Poems written by our American heroes

Final Roll Call

Did you hear the sad news today?
Another veteran warrior has passed away.
Called by the Supreme Commander over all.
Today he has made his final roll call.

Come fellow vets; let us reverently bow and pray
For our valiant comrade, who has fallen this day.
We'll drape his casket with a banner of beautiful hues,
Those glorious American colors: red, white and blue.

That star spangled banner he gallantly fought to defend,
Unyielding and undaunted, he fought to win.
He fought bravely and he passed the battle test.
Now the Supreme Commander grants him, "eternal rest".

With dignity and honor, we'll commit his body to the ground,
The bugler will sound "Taps" and we'll fire the volley rounds.
The final military honors we'll render somberly and ever so sadly;
"Old Glory" we'll solemnly precisely fold and reverently give to his family.

Each Memorial Day we will recall our fallen comrade names,
And attest that their selfless sacrifices were not in vain;
For this lasting legacy they gave to all generations;
"It's honorable to respect our flag and to defend our great nation."

So close ranks aging warriors, for our ranks are thinning.
We must keep on fighting and keep on winning.
With pride and honor we'll march and stand tall,
And we'll proudly - proudly - salute "Old Glory"
'til we too make our final roll call.

By: Carroll R. Michaud
7046 Greenwood Road
Shreveport, LA. 71119

We Buried Another Veteran Today

We buried another veteran today.
He went to his God, but from us, he went away.
This one was young, in the prime of his life.
He left twin children and a very courageous wife.

It wasn't a bullet, a plane crash or a bomb.
It was cancer, and he just finally, could not hold on.
He fought "it" like a strategic military campaign.
But the time came to surrender, to end his earthly pain.

But what about his twins, those children he adored?
In their small world, will they grow strong and at "life" win.
Please God, they are so young, let them always remember him.

We buried another veteran today.
It seems, all my life, it has happened this way.
From my uncles of  the WW II-time frame.
To the military neighbors and friends that Vietnam would claim.

I am not that old, but for me the number of dead, is always on the rise.
When I get a call that another veteran is gone, it is never really a surprise.
From lost sub-mariners, of the Thresher & Scorpion in early days of my life.
To the forever gone, military-medical friends of my veteran wife.

I lost a Korean War veteran friend this year, to a crashed airplane.
I lost a Gulf War friend to cancer, a difference in their age, but still that pain.
I lost an Uncle to cancer who did Korea with the Navy, steaming off shores.
I lost my father-in-law who fought in Korea, from a "fox-hole" in the frozen outdoors.

We buried another Veteran today.
It seems in all my family's generations, it happens this way.
From my Revolutionary War Grandfathers who started this sad, but needed trend.
To the family members on both sides in 1861, who just would not bend.

Some of my family veterans lived a long and happy life, after "their" war.
They died of old age in their bed, safe-behind a locked door.
They died in battle, buried where they fell.
They died years later, carrying emotional scars, in their own personal hell.

My family is no different than thousands who met our Nation's call.
They rose to the demands of this country and some gave their "all".
We have to keep doing this, to make our homeland free.
But, it is that Veteran's twin-little children that keeps worrying me.

We buried another Veteran today.
It seems all my life it continues to happen this way.
Now my only child is nine and we reside on a military installation.
I truly want her to live in a safe and free nation.

But what happens to her, when it is her-generation's turn to make a stand.
Do I lose my only child in some forsaken-foreign land?
Does she play it safe, stay home and say "that's boy's stuff".
Or does she join like her mother and go right into the ruff.

She has to be that one Veteran I don't see, make that final "call".
Let me go before her, let me first give this country my fighting "all".
Maybe if I go "out-there" and make my final stand.
She can stay safe, at home, in this wonderful free land.

By: Major Van E. Harl, USAF  Ret.
28 November 2001
EMAIL ME

The Handcart Boys

He's lying in the tree line, blood running down his arm.
Listening for the sound of the Handcart boys, to remove him from this harm.
He flew in on a modern jet that got shot down in this affray.
But he is no different than the wounded at Shiloh, trying to survive, till they safely take him away.

In the dark of the night she waits with so much pain to bear.
Injured in the crash of her aircraft and now this seemly endless nightmare.
Where is the chopper that will lift her from the smoke, the fire and the pain?
Where are the Handcart boys, hurry, her life is beginning to drain?
He was wounded when a round slammed onto the "cruiser's" deck.
Shards of metal are protruding from his arm, shoulder and the right side his neck.
The corpsman has stopped the bleeding; he's been prepared, to be extracted in the night.
The Handcart boys are racing his way, and will be there before first light.

Get in, get them out, and hurry back, inside the safety of our lines.
It has been this way since ancient wars, to the battles of modern times.
The two-wheel Handcart is the way the wounded were removed from battles in past wars.
Our modern Handcart has a rotor-blade and sliding doors.

Look at history, look at artwork, recent photos or at movies if you will.
When it came to removing the wounded and injured off of some war torn desolate hill.
It was a Handcart carrying the broken and the dying with their screams of pain.
It was a Handcart transporting at Normandy in the cold June rain.

Every branch of the service has its modern version of the Handcart boys who respond to the call.
They go out for the wounded and dead, bring them back, get them all.
Some times the Handcart boys are brought back in a Handcart not of their own.
Some times they become the wounded & the dying, and for their efforts, they never come home.

There are also women who work these, latter-day Handcarts and their lives too, are on the line.
It is a dangerous mission, but just as their predecessors they to make that recovery in time.
They move out over the desert, into the night as the sand blows and swirls.
These Handcart operators are our Handcart girls.

I have a two-wheeled wooden handcart with an old worn flag sitting out on my front lawn.
It is not a protest, it's a reminder of our dead, who returned by Handcart, lying there upon.
In order to defend this Nation, we will continue to send the brave & young, our freedom they earn.
And we will always have a need for the Handcarts, for our wounded and dead, they must return.

By: Major Van E. Harl, USAF Ret.
15 March 2003
EMAIL ME

The Thud

I flew the thud, the 105
What a mean mutha she was,
We went downtown a hundred times
And she brought me home only ninety nine.

Hanoi wasn't a very nice town,
They kept shooting at me up there.
I guess they didn't like my bombs and all
They were just too much to bear.

A hundred times we made the trip
Two hundred on the tanker,
That big silver bird that had the gas
That me n' Baby had a hanker

Then came the day that Baby died
From the Migs we couldn't bomb
She came apart and left me hanging
From a chute, my war was done.

I landed in a paddy
Filled with water and shit,
The soldiers came and shot at me
It was time for me to quit.

But there were buddies flying there
Bad assed one nineteens
They shot up the place while I ran
To find a Jolly Green

I made it home, but Baby didn't
And I mourn her soul
'Cause Baby was my airplane
Without her I am not whole

Author unknown