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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!


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
But he searches the jungle with everlasting

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


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.


 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 Śmoody 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,
                       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,
                      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

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.


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

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

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

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!


 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.

©Copyright 2003 by Ernie Smiling Hawk

 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”

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.