Once when I was young, my battalion came out of the California desert, where we had been trying to teach green troops how to stay alive for what we all felt, and was indeed, the battalion’s forthcoming deployment to Iraq.
While most of them got a shower, headed to the little NCO club watering hole to wash the desert dust down, I found a deserted library except for the Liberian.
I discovered a book of WW 1 poems.
This one has always stayed with me.
‘Suicide In The Trenches’
I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you’ll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.
On my wall hangs a copy of my third great grandfather Carleton’s discharge from the American forces in 1780, after three years, Valley Forge, Crossing the Delaware, wounded in the chest with a musket ball at the battle of Brandywine.
He then served with the North Carolina Militia.
His son, Dr. David Carleton, married the daughter of a man did two hitches with Washington, the second as a scout for Washingtons army.
His father in law was a second cousin to George Washington, and although because of his age, could have stayed home, but did not, and died soon after the war with complications from being a Winter Soldier.
His father in-law’s father was way to old to go, so he served in the Virginia Home Guards.
The USA history books try to paint a picture of all of Americans being all together in fighting Britain.
That is bull shit.
Many remained loyal to Britain.
(My third great grandfather’s brother Thomas, was captured by American forces fighting for the British).
Most did not care one way or the other, was on the side they thought they could get the most out of at the moment, or the side which had the power to punish them for being on the other side.
About Three Percent of Americans wanted freedom bad enough, and had a set of balls big enough, to make a stand.
That means most of you bleating sheep out there now doing whatever those in charge tell you to do, including squealing like a little piggy, on other Americans for having enough brains to think for themselves, enough balls to say BS to DC’s BS in this, are the bleating in fear prodigy of sheep who were ball-less, bleating in fear while Real Men fought a desperate shoestring fight for freedom.
And at this time, the last stand for freedom for Americans before the fetters of slavery are firmly snapped around your arms and legs, along with your children, grandchildren, you are again bleating in fear, ball-less loyalist who inform on these seeking to end their slavery.
See what real men did while your ancestors hid under their beds and informed to the British on Real Americans, Real Men!
The Ole Dog!