Inspired by IWO – photo by Richard Lowry
One day I dreamt
I woke up in
A peaceful paradise
People laughing, children smiling
No more tears in their eyes
When storm clouds rain
And the levee breaks
And our time has washed away
Chorus
Make the darkness bright
In the heat of night
Tear down these walls in my way
There's a new day dawning
In a world that's loving
Open up before it's too late
Help me find my way back home
Ways that keep me
Bound from seeing
Hope on this horizon
I've got no excuse
Sometimes you win or lose
But I won't give up ever trying
When storm clouds rain
And the levee breaks
And our time has washed away
Chorus
Mp3 available at www.militarywriters.com/JeffSenour&CTS-waybackhome.mp3
To vote for Jeff Senour and CTS:
Send email to MWSAPCA8@gmail.com OR vote on this blog!
Showing posts with label MWSA. Show all posts
Showing posts with label MWSA. Show all posts
Sunday, September 13, 2009
MWSA PCA Finalist 7 -- The Choice We Make -- Marlyce Stockinger
Inspiration Image -- “Father and Son” photo by Pat Avery
My son is young
A life barely begun
Tender years without his dad
Makes me wonder…….will he turn out bad?
Me, my heart is torn
I’m proud to be American born
I want to serve my country..help to make it free
must it be at the expense of my family?
Ohhhhhh the pain of the choices we make
War or taking my son to the lake
What if I don’t come back
Will he understand and cut me some slack?
I know what I must do
To my country I must be true
Ohhhhhh the pain of the choice I made
Please god…..don’t let his memory of me fade!
taps
MP3 Available at www.militarywriters.com/MarlyceStockinger-TheChoiceWeMake.mp3
To vote for Marlyce Stockinger:
Send email to MWSAPCA7@gmail.com OR vote at one of the polling sites listed on page 9!
My son is young
A life barely begun
Tender years without his dad
Makes me wonder…….will he turn out bad?
Me, my heart is torn
I’m proud to be American born
I want to serve my country..help to make it free
must it be at the expense of my family?
Ohhhhhh the pain of the choices we make
War or taking my son to the lake
What if I don’t come back
Will he understand and cut me some slack?
I know what I must do
To my country I must be true
Ohhhhhh the pain of the choice I made
Please god…..don’t let his memory of me fade!
taps
MP3 Available at www.militarywriters.com/MarlyceStockinger-TheChoiceWeMake.mp3
To vote for Marlyce Stockinger:
Send email to MWSAPCA7@gmail.com OR vote at one of the polling sites listed on page 9!
MWSAPCA Finalist 6 -- Flag from a Grateful Nation -- John Cathcart
Inspired by IWO – photo by Richard Lowry
Piercing white sun, on a majestic hill.
Was it hot, or was it cold?
Silent sentinels guard the graceful slope.
One spot on the hill has been opened, ready to accept a new tenant.
Proud and Erect.
Apart from the crowd I stand.
Apart from the crowd I stand.
Damn the wind! Damn the sun!
They know the truth, and assault my eyes with it.
Proud and Erect.
Over and over, the words are repeated,
Over and over, the words are repeated,
as the trees sway and the flags gently ripple.
In the distance, slow salutes and disciplined,
well-practiced movements bring him close.
Did the birds stop singing?
Despite the preparation, the crack of the rifles makes all jump.
Despite the preparation, the crack of the rifles makes all jump.
The sound enters like a spike into every bone of every body.
The straight arrow flight thunders overhead... one missing.
Proud and Erect.
Finally I have it, the neatly folded triangle.
Finally I have it, the neatly folded triangle.
All blue and white—the red forever hidden inside.
I can wait no longer; this must be done.
Her eyes are strong.
Then, the dreadful words come out:
Then, the dreadful words come out:
"This flag is offered by a grateful nation
in memory of the faithful service of your husband."
A tear runs gently down her cheek.
Her eyes are still strong.
Proud and Erect.
Slow salutes and disciplined, well-practiced movements lower him.
Slow salutes and disciplined, well-practiced movements lower him.
The distant, mournful echoes of Taps accompany him on his final trip.
Proud and Erect.
Good-bye Jim!
To vote for John Cathcart:
Send email to MWSAPCA6@gmail.com OR vote on this blog!
Good-bye Jim!
To vote for John Cathcart:
Send email to MWSAPCA6@gmail.com OR vote on this blog!
MWSAPCA Finalist 5 - The Rush of Butterflies -- Bonnie Bartel Latino
Inspiration Image — Untitled sketch by Bob Larkin
Chief Warrant Officer2 Jerry Pruet loved America and the U.S. Army as if they were his blood relatives. Alone in his parked UH-1H “Huey” helicopter, he was a long way from the comfort and safety of family or country. He peered through the windscreen. Fog clouded his view as the sound of a northbound F-105 “Thud” reverberated overhead. Not far away, somewhere in this godforsaken Quang Tri River Valley, six exhausted Rangers had been on the run all night. Radio reports painted a bleak picture. The North Vietnamese Army surrounded their long-range reconnaissance patrol.
Scanning the airfield perimeter for his launch signal, he saw no one. He pulled a snapshot of his wife from his flight suit. His mouth curved into a grin. Yen brought more than the ‘peace’ her name implied. As fair of spirit as of face and form, she had proven as faithful as dawn. To thrive, he needed Yen, just as his helicopter needed JP-4 to soar.
# # #
The somber tones of Walter Cronkite reporting the daily body count from Vietnam filled Yen Pruet’s Honolulu apartment. She constantly rotated the gold band around her finger. When she and Jerry left her homeland, she never dreamed he would volunteer to go back. Chills raced along her arms raising tiny bumps. Hawaiian friends called the unexpected sensations chicken skin. The description fit perfectly. From the day she and Jerry met in Soc Trang, they shared a sixth sense connection. It had never felt stronger.
# # #
“Mr. Pruet,” an operations sergeant said from outside the Huey. “The major says the Rangers are taking a heckuva lot of fire. We’ve got to get ’em outta’ there ASAP. Cobras aren’t available, and fixed-wings don’t have visibility in the zone.”
His jaw tightened as he cranked the engine.
Co-pilot and crew climbed aboard strapping on their bulletproof “chicken plates.”
“The Rangers are northwest of the Rock Pile about a hundred meters up Razor Back Ridge,” the ops sergeant said, handing Pruet the mission brief card with pick-up coordinates.
He took the card and, per regulations, handed Yen’s photo to the ops sergeant. “Hang on to this for me, will you?”
His co-pilot laughed. “I should have known you’d have that. You always do.”
Nodding, he pulled on his green Nomex gloves. “OK, troops, we all know what our odds are. But those Rangers are depending on us.”
At lift off, the crew’s voices roared as one like jungle thunder.
Within minutes the Huey drew enemy fire.
“We’re taking AK-47 and 37mm fire around the clock,” the door gunner yelled.
“They’re throwing everything they’ve got at us,” the co-pilot said above the chaos.
Pruet’s eyes narrowed in concentration. Flying into a fog shrouded hollow, he approached the pick-up zone. Amidst firepower as thick as the fog, he transitioned to hover. Eternity stretched every second. He prayed the Rangers were nearby. A thunderous explosion slammed the cabin. His head banged violently against the door post. The sharp smell of hydraulic fluid filled the cockpit.
“Rotor head took a direct hit,” the crew chief shouted. “Got an engine fire!”
Vibration and smoke obscured the instrument panel. Sweat soaked the insides of Pruet’s gloves. Warm liquid stung his eyes. Sweat or blood? Either way, just another distraction. The machine tucked and spun. He had run out of ideas, rotor turns, and luck. Control slipped away. He and his crew were trapped beneath the churning blades of a fuel-loaded Huey.
“Get a grip, guys! We’re going down!”
Intensity gave way to stop-action movement. One by one, his senses shut down. The strain on his arms eased. Chaos dissolved into white silence. Instrument lights faded into a soft green glow like eyes. Yen’s eyes.
Mentally, he reached out for his wife as one of the helicopter’s blades sheared its tail. The blade flew through the fog like the wrath of Goliath's great sword! The main rotor blade flexed down, slicing the cockpit like a scythe. His scream vanished in the engulfing fireball.
# # #
Yen Pruet’s body jerked in a force of disturbance. Then, a sensation like a swarm of butterflies spiraling through her body brought instant peace. She and Jerry floated on a gossamer ripple in time. The rush of butterflies intensified . . . then vanished through every pore.
She wouldn’t need an Army chaplain to tell her Jerry had been killed in action.
She already knew.
To vote for Bonnie Bartel Latino:
Send email to MWSAPCA5@gmail.com OR vote on this blog!
Scanning the airfield perimeter for his launch signal, he saw no one. He pulled a snapshot of his wife from his flight suit. His mouth curved into a grin. Yen brought more than the ‘peace’ her name implied. As fair of spirit as of face and form, she had proven as faithful as dawn. To thrive, he needed Yen, just as his helicopter needed JP-4 to soar.
# # #
The somber tones of Walter Cronkite reporting the daily body count from Vietnam filled Yen Pruet’s Honolulu apartment. She constantly rotated the gold band around her finger. When she and Jerry left her homeland, she never dreamed he would volunteer to go back. Chills raced along her arms raising tiny bumps. Hawaiian friends called the unexpected sensations chicken skin. The description fit perfectly. From the day she and Jerry met in Soc Trang, they shared a sixth sense connection. It had never felt stronger.
# # #
“Mr. Pruet,” an operations sergeant said from outside the Huey. “The major says the Rangers are taking a heckuva lot of fire. We’ve got to get ’em outta’ there ASAP. Cobras aren’t available, and fixed-wings don’t have visibility in the zone.”
His jaw tightened as he cranked the engine.
Co-pilot and crew climbed aboard strapping on their bulletproof “chicken plates.”
“The Rangers are northwest of the Rock Pile about a hundred meters up Razor Back Ridge,” the ops sergeant said, handing Pruet the mission brief card with pick-up coordinates.
He took the card and, per regulations, handed Yen’s photo to the ops sergeant. “Hang on to this for me, will you?”
His co-pilot laughed. “I should have known you’d have that. You always do.”
Nodding, he pulled on his green Nomex gloves. “OK, troops, we all know what our odds are. But those Rangers are depending on us.”
At lift off, the crew’s voices roared as one like jungle thunder.
Within minutes the Huey drew enemy fire.
“We’re taking AK-47 and 37mm fire around the clock,” the door gunner yelled.
“They’re throwing everything they’ve got at us,” the co-pilot said above the chaos.
Pruet’s eyes narrowed in concentration. Flying into a fog shrouded hollow, he approached the pick-up zone. Amidst firepower as thick as the fog, he transitioned to hover. Eternity stretched every second. He prayed the Rangers were nearby. A thunderous explosion slammed the cabin. His head banged violently against the door post. The sharp smell of hydraulic fluid filled the cockpit.
“Rotor head took a direct hit,” the crew chief shouted. “Got an engine fire!”
Vibration and smoke obscured the instrument panel. Sweat soaked the insides of Pruet’s gloves. Warm liquid stung his eyes. Sweat or blood? Either way, just another distraction. The machine tucked and spun. He had run out of ideas, rotor turns, and luck. Control slipped away. He and his crew were trapped beneath the churning blades of a fuel-loaded Huey.
“Get a grip, guys! We’re going down!”
Intensity gave way to stop-action movement. One by one, his senses shut down. The strain on his arms eased. Chaos dissolved into white silence. Instrument lights faded into a soft green glow like eyes. Yen’s eyes.
Mentally, he reached out for his wife as one of the helicopter’s blades sheared its tail. The blade flew through the fog like the wrath of Goliath's great sword! The main rotor blade flexed down, slicing the cockpit like a scythe. His scream vanished in the engulfing fireball.
# # #
Yen Pruet’s body jerked in a force of disturbance. Then, a sensation like a swarm of butterflies spiraling through her body brought instant peace. She and Jerry floated on a gossamer ripple in time. The rush of butterflies intensified . . . then vanished through every pore.
She wouldn’t need an Army chaplain to tell her Jerry had been killed in action.
She already knew.
To vote for Bonnie Bartel Latino:
Send email to MWSAPCA5@gmail.com OR vote on this blog!
MWSAPCA Finalist 4 - Iwo Jima, August 14, 1945 by Jerry Yellin
Inspiration Image—IWO photo by Richard Lowry
Iwo Jima, August 14, 1945
My memories of August 14, 1945 are very clear. I flew P-51’s from Iwo Jima over Japan during WWII as a 21-year old Captain and Flight leader. On August 6, I returned from a mission when LT. Phil Maher jumped on my wing and shouted, “We dropped one bomb and wiped out a city, it’s over!”
There was a sense of relief in the entire squadron. No more 8-hour missions. No more guys being killed. We had survived. Our motto “Back Alive in 45,” seemed to have been fulfilled.
But it wasn’t to be.
A notice was posted in the ready room on August 13, with our assignments for the next day’s mission for all to read. The briefing would start at 1600 hours.
Major Jim Tapp, squadron commander stood in front of the map of Japan and started to talk, “Why another mission?” was called out from the gathering of pilots. Tapp responded,” We have to keep them honest. We will take off at 0800 but I doubt we will reach the target before the war is called off. If you hear the code word ‘Ohio,’ we will abort the mission and return to ‘Hotrocks’ (the code name of Iwo Jima).”
I was scheduled to lead Blue flight. Phil Schlamberg, a 19-year old pilot from Brooklyn, NY, was my wingman. Schlamberg, sitting next to me, leaned over, and said, “Captain, if I go, I won’t come back.”
Startled, I said, “Why?”
“Just a feeling I have,” Phil responded.
When the briefing ended, I approached Tapp and told him what Schlamberg told me and asked if there was a replacement.
“There isn’t anyone to take his place, Jerry. Doc Lewis can get him off if there is a medical reason and Schlamberg agrees,” Tapp replied.
When I asked Phil, he said, “No way.”
On the morning of the mission, I told Phil, “Just stay close on my wing, tuck it in tight, you will be OK. We will probably abort before we reach the target.”
No one heard the code word before we dropped our wing tanks and started strafing airfields near Tokyo. Phil was tight on my wing while we strafed our targets and on my wing when we started back toward the B-29 navigation plane. I looked over gave him a thumbs up and led the flight into some clouds. When we emerged into clear skies, Phil was gone, no radio transmission, no visual contact, just gone.
When we landed back at Iwo, we learned that the war had been over for three hours while we were over Japan.
In my mind Phil Schlamberg was the last man killed on a fighter mission over Japan and may very well have been the last man killed in combat in a war that took the lives of 60 million people.
Jerry Yellin Vero Beach, FL
POSTSCRIPT
I knew 16 young men who were killed during the war. I hated the Japanese all of my adult life. Then I attended a wedding in Japan on March 6, 1988, between the daughter of a Japanese Imperial Air Force veteran and my youngest son, Robert. This wedding between children of former enemies made me rethink, not only of my life as a warrior, but the lives of all of us who served in combat. Today I have three grandchildren living in Japan, aged 19, 17 and 13. They love me, I love them. I can’t help feeling that all of Humanity is the same, that the pure purpose of war is to kill and the pure purpose of life is to connect to all of Nature. It is up to the young people of our World to find a way to eliminate War and find a way to live in Unity with all of Humanity, in Harmony with Nature and find Peace for our Planet.
My memories of August 14, 1945 are very clear. I flew P-51’s from Iwo Jima over Japan during WWII as a 21-year old Captain and Flight leader. On August 6, I returned from a mission when LT. Phil Maher jumped on my wing and shouted, “We dropped one bomb and wiped out a city, it’s over!”
There was a sense of relief in the entire squadron. No more 8-hour missions. No more guys being killed. We had survived. Our motto “Back Alive in 45,” seemed to have been fulfilled.
But it wasn’t to be.
A notice was posted in the ready room on August 13, with our assignments for the next day’s mission for all to read. The briefing would start at 1600 hours.
Major Jim Tapp, squadron commander stood in front of the map of Japan and started to talk, “Why another mission?” was called out from the gathering of pilots. Tapp responded,” We have to keep them honest. We will take off at 0800 but I doubt we will reach the target before the war is called off. If you hear the code word ‘Ohio,’ we will abort the mission and return to ‘Hotrocks’ (the code name of Iwo Jima).”
I was scheduled to lead Blue flight. Phil Schlamberg, a 19-year old pilot from Brooklyn, NY, was my wingman. Schlamberg, sitting next to me, leaned over, and said, “Captain, if I go, I won’t come back.”
Startled, I said, “Why?”
“Just a feeling I have,” Phil responded.
When the briefing ended, I approached Tapp and told him what Schlamberg told me and asked if there was a replacement.
“There isn’t anyone to take his place, Jerry. Doc Lewis can get him off if there is a medical reason and Schlamberg agrees,” Tapp replied.
When I asked Phil, he said, “No way.”
On the morning of the mission, I told Phil, “Just stay close on my wing, tuck it in tight, you will be OK. We will probably abort before we reach the target.”
No one heard the code word before we dropped our wing tanks and started strafing airfields near Tokyo. Phil was tight on my wing while we strafed our targets and on my wing when we started back toward the B-29 navigation plane. I looked over gave him a thumbs up and led the flight into some clouds. When we emerged into clear skies, Phil was gone, no radio transmission, no visual contact, just gone.
When we landed back at Iwo, we learned that the war had been over for three hours while we were over Japan.
In my mind Phil Schlamberg was the last man killed on a fighter mission over Japan and may very well have been the last man killed in combat in a war that took the lives of 60 million people.
Jerry Yellin Vero Beach, FL
POSTSCRIPT
I knew 16 young men who were killed during the war. I hated the Japanese all of my adult life. Then I attended a wedding in Japan on March 6, 1988, between the daughter of a Japanese Imperial Air Force veteran and my youngest son, Robert. This wedding between children of former enemies made me rethink, not only of my life as a warrior, but the lives of all of us who served in combat. Today I have three grandchildren living in Japan, aged 19, 17 and 13. They love me, I love them. I can’t help feeling that all of Humanity is the same, that the pure purpose of war is to kill and the pure purpose of life is to connect to all of Nature. It is up to the young people of our World to find a way to eliminate War and find a way to live in Unity with all of Humanity, in Harmony with Nature and find Peace for our Planet.
To vote for Jerry Yellin:
Send email to MWSAPCA4@gmail.com OR vote on this blog!
MWSA PCA Finalist 3 -- Freedom isn't Free -- J.R. Jellerson
I took inspiration from all four photos and tried to acknowledge each within the lyrics, since each photo speaks volumes of sacrifice and memories…
Vs. 1
It was Friday morning…the rain was fallin' down
Another true life hero…was headed for hallowed ground
Wrapped up in Old Glory…as the cart moved along
The Old Guard marched in cadence…an honored soldier's song
I can still recall what my…Grand-father said to me
Son when you grow to be a man…remember
Freedom isn't free.
Vs. 2
In his home hung pictures…a lifetime on the wall
Ninety years of memories…shadows walkin' down his hall
Once told me his fav-rit'…of him a younger man
On a hill high above the sea…with a rifle in his hand
In front of a flag they just raised…so those around could see
He told me too his proudest day…remember
Freedom isn't free.
Vs. 3
A photo caught my eye…by the den down the hall
It was hangin' down crooked…like it was going to fall
An old tin photograph…a young son in his father's arms
It didn't matter what color…was on his father's arm
The date down in the corner…was written 1863
A line there too was faded, still I could see…simply said
Freedom isn't free.
Instrumental:
Bridge:
Thru the years n' thru the wars…our family has fought and died
Thru all the generations…who have stood half mast and cried
We have watched the flags burning bright…when retired to another time
Just now I remember…my world torn apart in sixty-nine
Holdin' my brother's little girl's hand…as they brought her daddy home
Her mother too died in Vietnam…how she felt so lost and alone
And when I left to fight that war…
She smiled and said to me…
Uncle John, please come back …remember
Freedom isn't free.
MP3 Available at www.militarywriters.com/JRJellerson-Freedomisntfree.mp3
To vote for J.R. Jellerson:
Send email to MWSAPCA3@gmail.com OR vote on this Blog!
Vs. 1
It was Friday morning…the rain was fallin' down
Another true life hero…was headed for hallowed ground
Wrapped up in Old Glory…as the cart moved along
The Old Guard marched in cadence…an honored soldier's song
I can still recall what my…Grand-father said to me
Son when you grow to be a man…remember
Freedom isn't free.
Vs. 2
In his home hung pictures…a lifetime on the wall
Ninety years of memories…shadows walkin' down his hall
Once told me his fav-rit'…of him a younger man
On a hill high above the sea…with a rifle in his hand
In front of a flag they just raised…so those around could see
He told me too his proudest day…remember
Freedom isn't free.
Vs. 3
A photo caught my eye…by the den down the hall
It was hangin' down crooked…like it was going to fall
An old tin photograph…a young son in his father's arms
It didn't matter what color…was on his father's arm
The date down in the corner…was written 1863
A line there too was faded, still I could see…simply said
Freedom isn't free.
Instrumental:
Bridge:
Thru the years n' thru the wars…our family has fought and died
Thru all the generations…who have stood half mast and cried
We have watched the flags burning bright…when retired to another time
Just now I remember…my world torn apart in sixty-nine
Holdin' my brother's little girl's hand…as they brought her daddy home
Her mother too died in Vietnam…how she felt so lost and alone
And when I left to fight that war…
She smiled and said to me…
Uncle John, please come back …remember
Freedom isn't free.
MP3 Available at www.militarywriters.com/JRJellerson-Freedomisntfree.mp3
To vote for J.R. Jellerson:
Send email to MWSAPCA3@gmail.com OR vote on this Blog!
MWSA Finalist 2 -- Six Bronze Men -- Jack L. Wells
Inspiration Image — IWO photo by Richard Lowery
Straining to lift a heavy water pipe and place it and its five by eight flag at noon on a windy mountain top on a remote island. So why should such a statue even exist, let alone inspire?
These young men weren’t special. Just following orders and executing a task assigned as one of the multitude of tasks they would perform that February day. They were a hodge podge of youth from Ohio, New Hampshire, Texas, Pennsylvania or Wisconsin or even a native American from Arizona. One wasn’t even a native born American. His father and he had emigrated from Slovakia and he had only become naturalized 9 years earlier. Most were under 20. None had been to college. One wasn’t even assigned to do the task, he just pitched in when asked because the pipe was heavy and he happened to be close by. They were tired, dirty and looking forward to catching lunch soon. With names like Strenk, Sousley, Bradley, Gagnon, Block or Hayes, they weren’t famous or even in charge: just men doing their jobs in the cold wind.
Some guy with a camera wandered by and took a quick snapshot as the job was being completed. Just one black and white picture of the many he took that day that even he wouldn’t know was special until days later when the film was developed.
And their effort wasn’t even the first flag pole to be raised on the mountain, it was just a replacement for a smaller one placed a couple of hours before. It wasn’t a victory yet; not even close. It was just the beginning of what would take three more excruciating weeks. So their work that day was of small consequence. Not a big deal.
Half of the men lifting the pipe would be dead in a month. The other half would live longer but with emotional problems. One would die in less than 10 years. And two would live 30 or more years. All three would be reluctant to talk about that day or the weeks that followed.
Then why would someone make a statue of these men from that black and white photo and place it in a location of honor?
Because of what they represented: They were the sons, brothers, husbands, and best friends of America. The average guys that had gone off to fight and die for their country against the worst challenge America had faced since the Civil War. And the picture of the six of them became a symbol of sacrifice, determination and victory.
They were five US Marines and one US Navy corpsman atop Mount Suribachi on the Island of Iwo Jima. It was February 23, 1945.
And the bronze statue of them raising that flag stands proudly today by our nation’s capital reminding service men and women and a nation that bravery and heroism is usually just average Joes and Janes doing their jobs under difficult circumstances. It reminds us of the strength of our diverse nation. It reminds us that by working together we can remain free.
Six bronze men. Who would have thought they could mean so much?
To vote for Jack L. Wells:
Send email to MWSAPCA2@gmail.com OR vote on this blog!
MWSA Peoples Choice Finalist 1 -- Calling by Mindy Phillips Lawrence
Inspiration Image -- “Father and Son” photo by Pat Avery
The re-enactment was the start of it. I, a small boy cradled in my father’s arms, had run my last lap around the battlefield where I’d sought out soldiers wearing Civil War uniforms and carrying vintage rifles. I was a small lad unaware of the greater significance of war and battle. It was a game to me then. Yet, when I was snuggled against my father’s chest, cheek resting on his gray woolen jacket, I knew I was protected from a dangerous, unknown world.
I had fun that day. While my father spoke with other soldiers, I held my mother’s hand and looked at the sites until she released her hold on me to look at the items in a craft tent. Then I wandered away. Fascinated by the tents set up by the soldiers, I entered one and sat. There, a soldier dressed in a color other than the color my father wore, showed me all the things he had there – his uniform, his cot, his gun. He talked to me about many things I was too young to remember and some I recall to this day. He told me that the soldiers in the Civil War didn’t want to be far from home but felt they had a purpose that was greater than sitting at their own hearth. They had gathered to decide the fate of a nation.
Soon a mounted soldier rode his horse to the tent where I was staying and found me. He told me my mother and father were worried and that I should come with him. He placed me on the horse, hugged me against him and rode to where my mother was waiting. “Where was he?” she asked. All the mounted soldier told her was, “Talking to another soldier, ma’am.”
I watched my father in battle. The cannon shook the ground with their sounding and kicked out great plumes of smoke from their barrels. The guns popped. One soldier fell to the ground then several more. A mounted soldier broke through the line and, followed by a foot soldier who took aim at him, dropped from his horse. At the end, they all got up from the ground and went home with their families, just as I went home with mine.
Even though I was very young, I remember that day as the planting of seeds inside me -- seeds like the fact that soldiers protect, that they fight for a cause and care enough for their families to leave them long enough to keep them safe.
I wear a uniform now because of the lessons I learned on the day I visited Gettysburg.
To vote for Mindy Phillips Lawrence:
Send email to MWSAPCA1@gmail.com
OR
Vote on this blog.
I had fun that day. While my father spoke with other soldiers, I held my mother’s hand and looked at the sites until she released her hold on me to look at the items in a craft tent. Then I wandered away. Fascinated by the tents set up by the soldiers, I entered one and sat. There, a soldier dressed in a color other than the color my father wore, showed me all the things he had there – his uniform, his cot, his gun. He talked to me about many things I was too young to remember and some I recall to this day. He told me that the soldiers in the Civil War didn’t want to be far from home but felt they had a purpose that was greater than sitting at their own hearth. They had gathered to decide the fate of a nation.
Soon a mounted soldier rode his horse to the tent where I was staying and found me. He told me my mother and father were worried and that I should come with him. He placed me on the horse, hugged me against him and rode to where my mother was waiting. “Where was he?” she asked. All the mounted soldier told her was, “Talking to another soldier, ma’am.”
I watched my father in battle. The cannon shook the ground with their sounding and kicked out great plumes of smoke from their barrels. The guns popped. One soldier fell to the ground then several more. A mounted soldier broke through the line and, followed by a foot soldier who took aim at him, dropped from his horse. At the end, they all got up from the ground and went home with their families, just as I went home with mine.
Even though I was very young, I remember that day as the planting of seeds inside me -- seeds like the fact that soldiers protect, that they fight for a cause and care enough for their families to leave them long enough to keep them safe.
I wear a uniform now because of the lessons I learned on the day I visited Gettysburg.
To vote for Mindy Phillips Lawrence:
Send email to MWSAPCA1@gmail.com
OR
Vote on this blog.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
December Salute
Hi everyone,
I thought you'd like to see the latest version of Salute! In it, we have Larry Wikoff's wonderful photos of the Branson Veterans' Week events, articles about veterans Dottie Bolton, Charlotte Winters and Raymond Perry. Columnist Feather Schwartz Foster is back with her series on CinCs (Commanders in Chiefs) and Chris Avery has a great book review.
We have a new feature too. Check out our new crossword puzzle with clues from the ezine itself. Click here to work it online.
I thought you'd like to see the latest version of Salute! In it, we have Larry Wikoff's wonderful photos of the Branson Veterans' Week events, articles about veterans Dottie Bolton, Charlotte Winters and Raymond Perry. Columnist Feather Schwartz Foster is back with her series on CinCs (Commanders in Chiefs) and Chris Avery has a great book review.
We have a new feature too. Check out our new crossword puzzle with clues from the ezine itself. Click here to work it online.
I hope you all enjoy.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Sunchon Tunnel Massacre Survivors Prepublication Launch
My co-author, Pat McGrath Avery, and I did a prepublication launch of "Sunchon Tunnel Massacre Survivors" in Branson on November 6. As many of you already know, Veterans' Week is THE big even of the year there. It was a busy, overwhelming, dizzy time -- perhaps one of the must moving experiences of my life.
First, I'll tell you about the event itself. For those of you who are authors, and paid to have ads in Salute, we thank you. We gave out hundreds of copies to the thousands of folks we encountered throughout the week. Vendors village was in the front building of "Celebration City" site -- and there was a theater adjoining it. Red Engine Press and the Military Writers Society of America shared the theater facility as well as manning a booth in the front part of the building. We had our launch and several speakers in the theater itself -- and during the first part of the week, there were author booths in the lobby of the theater as well. During the launch and other events and throughout the week -- the slideshow was always playing 'somewhere'. When possible, it played on two huge screens on either side of the stage. At other times, it played on one or two different laptops at the various booths. (For those of you who were new to the slide show this late in the game, Pat and Everett will be duping the cd and sending you a copy so that you can play it at your events.)
On Monday, two of the survivors (Walt Whitcomb and Valdor John), Pat and I were on a Christian Radio show. The interviewer was wonderful. He maneuvered to get as much air time for Walt and Valdor as possible. We offered prelaunch copies of the book as giveaways and were gratified at how quickly people phoned in to get them. Throughout the week, I had several people mention that they'd heard us on the radio.
Opening ceremony was that afternoon. They showed a video of Sherman Jones' graduation from highschool and introduced Sherm to the crowd. The Lennon Sisters came out and serenaded him. Then, after it was over, Pat and I introduced him to someone very special. Sherman had a friend named Gene Putzier -- who trained with him, went to Korea with him, fought with him, marched with him. In Pyongyang a few days before the massacre, Gene died in Sherman's arms -- crying out for his Momma. Gene's brother and baby sister -- who knew almost nothing about how Gene died for most of the last 57 years -- were there. When we told Sherman who they were -- he grabbed both of them and held them tightly -- wailing for his lost friend. Nancy and Dick Putzier were shocked I think -- but they too cried together with Sherman -- for Gene. That got me and Pat going too. I must say that Pat cries at the drop of a hat...
The newspapers of Branson gave us (and our other author, Eddie Beesley who was a VIP guest of Branson for the week) lots and lots of coverage. Almost every day there was an article or photo of the guys.
On Tuesday, November 6, we launched three books -- Sunchon Tunnel Massacre Survivors, Hodge Wood's "Chum Water" and Mary Nida Smith's (Submarine Vets). At around 9am, I realized that there was no ramp to get either Hodge Wood or Valdor John onto the stage (they are both in wheeled scooters)...I presumed that it was simply stashed away somewhere and approached one of the people in charge of the facility. They asked me when we needed it. Still thinking that they were going to get it out of storage, I said we'd need it at 10am. Here's the amazing thing -- these guys BUILT one for our guests. I was so moved...they carried it in...and waited respectfully until we reached the point in the program when it would be required.
Branson celebrity, Penny Gilley, sang a song and spoke briefly -- inviting the whole audience to her show that evening for free. (After the show that night, Walt and Ed went up on stage and presented her with her own copy of the book.) She also agreed to let us sell copies of the books in her gift shop.
Hodge and Mary each spoke briefly about their books.
Six of the nine survivors were there (Walt Whitcomb, Valdor John, Ed Slater, Jim Yeager, Bill Henninger and Sherman Jones)-- plus one of the men who escaped before the massacre (George Snodgrass). Samuel Clark, a member of the 187th Airborne RCT -- the unit of paratroopers dropped to try and block the retreating North Korean Army and rescue the POWs in the train -- spoke. When I introduced him, he came up on stage and gave me a hug, whispering in my ear, "Pray that I don't mess this up." Then, he told the survivors of the attempt to save them. Weather delayed the drop for six hours. He told them that when they found them -- they found mostly bodies -- and he told them how that felt. With tears in his eyes, he told the survivors that he wanted to personally apologize for failing to get there in time. The audience gasped. Sherman Jones, who'd been shot in the head during the massacre, rocked back and forth in his seat. One of the others cried out -- "it's not your fault." Pat and I choked back sobs.
The Comets (Bill Haley and the Comets were a famous group in the early 1950s) came up on stage and spoke about their new buddies -- the survivors. We had created a cd to accompany the book that included an electronic version of the book, all the photos and maps in color, audio recordings of the men telling their stories -- and "Rock Around the Clock," donated to us by the Comets. They also invited the audience to their two o'clock show -- for free. Amazing.
Then it was time to sign books. We set up two stations on stage -- one for Mary Nida Smith and Hodge Wood and one for the seven survivors, Pat and me. I've been to lots of launches and book signings, but the veterans and people of Branson were amazing -- and eager to get books that had been signed by all of the guys. We sold T-shirts with the cover on the front and a picture of the survivors on the back -- and of course, we sold the accompanying CD as well.
Throughout the week, the guys shook thousands of hands. Pat and I and two of the survivors had the opportunity to be on the pilot episode of a reality TV show being filmed in Branson. We also appeared on a show that Penny Gilley was filming for RFD-TV which is a cable network serving 30 million homes.
On Saturday, most of the survivors and other authors went to Forsythe for breakfast with the local VFW and to be interviewed by a local glossy magazine. George Snodgrass, Jim Yeager, Walt Whitcomb and I appeared on a Pittsburgh PA radio show dedicated to veterans. The host, Ron Morris, gave us a full hour and a half of air time. The guys did very well. It was a first for George and he was very nervous, but the other guys encouraged him and he was able to tell his story. During a break, the host switched to a private line and told me -- this is GREAT radio.
We ran from event to event -- there was a POW Network Gala, a Luau -- a hoe-down. Our guys and Pat rode in the Military Vehicle Preservation Society's jeeps in the Veterans' Day Parade. Evelyn and Paul Harless coordinated that (and each also spoke in the theater -- people enjoyed Paul's presentation on the history of the jeep -- and Evelyn's photography. Two of the Tuskeegee Airmen also spoke in our theater -- George Boyd and Judge Robert Decatur -- both amazing men who truly changed our world. We attended the closing event which was performed by Tony Orlando. We worked the booths -- selling books and meeting folks. We spent hours and hours -- signing hundreds of books -- assembly line like. Every once in a while, Sherm would open the book to a picture of himself before the massacre -- and cry. Or someone would tell a joke and we'd all giggle. Then Pat would crack the whip and we'd all start signing again. It was wonderful.
Most wonderful was the time that we spent with the guys. Pat and I worked so hard to get this book ready for them -- and they loved the attention. It had been 57 years -- but the people of Branson welcomed them home with tenderness. Knowing that much of the proceeds went directly to the guys, folks bought many of our books. That kind of support made us cry again -- well at least that crybaby Pat...
Pat says that we have been getting phone calls from people who bought and read the book -- and wanted to get in touch with one or another of the guys. We are hoping that this kind of attention will bring out new information -- jar memories -- perhaps help the government identify some of the remains, perhaps give families a little more of their lost loved ones. We did have some important information come in the last couple of days, but I'll share that with you after we investigate it further and verify these new stories.
On top of all of this, the Military Writers Society of America held it's events at the same facility -- showing movies, selling books, having an awards banquet -- etc. Lloyd King and Pat worked hard to make sure that all of these events were beautiful and well thought out. They deserve so much praise. To make things even better, Pat and I received an award for Salute -- validating our efforts to write stories about and for veterans.
For me personally, after so much work, I was thrilled that the survivors liked the book -- and took ownership of it. Pat and I had hoped for such -- but you never know of course. It was a special week for me in other ways too -- my husband Johnny made the trip with me and made it so much better for me. Also, our friend Larry Wikoff took photographs of the events -- and as a result of his participation -- has decided to join the contributors to Salute -- as staff photographer.
Even though we are still in prepublication phase, it looks like we'll have to do another printing in order to get books to send to reviewers -- that's so gratifying.
One last thing -- I wanted you all to know how proud I am of Pat. She is an amazing woman who worked her heart out for these guys -- and for me -- and for the MWSA -- and for Branson. You should have seen her on stage. You could tell how much she loved these men -- and wanted the world to know their stories. I'm so lucky that she is my writing partner and co-author.
First, I'll tell you about the event itself. For those of you who are authors, and paid to have ads in Salute, we thank you. We gave out hundreds of copies to the thousands of folks we encountered throughout the week. Vendors village was in the front building of "Celebration City" site -- and there was a theater adjoining it. Red Engine Press and the Military Writers Society of America shared the theater facility as well as manning a booth in the front part of the building. We had our launch and several speakers in the theater itself -- and during the first part of the week, there were author booths in the lobby of the theater as well. During the launch and other events and throughout the week -- the slideshow was always playing 'somewhere'. When possible, it played on two huge screens on either side of the stage. At other times, it played on one or two different laptops at the various booths. (For those of you who were new to the slide show this late in the game, Pat and Everett will be duping the cd and sending you a copy so that you can play it at your events.)
On Monday, two of the survivors (Walt Whitcomb and Valdor John), Pat and I were on a Christian Radio show. The interviewer was wonderful. He maneuvered to get as much air time for Walt and Valdor as possible. We offered prelaunch copies of the book as giveaways and were gratified at how quickly people phoned in to get them. Throughout the week, I had several people mention that they'd heard us on the radio.
Opening ceremony was that afternoon. They showed a video of Sherman Jones' graduation from highschool and introduced Sherm to the crowd. The Lennon Sisters came out and serenaded him. Then, after it was over, Pat and I introduced him to someone very special. Sherman had a friend named Gene Putzier -- who trained with him, went to Korea with him, fought with him, marched with him. In Pyongyang a few days before the massacre, Gene died in Sherman's arms -- crying out for his Momma. Gene's brother and baby sister -- who knew almost nothing about how Gene died for most of the last 57 years -- were there. When we told Sherman who they were -- he grabbed both of them and held them tightly -- wailing for his lost friend. Nancy and Dick Putzier were shocked I think -- but they too cried together with Sherman -- for Gene. That got me and Pat going too. I must say that Pat cries at the drop of a hat...
The newspapers of Branson gave us (and our other author, Eddie Beesley who was a VIP guest of Branson for the week) lots and lots of coverage. Almost every day there was an article or photo of the guys.
On Tuesday, November 6, we launched three books -- Sunchon Tunnel Massacre Survivors, Hodge Wood's "Chum Water" and Mary Nida Smith's (Submarine Vets). At around 9am, I realized that there was no ramp to get either Hodge Wood or Valdor John onto the stage (they are both in wheeled scooters)...I presumed that it was simply stashed away somewhere and approached one of the people in charge of the facility. They asked me when we needed it. Still thinking that they were going to get it out of storage, I said we'd need it at 10am. Here's the amazing thing -- these guys BUILT one for our guests. I was so moved...they carried it in...and waited respectfully until we reached the point in the program when it would be required.
Branson celebrity, Penny Gilley, sang a song and spoke briefly -- inviting the whole audience to her show that evening for free. (After the show that night, Walt and Ed went up on stage and presented her with her own copy of the book.) She also agreed to let us sell copies of the books in her gift shop.
Hodge and Mary each spoke briefly about their books.
Six of the nine survivors were there (Walt Whitcomb, Valdor John, Ed Slater, Jim Yeager, Bill Henninger and Sherman Jones)-- plus one of the men who escaped before the massacre (George Snodgrass). Samuel Clark, a member of the 187th Airborne RCT -- the unit of paratroopers dropped to try and block the retreating North Korean Army and rescue the POWs in the train -- spoke. When I introduced him, he came up on stage and gave me a hug, whispering in my ear, "Pray that I don't mess this up." Then, he told the survivors of the attempt to save them. Weather delayed the drop for six hours. He told them that when they found them -- they found mostly bodies -- and he told them how that felt. With tears in his eyes, he told the survivors that he wanted to personally apologize for failing to get there in time. The audience gasped. Sherman Jones, who'd been shot in the head during the massacre, rocked back and forth in his seat. One of the others cried out -- "it's not your fault." Pat and I choked back sobs.
The Comets (Bill Haley and the Comets were a famous group in the early 1950s) came up on stage and spoke about their new buddies -- the survivors. We had created a cd to accompany the book that included an electronic version of the book, all the photos and maps in color, audio recordings of the men telling their stories -- and "Rock Around the Clock," donated to us by the Comets. They also invited the audience to their two o'clock show -- for free. Amazing.
Then it was time to sign books. We set up two stations on stage -- one for Mary Nida Smith and Hodge Wood and one for the seven survivors, Pat and me. I've been to lots of launches and book signings, but the veterans and people of Branson were amazing -- and eager to get books that had been signed by all of the guys. We sold T-shirts with the cover on the front and a picture of the survivors on the back -- and of course, we sold the accompanying CD as well.
Throughout the week, the guys shook thousands of hands. Pat and I and two of the survivors had the opportunity to be on the pilot episode of a reality TV show being filmed in Branson. We also appeared on a show that Penny Gilley was filming for RFD-TV which is a cable network serving 30 million homes.
On Saturday, most of the survivors and other authors went to Forsythe for breakfast with the local VFW and to be interviewed by a local glossy magazine. George Snodgrass, Jim Yeager, Walt Whitcomb and I appeared on a Pittsburgh PA radio show dedicated to veterans. The host, Ron Morris, gave us a full hour and a half of air time. The guys did very well. It was a first for George and he was very nervous, but the other guys encouraged him and he was able to tell his story. During a break, the host switched to a private line and told me -- this is GREAT radio.
We ran from event to event -- there was a POW Network Gala, a Luau -- a hoe-down. Our guys and Pat rode in the Military Vehicle Preservation Society's jeeps in the Veterans' Day Parade. Evelyn and Paul Harless coordinated that (and each also spoke in the theater -- people enjoyed Paul's presentation on the history of the jeep -- and Evelyn's photography. Two of the Tuskeegee Airmen also spoke in our theater -- George Boyd and Judge Robert Decatur -- both amazing men who truly changed our world. We attended the closing event which was performed by Tony Orlando. We worked the booths -- selling books and meeting folks. We spent hours and hours -- signing hundreds of books -- assembly line like. Every once in a while, Sherm would open the book to a picture of himself before the massacre -- and cry. Or someone would tell a joke and we'd all giggle. Then Pat would crack the whip and we'd all start signing again. It was wonderful.
Most wonderful was the time that we spent with the guys. Pat and I worked so hard to get this book ready for them -- and they loved the attention. It had been 57 years -- but the people of Branson welcomed them home with tenderness. Knowing that much of the proceeds went directly to the guys, folks bought many of our books. That kind of support made us cry again -- well at least that crybaby Pat...
Pat says that we have been getting phone calls from people who bought and read the book -- and wanted to get in touch with one or another of the guys. We are hoping that this kind of attention will bring out new information -- jar memories -- perhaps help the government identify some of the remains, perhaps give families a little more of their lost loved ones. We did have some important information come in the last couple of days, but I'll share that with you after we investigate it further and verify these new stories.
On top of all of this, the Military Writers Society of America held it's events at the same facility -- showing movies, selling books, having an awards banquet -- etc. Lloyd King and Pat worked hard to make sure that all of these events were beautiful and well thought out. They deserve so much praise. To make things even better, Pat and I received an award for Salute -- validating our efforts to write stories about and for veterans.
For me personally, after so much work, I was thrilled that the survivors liked the book -- and took ownership of it. Pat and I had hoped for such -- but you never know of course. It was a special week for me in other ways too -- my husband Johnny made the trip with me and made it so much better for me. Also, our friend Larry Wikoff took photographs of the events -- and as a result of his participation -- has decided to join the contributors to Salute -- as staff photographer.
Even though we are still in prepublication phase, it looks like we'll have to do another printing in order to get books to send to reviewers -- that's so gratifying.
One last thing -- I wanted you all to know how proud I am of Pat. She is an amazing woman who worked her heart out for these guys -- and for me -- and for the MWSA -- and for Branson. You should have seen her on stage. You could tell how much she loved these men -- and wanted the world to know their stories. I'm so lucky that she is my writing partner and co-author.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Joyce Faulkner
Joyce Faulkner, author of "In the Shadow of Suribachi", "Losing Patience" and "For Shrieking Out Loud". She and writing partner, Pat McGrath Avery, are working on a new book about the Korean War to be called: "They Came Home: The Sunchon Tunnel Massacre Survivors".
http://www.intheshadowofsuribachi.com/
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