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YA911B – Yet another 9-11 Blog

It’s almost cliche to blog an entry about 9-11 today.  It has been seven years to the day since the attack, which has been called “Our Generations Pearl Harbor.”

I’m still angry, and I’m outraged that some people want to make peace with these animals.

But this entry isn’t going to be about being angry or a call to arms.  We need to remember the victims of the attack, as well as all of our dead in our fight to maintain our freedom.

On a personal note, I lost a couple of good buddies over the course of this war, which honestly started way back in 1990.

First of all, Spc4 Manuel B. Sapien, Jr. of Denver, Colorado.  Manny was killed in some nameless place in Iraq by a landmine or unexploded munition.

Manny and I were in 6/3 ADA together, he was in HHB, I was on the gun line.  We both hung out a lot at the Harlekin bar, in Schwabach Germany.  Beer and whiskey, heavy metal, and chicks!  (Manny was engaged to be married, I think she ended up back in the states with his kid.  How quickly we lose track, especially post service.)  I won’t forget you, buddy.  Bet I won’t be the only one drinking a beer for you today.

Next is John and his team.  I have a pic of the guys here.  John was the team leader, his pic is obviously on the right.

In a nutshell, the guys were working a convoy on Nov. 16th, 2006, and were stopped at a “Fake” checkpoint by real Basra Police Department officers, that were evidently working for a militia.  They showed up at the Basra PD, and when Crescent went to retrieve them, they were mysteriously missing.

A month later a video was released, and of course the press protected the source.  (Probably didn’t work out like they thought though.)

On March 24th of 2008, the FBI released the identity of John’s remains, as well as Ron Withrow of Texas.

On Friday, April 4th, 2008, John’s funeral was held in his hometown of Lee’s Summit, MO.  I was a pallbearer for the initial part of the ceremony, after which we released his remains to the funerary detail from the army.

On a side note, the freedom riders were there both as a protective detail and an escort for the procession.  Thanks, guys.

I’m done talking.  Well, almost.  Someone pointed out that they didn’t know anything about the following poem.  It was written by a journalist named Theodore O’Hara about the Kentucky troops that were killed in the Mexican War of 1847.  You can find the poem being read in some combat soldiers funeral services.  It was made most famous by snippets being places on placards throughout Arlington.  It’s also inscribed in it’s entirety on the McClellan Gate.

BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD
By Theodore O’Hara

The muffled drum’s sad roll has beat
The soldier’s last tattoo;
No more on life’s parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame’s eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And Glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe’s advance
Now swells upon the wind;
Nor troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow’s strife
The warrior’s dream alarms;
No braying horn nor screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shriveled swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed,
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,
And the proud forms, by battle gashed
Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle’s stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are past;
Nor war’s wild note nor glory’s peal
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore may feel
The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce northern hurricane
That sweeps the great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Came down the serried foe,
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o’er the field beneath,
Knew well the watchword of that day
Was "Victory or death!"

Long had the doubtful conflict raged
O’er all that stricken plain,
For never fiercer fight had waged
The vengeful blood of Spain;
And still the storm of battle blew,
Still swelled the gory tide;
Not long, our stout old chieftain knew,
Such odds his strength could bide.

Twas in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyr’s grave
The flower of his beloved land,
The nation’s flag to save.
By rivers of their father’s gore
His first-born laurels grew,
And well he deemed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory too.

For many a mother’s breath has swept
O’er Angostura’s plain —
And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its moldered slain.
The raven’s scream, or eagle’s flight,
Or shepherd’s pensive lay,
Alone awakes each sullen height
That frowned o’er that dread fray.

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground
Ye must not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air.
Your own proud land’s heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave;
She claims from war his richest spoil —
The ashes of her brave.

Thus ‘neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,
Borne to a Spartan mother’s breast
On many a bloody shield;
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes sepulcher.

Rest on embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave;
No impious footstep shall here tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While fame her records keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel’s voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanquished ago has flown,
The story how ye fell;
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter’s blight,
Nor Time’s remorseless doom,
Shall dim one ray of glory’s light
That gilds your deathless tomb.

Farewell my brothers.  I will never forget you.