A Hero's Heaven There is a place called Hero's Heaven Only the bravest get to see Reserved for those who gave their lives For love of liberty A special place of respect and honor For those who paid the price Who gave their lives to preserve our freedom The greatest sacrifice We salute you brave and gallant soldiers For the sacrifice you made The love you showed for God and Country And for the selfish way you paid Your sacrifice has given meaning To this truth we hold dear Our freedom is a sacred birthright To defend and to revere To you we owe this highest honor For your love and dedication No greater love could any show Than you who died for our nation For you there is a Hero's Heaven Only the bravest get to see In the hearts and minds of a grateful nation Who preserve your memory IN HONOR OF OUR VIETNAM VETERANS ~Author Unknown	AN OLD SOLDIER'S BOOTS “What value can be placed on an old Soldier's boots?” I heard the auctioneer say. “Will a bid be started for these old worn soles that once trod in lands far away?” He said, “I know for a fact they were worn by a Soldier that survived the war. For a treasure of history, what will be the price that these combat boots will sell for?” The crowd looked stunned as though at a loss Where to start the bidding that day. Watching a crippled old man with his head hung as he stood in dim light by the doorway. On a corner uptown with no place to go I knew I had seen that man before. Tired and worn living on the streets, that old Soldier was still fighting a war. I knew without a doubt they belonged to him because the pain was showing on his face. I walked up and put some money in the boot and everything fell into place. People came together at the auction that day; the compassion in others came alive. Everyone walked by that old Soldier's boots dropping a bill or two inside. The auctioneer picked up those boots And returned them to the Soldier by the door. He was crying out loud as he clutched those boots that once again carried him through a war. “The value that can be placed on an old Soldier's boots,” I heard the auctioneer say, “Could never be placed on the life of another or the lesson we have all learned today.” ~Eileen Breedlove
A Veteran's Poem He was getting old and paunchy And his hair was falling fast, And he sat around the Legion, Telling stories of the past. Of a war that he once fought in And the deeds that he had done, In his exploits with his buddies; They were heroes, every one. And 'tho sometimes to his neighbors His tales became a joke, All his buddies listened quietly For they knew where of he spoke. But we'll hear his tales no longer, For ol' Bob has passed away, And the world's a little poorer For a Veteran died today. He won't be mourned by many, Just his children and his wife. For he lived an ordinary, Very quiet sort of life. He held a job and raised a family, Going quietly on his way; And the world won't note his passing, 'tho a Veteran died today. When politicians leave this earth, Their bodies lie in state, While thousands note their passing, And proclaim that they were great. Papers tell of their life stories From the time that they were young, But the passing of a soldier Goes unnoticed, and unsung. Is the greatest contribution To the welfare of our land, Some jerk who breaks his promise And cons his fellow man? Or the ordinary fellow Who in times of war and strife, Goes off to serve his Country And offers up his life? The politician's stipend And the style in which he lives, Are often disproportionate, To the service that he gives. While the ordinary Veteran, Who offered up his all, Is paid off with a medal And perhaps a pension. . .small. It's so easy to forget them, For it is so many times that our Bobs and Jims and Johnny's, Went to battle, but we still pine. It was not the politicians With their compromise and ploys, Who won for us the freedom That our Country now enjoys. Should you find yourself in danger, With your enemies at hand, Would you really want some cop-out, With his ever waffling stand. Or would you want a Veteran, His home, his country, his kin, Just a common Veteran, Who had fought until the end? He was just a common Veteran, And his ranks are growing thin, But his presence should remind us We may need his like again. For when countries are in conflict, We find the Soldier's part Is to clean up all the troubles That the politicians start. If we cannot do him honor While he's here to hear the praise, Then at least let's give him homage At the ending of his days. Perhaps just a simple headline in the paper that might say: "OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING, FOR A VETERAN DIED TODAY." by A. Lawrence Vaincourt	WHAT IS A VET? Some veterans bear visible signs of their service: a missing limb, a jagged scar, a certain look in the eye. Others may carry the evidence inside them: a pin holding a bone together, a piece of shrapnel in the leg - or perhaps another sort of inner steel: the soul's ally forged in the refinery of adversity. Except in parades, however, the men and women who have kept America safe wear no badge or emblem. You can't tell a vet just by looking. What is a vet? He is the cop on the beat who spent six months in Saudi Arabia sweating two gallons a day making sure the armored personnel carriers didn't run out of fuel. He is the barroom loudmouth, dumber than five wooden planks, whose overgrown frat-boy behavior is outweighed a hundred times in the cosmic scales by four hours of exquisite bravery near the 38th parallel. She - or he - is the nurse who fought against futility and went to sleep sobbing every night for two solid years in Da Nang. He is the POW who went away one person and came back another -- or didn't come back AT ALL. He is the Quantico drill instructor who has never seen combat -- but has saved countless lives by turning slouchy, no-account rednecks and gang members into Marines, and teaching them to watch each other's backs. He is the parade-riding Legionnaire who pins on his ribbons and medals with a prosthetic hand. He is the career quartermaster who watches the ribbons and medals pass him by. He is the three anonymous heroes in The Tomb of The Unknowns, whose presence at the Arlington National Cemetery must forever preserve the memory of all the anonymous heroes whose valor died unrecognized with them on the battlefield or in the ocean's sunless deep. He is the old guy bagging groceries at the supermarket -- palsied now and aggravatingly slow -- who helped liberate a Nazi death camp and who wishes all day long that his wife were still alive to hold him when the nightmares come. He is an ordinary and yet an extraordinary human being -- a person who offered some of his life's most vital years in the service of his country, and who sacrificed his ambitions so others would not have to sacrifice theirs. He is a soldier and a savior and a sword against the darkness, and he is nothing more than the finest, greatest testimony on behalf of the finest, greatest nation ever known. So remember, each time you see someone who has served our country, just lean over and say Thank You.
The Man He's eighteen, maybe nineteen; His dog tags are laced to his boots And he doesn't wear a belt. He sits leaning against a tree; His hands are cracked and flaked with mud, And he's sweating. He needs a shave; His feet are covered with sores, And he brushes a bug off his knee. He digs a hole to live in; His poncho is close by, And he hopes it doesn't rain. He eats C-Rations; His drinking water is warm, And he ran out of smokes. He stares into the darkness; His eyes hurt, But he can't sleep because it's his watch. He thinks about R&R in Sydney; His friend went back to "the world," And he thinks about that too. He's afraid of booby traps; His friend lost a foot, And a guy in First Platoon lost a leg. He's eighteen, maybe nineteen; His answer to everything is simple, There it is. ~Major R.J. Wilson