutely nothing” was the saying

This was a time when Fonda

And Baez were saying

“War is nothing but death and destruction”

Siagon was dealing with corruption

Buddhist Monks were flaming

Engineers were doing construction

The guns we were aiming

The people we were trying to save

To the VC the aid they gave

In the end it placed many in the grave

We must remember the good

Remember the bad

War is so sad

So do not dwell

We all know war is hell

Pay a tribute to your old friends

Those that are here

And those that are there

We are all older

Many with grey of hair

Soon we will vanish

And maybe man in the future

War he will banish

The Forgotten Mechanic - Anonomous

Written by Anonymous

Through the history of world aviation

many names have come to the fore.

Great deeds of the past in our memory will last,

as they're joined by more and more.

When man first started his labor in the quest to conquer the sky

he was a designer, mechanic and pilot,

and he built a machine that would fly.

But somehow the order got twisted,

and then in the public eye.

The only man that could be seen

was the man who knew how to fly.

The pilot was everyone's hero,

he was brave, he was bold, he was grand,

as he stood by his battered old biplane

with his goggles and helmet in hand.

To be sure, these pilots all earned it,

to fly you have to have guts.

And they blazed their names in the hall of fame

on wings with bailing wire struts.

But for each of these flying heroes

there were thousands of little renown,

and these were the men who worked on the planes

but kept their feet on the ground.

We all know the name Lindbergh,

and we've read of his flight to fame.

But think, if you can, of his maintenance man,

can you remember his name?

And think of our wartime heroes, Gabreski, Jabara, and Scott.

Can you tell me the names of their crew chiefs?

A thousand to one you cannot.

Now pilots are highly trained people,

and wings are not easily won.

But without the work of the maintenance man

our pilots would march with a gun.

So when you see the mighty jet aircraft

as they mark their way through the air,

the grease stained man with the wrench in his hand

is the man who put them there.