Posted by
RedDot on Sunday, September 06, 2009 2:18:08 AM
I would like to put up some things in particular rememberance of a good man who passed away just today. He served, though many who knew him did not know this, all of the Korean war on tough duty in the Navy. He was a submariner and an engineer.
In fact he was unofficially, because it was classified at the time I understand, the first engineer on the first nuclear submarine - the Nautilus - after Korea.
This following poem came to me by way of, and was written by, another veteran who does more justice with the pen to the relevance and importance of generational memory than I can. I will say I have distilled the essence of wisdom (in a large aspect) down to the value one places and the actions one takes premised upon what is known to be true by the generation that bore you.
There is no hope for our country if we can not look at the gift of life as a gift. The hope of one generation is preserved in the righteous acts of the next based upon the wisdom infused by the ancestor into the shoe leather of the descendent. Life is a gift not to be wasted on simple self-indulgence.
"Four Old Men With Silver Hair"
by Ray Cox, RM/CTI
USN 1952-1956
Four Old Men With Silver Hair
I wandered along the street that day in a
Kansas town near the end of May
where a small parade was movin’ through so
I stopped to watch . . . nothin’ better to do.
It was a straggly lot, a disjointed group;
just a couple of bands and a Boy Scout troop.
A bunch of Kids in red, white and blue, a
twirling team and a clown or two.
A yellow convertible with flowered strings and
a big red truck with ladders and things.
It was a lame parade; a rather sorry sight;
not much energy and nothin’ seemed right.
Hey, Dude! I’m young!
So what do I care? I love my beard
and my pony-tailed hair.
I’m enjoyin’ life ‘cuz you’re only young
once so I live for the moment and chase every hunch.
The parade was boring; the crowd was too
and I needed to find somethin’ else to do.
I started to leave; I’d had enough of this crummy
town and this memory stuff.
Then across the street, I saw them there – just
. . . Four Old Men with silver hair.
Their shoulders slumped, their hands in
their laps -- just . . . Four Old Men wearin’ Legionnaire caps.
They struggled to stand as the flag went by,
one missing a leg, another an eye.
An empty sleeve hung at one man’s side yet
they came to attention and saluted with pride.
It wasn’t for themselves that they were
there, those Four Old Men with silver hair,
but for brothers in arms who’d fought and
bled defending America and who now are dead.
I got the strangest feeling inside my breast. As I looked at the medals on the old men’s chest
I saw four young boys, not Four Old Men
who’d gone to war way back when.
Only young once? Doesn’t seem right! Not for four young boys with a war to fight.
They were younger then than I am now yet they’d
fought a war and survived somehow.
I’d watched friends blow pot to get high; they’d
watched buddies get shot and die.
My youth was wasted as you might can tell
but THEIR young years must’ve been pure hell.
I’d hit beaches with burning desire but THEY’D
hit beaches facing enemy fire.
My only thought was get a good tan! THEIR
only thought was defeat Japan!
On Omaha beach they’d fought and won – at Tarawa,
Sicily, Bataan and Verdun.
In German skies filled with flak, there the
Battle of the Bulge turned the enemy back!
In the jungles of Asia so many men died but
the Battle of Midway turned that tide.
I saw four young men barely past their teens,
and began to understand what sacrifice means.
Once four young boys now they’re four old
guys, who, as I watched, made me realize
that so many men, courageous and brave, who’d
defended my freedoms now lie in a grave.
I know what a waste my youth has been – I’d
not the courage of those young men.
Never gave a thought to those who’d died,
but I’ve a new respect down deep inside.
I came to know just standing there watching
Four Old Men with silver hair
that, to those who died, our debt’s immense. Heroes all . . . in the truest sense.
They’d said not a word yet I cherish this thought
-- of all the lessons I’ve ever been taught
I’ll never forget what I learned there . .
. just watching . . . Four Old Men with silver hair.
Ray Cox
June, 2009
Copyright July 4, 2009
All Rights Reserved
We will miss you Mr. P. We were not ready for you to go.