F & L forum

Discussion in 'Freedom and Liberty' started by Minuteman, Nov 13, 2006.


  1. Minuteman

    Minuteman Chaplain Moderator Founding Member

    I appreciate all the debate and interesting posts we have here in F & L.
    Some very good, some very thought provoking topics being discussed.

    But let me put on my Moderators hat for a moment and make a couple of comments.

    While Freedom, Liberty, and Politics are intertwined and hard to discuss one without the others, I would like all to remember that we have an area here for any topics that are speculative, unfounded, or unprovable etc. We call it the Tin Foil Hat Lounge. ( one of my favorite forums to read).

    Any threads that are considered conspiracy type posts should be put there. Discussion of big brother type things that threaten personal liberty are fine for this forum (F & L ), but any threads that get off into the "NWO", "Illuminati", or "International Bankers", type posts should be taken to the "Lounge".

    If a thread is getting to far out there, I may move it to the "Lounge". If this happens, please don't take offense. It is not to censor anyones opinions or beliefs, merely a little house keeping to keep our home welcoming to all.

    Also, we have a profanity filter that will automatically filter words that we don't want in public view. We are not trying to be PC, only cordial. We have people of all ages, and religions here and don't want to offend anyone. Please don't change the spelling to bypass the filter.

    I look forward to a lot more discussion and debate in here. Thanks to all who contribute to make this such an interesting place. MM
     
  2. ghrit

    ghrit Ambulatory anachronism Administrator Founding Member

    F & L ain't free

    To some of my military friends and others,
    A real slice and true part of military life and service, the back story

    May we never forget !

    It's not a happy read, but tells a part of military life that few people know and understand, or even hear about.


    To only those who would and could appreciate it. This account is one of a kind.

    A powerful one that touches your heart. Tough duty then, as it is now.

    Burial at Sea
    by LtCol George Goodson, USMC (Ret)

    In my 76th year, the events of my life appear to me, from time to time, as a series of vignettes. Some were significant; most were trivial.

    War is the seminal event in the life of everyone that has endured it. Though I fought in Korea and the Dominican Republic and was wounded there, Vietnam was my war.

    Now 42 years have passed and, thankfully, I rarely think of those days in Cambodia, Laos, and the panhandle of North Vietnam where small teams of Americans and Montagnards fought much larger elements of the North Vietnamese Army. Instead I see vignettes: some exotic, some mundane:


    *The smell of Nuc Mam.

    *The heat, dust, and humidity.
    *The blue exhaust of cycles clogging the streets.
    *Elephants moving silently through the tall grass.
    *Hard eyes behind the servile smiles of the villagers.
    *Standing on a mountain in Laos and hearing a tiger roar.
    *A young girl squeezing my hand as my medic delivered her baby.
    *The flowing AO Dais of the young women biking down Tran Hung Dao.
    *My two years as Casualty Notification Officer in North Carolina, Virginia, and Maryland.


    It was late 1967. I had just returned after 18 months in Vietnam. Casualties were increasing. I moved my family from Indianapolis to Norfolk, rented a house, enrolled my children in their fifth or sixth new school, and bought a second car.

    A week later, I put on my uniform and drove 10 miles to Little Creek, Virginia. I hesitated before entering my new office. Appearance is important to career Marines. I was no longer, if ever, a poster Marine. I had returned from my third tour in Vietnam only 30 days before. At 5'9", I now weighed 128 pounds - 37 pounds below my normal weight. My uniforms fit ludicrously, my skin was yellow from malaria medication, and I think I had a twitch or two.

    I straightened my shoulders, walked into the office, looked at the nameplate on a Staff Sergeant's desk and said, "Sergeant Jolly, I'm Lieutenant Colonel Goodson. Here are my orders and my Qualification Jacket."

    Sergeant Jolly stood, looked carefully at me, took my orders, stuck out his hand; we shook and he asked, "How long were you there, Colonel?" I replied "18 months this time." Jolly breathed, you must be a slow learner Colonel." I smiled.

    Jolly said, "Colonel, I'll show you to your office and bring in the Sergeant Major. I said, "No, let's just go straight to his office." Jolly nodded, hesitated, and lowered his voice, "Colonel, the Sergeant Major. He's been in this job two years. He's packed pretty tight. I'm worried about him." I nodded.

    Jolly escorted me into the Sergeant Major's office. "Sergeant Major, this is Colonel Goodson, the new Commanding Office. The Sergeant Major stood, extended his hand and said, "Good to see you again, Colonel." I responded, "Hello Walt, how are you?" Jolly looked at me, raised an eyebrow, walked out, and closed the door.

    I sat down with the Sergeant Major. We had the obligatory cup of coffee and talked about mutual acquaintances. Walt's stress was palpable. Finally, I said, "Walt, what's the h-ll's wrong?" He turned his chair, looked out the window and said, "George, you're going to wish you were back in Nam before you leave here. I've been in the Marine Corps since 1939. I was in the Pacific 36 months, Korea for 14 months, and Vietnam for 12 months. Now I come here to bury these kids. I'm putting my letter in. I can't take it anymore." I said, "OK Walt. If that's what you want, I'll endorse your request for retirement and do what I can to push it through Headquarters Marine Corps."

    Sergeant Major Walt Xxxxx retired 12 weeks later. He had been a good Marine for 28 years, but he had seen too much death and too much suffering. He was used up.

    Over the next 16 months, I made 28 death notifications, conducted 28 military funerals, and made 30 notifications to the families of Marines that were severely wounded or missing in action. Most of the details of those casualty notifications have now, thankfully, faded from memory. Four, however, remain.

    MY FIRST NOTIFICATION


    My third or fourth day in Norfolk, I was notified of the death of a 19 year old Marine. This notification came by telephone from Headquarters Marine Corps. The information detailed:

    *Name, rank, and serial number.

    *Name, address, and phone number of next of kin.
    *Date of and limited details about the Marine's death.
    *Approximate date the body would arrive at the Norfolk Naval Air Station.
    *A strong recommendation on whether the casket should be opened or closed.


    The boy's family lived over the border in North Carolina, about 60 miles away. I drove there in a Marine Corps staff car. Crossing the state line into North Carolina, I stopped at a small country store / service station / Post Office. I went in to ask directions. Three people were in the store. A man and woman approached the small Post Office window. The man held a package. The Storeowner walked up and addressed them by name, "Hello John. Good morning Mrs. Cooper."


    I was stunned. My casualty's next-of-kin' s name was John Cooper! I hesitated, then stepped forward and said, "I beg your pardon. Are you Mr. and Mrs. John Cooper of (address.)?"

    The father looked at me-I was in uniform - and then, shaking, bent at the waist, he vomited. His wife looked horrified at him and then at me. Understanding came into her eyes and she collapsed in slow motion. I think I caught her before she hit the floor.

    The owner took a bottle of whiskey out of a drawer and handed it to Mr. Cooper who drank. I answered their questions for a few minutes. Then I drove them home in my staff car. The storeowner locked the store and followed in their truck. We stayed an hour or so until the family began arriving.

    I returned the storeowner to his business. He thanked me and said, "Mister, I wouldn't have your job for a million dollars." I shook his hand and said; "Neither would I."

    I vaguely remember the drive back to Norfolk. Violating about five Marine Corps regulations, I drove the staff car straight to my house. I sat with my family while they ate dinner, went into the den, closed the door, and sat there all night, alone. My Marines steered clear of me for days. I had made my first death notification.

    THE FUNERALS


    Weeks passed with more notifications and more funerals. I borrowed Marines from the local Marine Corps Reserve and taught them to conduct a military funeral: how to carry a casket, how to fire the volleys and how to fold the flag.

    When I presented the flag to the mother, wife, or father, I always said, "All Marines share in your grief." I had been instructed to say, "On behalf of a grateful nation...." I didn't think the nation was grateful, so I didn't say that.

    Sometimes, my emotions got the best of me and I couldn't speak. When that happened, I just handed them the flag and touched a shoulder. They would look at me and nod. Once a mother said to me, "I'm so sorry you have this terrible job." My eyes filled with tears and I leaned over and kissed her.

    ANOTHER NOTIFICATION


    Six weeks after my first notification, I had another. This was a young PFC. I drove to his mother's house. As always, I was in uniform and driving a Marine Corps staff car. I parked in front of the house, took a deep breath, and walked towards the house. Suddenly the door flew open, a middle-aged woman rushed out. She looked at me and ran across the yard, screaming "NO! NO! NO! NO!"


    I hesitated. Neighbors came out. I ran to her, grabbed her, and whispered stupid things to reassure her. She collapsed. I picked her up and carried her into the house.. Eight or nine neighbors followed. Ten or fifteen later, the father came in followed by ambulance personnel. I have no recollection of leaving.

    The funeral took place about two weeks later. We went through the drill. The mother never looked at me. The father looked at me once and shook his head sadly.

    ANOTHER NOTIFICATION


    One morning, as I walked in the office, the phone was ringing. Sergeant Jolly held the phone up and said, "You've got another one, Colonel." I nodded, walked into my office, picked up the phone, took notes, thanked the officer making the call, I have no idea why, and hung up. Jolly, who had listened, came in with a special Telephone Directory that translates telephone numbers into the person's address and place of employment.


    The father of this casualty was a Longshoreman. He lived a mile from my office. I called the Longshoreman' s Union Office and asked for the Business Manager. He answered the phone, I told him who I was, and asked for the father's schedule.
    The Business Manager asked, "Is it his son?" I said nothing. After a moment, he said, in a low voice, "Tom is at home today." I said, "Don't call him. I'll take care of that." The Business Manager said, "Aye, Aye Sir," and then explained, "Tom and I were Marines in WWII."

    I got in my staff car and drove to the house. I was in uniform. I knocked and a woman in her early forties answered the door. I saw instantly that she was clueless. I asked, "Is Mr. Smith home?" She smiled pleasantly and responded, "Yes, but he's eating breakfast now. Can you come back later?" I said, "I'm sorry. It's important. I need to see him now." She nodded, stepped back into the beach house and said, "Tom, it's for you."

    A moment later, a ruddy man in his late forties, appeared at the door. He looked at me, turned absolutely pale, steadied himself, and said, "Jesus Christ man, he's only been there three weeks!"

    Months passed. More notifications and more funerals. Then one day while I was running, Sergeant Jolly stepped outside the building and gave a loud whistle, two fingers in his mouth...... I never could do that..... and held an imaginary phone to his ear.

    Another call from Headquarters Marine Corps. I took notes, said, "Got it." and hung up. I had stopped saying "Thank You" long ago.
    Jolly, "Where?"

    Me, "Eastern Shore of Maryland. The father is a retired Chief Petty Officer. His brother will accompany the body back from Vietnam...."

    Jolly shook his head slowly, straightened, and then said, "This time of day, it'll take three hours to get there and back. I'll call the Naval Air Station and borrow a helicopter. And I'll have Captain Tolliver get one of his men to meet you and drive you to the Chief's home."

    He did, and 40 minutes later, I was knocking on the father's door. He opened the door, looked at me, then looked at the Marine standing at parade rest beside the car, and asked, "Which one of my boys was it, Colonel?"

    I stayed a couple of hours, gave him all the information, my office and home phone number and told him to call me, anytime.
    He called me that evening about 2300 (11:00PM). "I've gone through my boy's papers and found his will. He asked to be buried at sea. Can you make that happen?" I said, "Yes I can, Chief. I can and I will."

    My wife who had been listening said, "Can you do that?" I told her, "I have no idea. But I'm going to break my ass trying."
    I called Lieutenant General Alpha Bowser, Commanding General, Fleet Marine Force Atlantic, at home about 2330, explained the situation, and asked, "General, can you get me a quick appointment with the Admiral at Atlantic Fleet Headquarters? " General Bowser said," George, you be there tomorrow at 0900. He will see you.

    I was and the Admiral did. He said coldly, "How can the Navy help the Marine Corps, Colonel." I told him the story. He turned to his Chief of Staff and said, "Which is the sharpest destroyer in port?" The Chief of Staff responded with a name.

    The Admiral called the ship, "Captain, you're going to do a burial at sea. You'll report to a Marine Lieutenant Colonel Goodson until this mission is completed... "

    He hung up, looked at me, and said, "The next time you need a ship, Colonel, call me. You don't have to sic Al Bowser on my ass." I responded, "Aye Aye, Sir" and got the h-ll out of his office.

    I went to the ship and met with the Captain, Executive Officer, and the Senior Chief. Sergeant Jolly and I trained the ship's crew for four days. Then Jolly raised a question none of us had thought of. He said, "These government caskets are air tight. How do we keep it from floating?"

    All the high priced help including me sat there looking dumb. Then the Senior Chief stood and said, "Come on Jolly. I know a bar where the retired guys from World War II hang out."

    They returned a couple of hours later, slightly the worst for wear, and said, "It's simple; we cut four 12" holes in the outer shell of the casket on each side and insert 300 lbs of lead in the foot end of the casket. We can handle that, no sweat."

    The day arrived. The ship and the sailors looked razor sharp. General Bowser, the Admiral, a US Senator, and a Navy Band were on board. The sealed casket was brought aboard and taken below for modification. The ship got underway to the 12-fathom depth.
    The sun was hot. The ocean flat. The casket was brought aft and placed on a catafalque. The Chaplin spoke. The volleys were fired. The flag was removed, folded, and I gave it to the father. The band played "Eternal Father Strong to Save." The casket was raised slightly at the head and it slid into the sea.

    The heavy casket plunged straight down about six feet. The incoming water collided with the air pockets in the outer shell. The casket stopped abruptly, rose straight out of the water about three feet, stopped, and slowly slipped back into the sea. The air bubbles rising from the sinking casket sparkled in the in the sunlight as the casket disappeared from sight forever....
    The next morning I called a personal friend, Lieutenant General Oscar Peatross, at Headquarters Marine Corps and said, "General, get me out of here. I can't take this anymore." I was transferred two weeks later.

    I was a good Marine but, after 17 years, I had seen too much death and too much suffering. I was used up.

    Vacating the house, my family and I drove to the office in a two-car convoy. I said my goodbyes. Sergeant Jolly walked out with me. He waved at my family, looked at me with tears in his eyes, came to attention, saluted, and said, "Well Done, Colonel. Well Done."
    I felt as if I had received the Medal of Honor!

    A veteran is someone who, at one point, wrote a blank check made payable to 'The United States of America for an amount of up to and including their life.'

    That is Honor, and there are way too many people in this country who no longer understand it.'
     
  3. RightHand

    RightHand Pioneer in a New World Moderator Founding Member

    Follow up with this interview in the blog The SandGram
     
  4. dragonfly

    dragonfly Monkey+++

    Amen to that!
     
  5. steppingup

    steppingup Monkey++

    Hey ghrit, thanks, I needed that......
     
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  6. Tango3

    Tango3 Aimless wanderer

    I was a Pallbearer for my father inlaw and his brother, both WWII pacific combat vets;I can hold it together until the rifles fire and the bugler starts taps then I well up...
     
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  7. Mike

    Mike Ol' Army Sergeant Monkey

    I was a rifleman for funerals when I was at Ft Monmouth, NJ. I am ok with the gun salute, but bolt like a deer when taps is played except at night. Listening to taps while stationed on base is peaceful. Just not during the day, totally different meaning.
     
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  8. RightHand

    RightHand Pioneer in a New World Moderator Founding Member

    There's nothing quite like Taps when the flag is lowered. Everything stops, the pitchers and the batters stand erect with their hats over their hearts, the bicycles stop moving in the street, the troops stand to attention. When we moved off base when I was a teenager, that was what I missed the most, Taps and the ceremonial atmosphere that took over my world for those few minutes every day. Now when I hear it, I am flooded with memories of laying my dad to rest and the sound, while still one of plaintive ending, no longer draws me into its peace.
     
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  9. ghrit

    ghrit Ambulatory anachronism Administrator Founding Member

    Day is done, gone the sun --
     
  10. Pax Mentis

    Pax Mentis Philosopher King Site Supporter

    Interestingly G, the first thing I saw on the page was this. What's interesting is that I was talking about this last night for the first time in a long time...it was a food discussion.

    Then I read the article...and it "resonated".

    When I was released from the hospital in April 1970 after my return, I first got orders for Drill Sgt School (Army). Since I obviously was not going to pull that one off...still using a cane and all...my Doc got the orders changed to HQ 3rd Army at Ft. McPherson GA.

    When I reported in, I was assigned as NCOIC of 1 of 3 Funeral teams for the 3rd Army area. Over the next 7 months I traveled the Southeast with a team of pallbearers and a firing squad, performing over 45 funerals...about 3/4 for guys who had been killed in country.

    I had some pretty crappy jobs in the 2 years before (17 mos. in country and just under 6 in the detachment of patients at Letterman), but that 7 months was undoubtedly the hardest job I ever did and the one that comes back to me on my really bad days. I slept with scotch most nights. After 7 mos and with under 3 left, I requested and was transferred to a new job.

    Reading this article made me realize there was a job even harder than handing a wife or parent the flag "with the thanks of a grateful nation"...I am now forever thankful I did not have to be the one to tell those people that their husband or son was killed in that stupid place.

    I'm still allergic to Taps in any setting...even a movie. Must leave the room.
     
    Last edited by a moderator: Apr 16, 2015
  11. ghrit

    ghrit Ambulatory anachronism Administrator Founding Member

    Taps in the evening is good. Taps in daylight is never good.
     
  12. Bandit99

    Bandit99 Monkey+++

    Dear Sir,
    I failed to complete reading your post due to tears. I deeply regret the lost of your Marines; I mean this from my heart. Sir, I am ex-army, please don't hold that against me, and have served supporting our military and government for numerous years, would you believe 38+, maybe more, lost count: I did my duty as did the boys, that's what counts, right? No one is asked, but all is given...yet taken for granted. Bless you sir and bless your Marines...

    God bless the United States Marine Corps and all those that keep us safe.

    Rick
    Idaho, USA

    PS. Strange as is sounds, I no longer trust or believe in the United States government and frankly don't give a spit who knows it; however, I would place my life, and all I have, without a second thought, in the United States Marines. Always Faithful.
     
    Last edited: Feb 9, 2016
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  13. HK_User

    HK_User A Productive Monkey is a Happy Monkey Site Supporter

    Yes, the experience of losing a shipmate will affect you for the rest of your life.
    Having it happen due to the negiance of others and not being able to recovery his body, so he can be returned to his family due to operational conditions, is a tragedy for all.

    Being in a time of a war that was not so cold as the media would have you believe and on a Top Secret Operation means that you can never talk about the specificies or visit the family to give your condolences.

    Sailors Rest Your Oars.
     
    Last edited: Feb 9, 2016
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  14. azrancher

    azrancher Monkey +++

    ghrit... thanks that was a good cry.

    Rancher
     
  15. It's both sad and funny, what old soldiers remember. It's sad, that the Army probably had a policy that only Vietnam vets could go on burial details, but of course I didn't know enough to think about such things back then. There were accusations of racism at the time, with leaders in the black community claiming that only African-Americans were being sent into combat, and so all the men on a detail had to have a combat patch on their uniform. I got into trouble once, when a relative of the deceased started mouthing off, and I braced him and asked why he was home, safe, when his kin had gone to fight. I called him a draft-dodger, and a <expletive deleted>, but I was amazed, later, at how easily and quickly I had savaged a teenager for an imagined offense that I didn't know if he had committed.

    It's funny: I'll never forget how shocked I was, seeing the caskets lined up in the back of a mortuary, with a list of zip codes next to each, and a different price for each zip code.

    It's tragic, that when the Challenger space shuttle blew up, I was trying to get a new printer to work, and it wanted an access code that I didn't know. One of the secretaries came by, telling everyone about the disaster, and I asked her if she knew the code to use the printer. She called me a "heartless bastard", and I tore her a new <expletive deleted>, yelling at the top of my lungs that there wasn't a <expletive deleted> thing I could do about it, and that much as it might pain her to admit it, she wasn't going to be on the accident investigation team, so there wasn't anything she could do about it either.

    My boss told me that the VA had opened a new outpatient site in the city where I lived. I took the hint. It helped, at least to the point where I could apologize to that secretary and accept that her life had been very different than mine.

    However, to this very day, I get angry when I'm driving down the highway, and I see a sign on a freeway overpass, saying "Welcome home Lieutenant Jones" or "Welcome back Sergeant Smith". It's as if there is some terrible alien living in my gut that is trying to eat its way out at that instant, chewing away my education, eviscerating my sense of proportion, spitting out vitriol as strong as acid into the lives of those around me. "Where", I wonder, "is my welcome home?" - and I coldly ask myself if Lieutenant Jones' or Sergeant Smith's parents were the same hypocrites who spat on the sidewalk when I walked by on my way to my home, so many continents and years ago.

    Times have changed, and sometimes someone will say "Thank you for your service", but I have to hold back the urge to rebuke them, to say "I don't need your thanks: I went for my reasons, not yours!" It took a long time, but I came to realize that the dues I and other Vietnam vets paid are the reason those signs are up there now. The hard fact is, that I raised my hand and I took an oath, and because I did that, I had to take everything that came with it: the meager pay, the crowded barracks, the mediocre food - and my orders.

    I had a conversation, some years ago, with a man I had known in flight school - one of those chance things, where I say his name on the website of a flying service in Utah - and I told him "I can't complain: the GI Bill paid for college, and I was the first man in my family to graduate from college." As far as it went, that was true, but I was also the first to learn how educated people aren't sent to die in wars if they don't want to be, how the U.S. is a military society and always has been, and how we can't seem to learn, or stop.

    I'm older now, and nearing retirement, and I understand, at this late stage of my life, what the Sirens offered Odysseus: the chance to be forever young, forever strong, forever gallant and courageous - a statue in a public square, never having to feel his strength and his mind fading with the years. When I think about it, I am, frankly, amazed that more young men, in Odysseus' time or mine, did not put the tiller over and head for the rocks.

    William Warren
     
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  16. Bandit99

    Bandit99 Monkey+++

    I started reading this post last night and it turned me into a mess, was up until 1am drinking scotch just thinking... my old sergeant told me years ago "kid...there will be things you can't forget but there will always be things you will remember..." "What the heck does that mean?" and here I sit 40 years and he was right. Damn him, I get it now. So, I don't like thinking about this stuff and I intend to start a new thread titled "Funny War Stories" of which I do have a hell'va lot but here is the one that I can't forget and came back last night...it was simple but I swear to think of it makes me shiver and come to tears...even now.

    It was early 2002, I was one of the first of those blood-sucking contractors to hit Bagram, Afghanistan. It was what we call the 'bad old days' before all the security and prettiness got built. I was working a satellite terminal, it provided comms (telephones, unclass and Classified internet, etc...). It was a just a dirt field with just a dirt road with lots of old rusted out Soviet vehicles ( trucks, APCs, etc) lining it. We all slept in tents on cots in a sleeping bag; hot as hell during the day and frosty cold at night. The Talis would probe the perimeter ever night and out of boredom we would sit on the dirt parapet right outside the Satcom van and watch the fireworks but had to be careful at night because the ground on the backside of the van was taped off because it hadn't been cleared yet of mines....I never did figure that one out. I helped the Special Forces guys get their sat rig set up (they had their own perimeter) so we had a booze connection via them so we were set. It was tough to get fresh veggies and we made damn sure to get our share when they were available. Locals were selling hash and old AK bayonets and crap outside the wire.... Anyway, I got sick and to cut the chase, I had to go to the Frankfurt, Germany hospital which I did, got some meds and started to feel better so rather than hang forcing my buddies to pull longer shifts I got listed to get on the next flight but it was going to Kandahar first. Okay, whatever...its maybe a 30-45 minute hop to Bagram from there. Well, the base either had or was taking fire so I got my first taste of a tactical landing in a combat zone - I was lucky not to crap myself. I been on quite a few now but still hate'em. When you are going so damn fast that you literally float in the air - well - not for me, plus the thought of someone lining you up to make swiss cheese out of you and you can't do a damn thing - well - screw that crap, they don't pay those air crews enough. We got to the ground without taking fire and they rolled two flag draped coffins inside (this was a C-17) there was a soldier accompany each one of them, no dress blues, just their normal fatigues. Both of them were kids, the close friends of the fallen warriors, maybe 20 years more likely 18. It was just them and me. They both started to cry like they were being tortured as they clung to the coffins. I have never heard someone in such pain - tortured. I couldn't do or say anything to help. I got as far away into a corner of the plane and tried not to listen. The fallen were being transported to Bagram which I later learn had the morgue. I swear that flight took hours... For some reason I can still hear and see them at times. I have seen death before and quite a bit since but it never affected me like this time. Two young boys lives were gone... and while they didn't feel anything their brothers were being torture by their loss... - Rick
     
    Last edited: Feb 9, 2016
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  17. Tikka

    Tikka Monkey+++

    After I came home; I was the guy who handed the folded Flag to the family.

    "This flag is presented on behalf of a grateful nation and the United States Army as a token of appreciation for your loved one's honorable and faithful service."

    Giving the Flag to a kid was the worst.
     
  18. RightHand

    RightHand Pioneer in a New World Moderator Founding Member

  19. Bandit99

    Bandit99 Monkey+++

    I honestly don't think I could do it. I would rather take a beating... - Rick
     
  20. Tikka

    Tikka Monkey+++

    @RickR,
    Same as me, you wouldn't get a choice. The preference was ex-infantry with a CIB, chest salad and wrong shoulder patch. As a NCO with the requirements, I got the job.
    After I came back to the world, I was a combat arms instructor. I cried on the CO's shoulder until I got out of it.

    Speaking of taps; they have an amazing effect even on those who never wore the uniform.

    "Steve Hartman goes "On The Road" to visit the Pacific Northwest, where a special performance of taps every day brings an entire neighborhood to a stop."
     
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    Oligarchy!

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