With Pen in Hand
When they least expect it, many Korean War veterans find that memories of their experiences in Korea come rushing back to haunt them. Sometimes, our nation's veterans take pen in hand and try to express in writing the unwelcome thoughts that return. Yes, it is decades since their tour of duty ended, but their memories of cold, bloody Korea remain branded in their minds and hearts forever.
Have you taken pen in hand to express your thoughts on the Korean War, too? If you would like to share them with our web visitors, send your poems -- or even just a few jotted lines -- to Sharon Corum. We'll post them on this page.
Written by Harold W. Dunham, Maroa, IL to the Korean War Museum, February 1, 1999:
These past months have stirred a lot of memories of Korea. This past weekend as I sat reflecting on the memories that came to my mind as I had received a letter from one of the guys that I had in my platoon in Korea. I am enclosing a copy of some of my thoughts that I wrote of some of my memories, thoughts and feelings. I want to share the poem and you may use it if you think it could be of interest to others. If not that's all right, too. Again, I want to tell you how much I appreciate you for your efforts and huge contribution of time and self in helping us to finally see that our efforts are not ignored and forgotten. Thank you!
Harold's poem - "We'll Never Forget"
We answered the call for all America
Proudly to represent our Red, White, & Blue
The many young men and young women
Going to a country that we hardly knew.
We crawled up those hills and rocks in Korea
We crossed the open valleys in full view
Knowing that we were targets all the while
But we did what we had to do.
The bitter cold, snowy winters
The days and nights of freezing pain,
Muddy rice paddies and flooded rivers,
Day after day continuing rain.
The Chinese hordes - the blaring bugles
Each day the same as the one before
The deadly swoosh of incoming mortars
Praying to God for one day more.
The whistling of big stuff coming in
Exploding, deafening, ringing in our ears
The call for "Medic" in the dark night
"Who is it this time?" among our fears.
The whine of the motors, the litter jeeps
In the distance with a special passenger or two
Hurrying to get help while life still remained
Endlessly doing all that they could do.
And some wanted to call this a "Police Action"
Quite evident, those people were not there
To see our buddies killed and wounded
Did those people ever really care?
It has been called the "Forgotten War!"
But passing years does not erase it
Those memories burned so deep in our brain
We know WE will never, ever, forget!
- Dedicated especially to all those who gave their lives and also to all those who live with those memories and nightmares!
FREEDOM IS NOT FREE
by
Birney Dibble
An aging black man stands in a white tent
on the long greensward
That stretches from memorials to
Lincoln and Washington
His cap says "Korea 1950-53" and
on it is a Purple Heart
His eyes run tears and his hand
holds a computer printout
With a picture of a Marine
and the words, "KIA, April 21st, 1951"
I remember then the night
when Chinese cymbals clanged
Penny whistles blew and
artillery screamed overhead
Mortars thudded close by
smallarms chattered incessantly
And my corpsman JJ was dead
from four burp-gun slugs
That found his heart and lungs
and JJ died in my arms
That old man and I --
I'm not so young now either --
Know something that
lots of people don't
Freedom is not free
but was bought by men like him and me
Over there in a country
we never knew
And for a people
we never met:
Hand-dug trenches and sand-bagged
bunkers and exposed foxholes
Biting cold blizzards sweeping
across frozen rice paddies
A half world of men only
where speech is coarse and unbridled
Where obscenities and profanities
scar every conversation
Where young men grow beards and mustaches
to prove that they're still men
B-rations and C-rations and K-rations
beans and stew and dry tasteless cheese
No weekends off, no holidays to celebrate
just the wounded and the dead
The walking wounded
and the crawling wounded
The red red blood
on the white white snow
Of dying men and moaning men
and the silence of the dead
The rumble of our artillery
firefights along the lines
Machine guns chattering
mortars rising with a "poof"
Patton tanks growling up
the mountain tracks
A world so saturated with fear
that it is isn't even noticed
Because if you thought about it
you'd go crazy
The long black nights and
the loneliness
Stretchers and jeep ambulances
and chopping copters
The walking wounded and
the crawling wounded and the dead
Who bled or died for a country
they never knew
And for a people
they never met
REMEMBERED
by
jimmie joe
M-1 rifle upside down,
Korea, 1950 late September.
Fixed bayonet stabbed deep in ground,
I'm one that does remember.
Helmet placed atop the thing
to mark his lonely grave.
One dogtag on chain does swing,
the name on it reads "Dave."
Between his teeth the other tag
as rain washed blood away,
back then we had no body bag,
no more will "Dave" and "Jenny" play.
The rain, this death of late September,
will Jenny understand?
I won't forget, I will remember
when Jenny lost her Davie man.
With entrenching tool we dug his grave,
our emotions hidden and suppressed.
Interned in it one Warrior brave,
dying in rain I just detest.
Graves registration I hope will show
and take him home --- I just don't know.
On his back the lad was placed,
his eyelids we did close.
Rain poncho protects his face
and covers bloody clothes.
This Buddy that died in the rain,
in the rain of late September.
It's okay Jenny I remember.
Throwing earth in seemed obscene,
rain made the earth quite muddy.
Six days from now he'll be nineteen,
Happy birthday Warrior Buddy.
All his hopes and dreams or strife,
in the sixty years he should have lived,
ended here with one short life.
He has no more; no more to give.
Mom and Dad will shed some tears
as with sad times they must cope.
For losing him in his young years
their tears fall down --- So does their hope.
Grandkids for them not a one,
an only child, an only son.
True love Jenny he'll not wed,
their plans are now awry.
They'll not share a nuptial bed,
alone at night Jenny will cry.
His Jenny also will also remember,
one rainy day in late September.
Children who they might have had,
as they'd planned three months ago,
a child not begot can't call him Dad.
My God he missed his Jenny so.
His Jenny's pain is part of war,
For a while she'll question why,
her country sent her Dave to war
and God let her Davie die.
He sailed here from 'cross the sea
this country to defend.
Now Mom, Dad and Jenny's memory.
So few do care, so few remember,
one rainy day in late September.
I dedicate these rhymes to Dave,
buried I don't know where
and all our combat vets in graves.
Not to this land that didn't care.
These names by necessity must be
aliases I don't know why.
Somehow I feel if they are real
some loved ones once again will cry.
Just a few names that I remember,
this seems a little sad.
One rainy day in late September
dedicates a friend I had.
THOSE LEFT BEHIND
by
jimmie joe
Those left behind whose tears will fall
on new formed mounds of clay.
They accept the carefully folded flags
on their loved ones funeral day.
They'll accept the flag with tear stained hands
and it never will be said,
the coming weeks and months and years,
the pain, the loss won't leave their head.
The degree of pain will vary
and get less with passing years.
The pain will always be there,
"inside those hidden tears."
Those left behind now pay the price
of the freedoms we retain.
Those left behind are the only ones,
for us a lifetime carry pain.
An exception is the combat Warrior
who survived the bloody land.
I've covered that in other rhymes
and the caring understand.
To the forgotten Mothers of our fallen Brothers
1776 ------------- thru time
A Mothers love ------ A mothers pain
A SMALL WHITE CROSS
by
jimmie joe
Gods gift to me that morning,
was a fine strong baby Boy.
As I held little fella to my bosom
my heart nearly burst with joy.
As I breast fed my little fella
our eyes locked tight with love.
He'd always clasp my finger,
my Gods blessing from above.
I helped him with his first steps
and I'd catch him when he'd fall.
Dear God I loved my little fella,
so full of love I most could bawl.
I'd walk him to the school bus.
I'd hold his little hand.
Dear God I loved my little fella,
he was his ma'ma's little man.
He grew up strong and healthy,
six foot two or a bit more.
Dear God I loved my little fella.
Then they sent him off to war.
I prayed for him, oh how I prayed,
I prayed both night and day.
Dear God protect my little fella,
please don't take my boy away.
M-1 rifle upside down
fixed bayonet stabbed deep in ground.
Helmet placed atop the thing,
one dogtag on chain does swing.
My body's here sweet Mother dear
but my spirit's soared away.
I've left wars hell and I will dwell
with you when we would play.
I'm here with you and Jenny too,
I'm still your little man.
I love you Mom and I'm not gone,
I just came home --- left warring land.
God took my little fella
and I'll always question why.
My country sent my joy to war.
My God let my boy die.
Now I kneel beside a small Cross,
a Cross so powdery white,
I pray to God, hold my boy's hand
and hug him extra tight.
Hug him the way I hugged him
in those days so long ago.
Hug him God, really hug him
and my boy's heart will glow.
Now I see the other Crosses,
a million, maybe more
and a million crying Mothers.
I had not seen before.
I see the Crosses now so clear,
I can't comprehend just why.
How did I miss those crosses,
'til while kneeling here I cry?
The cross I kneel by's not alone,
there's crosses all around.
All those young sons crosses.
Sons who died in warring ground.
Does my homeland see these Mothers
kneeling by their crosses white?
"THAT MOUND OF EARTH'S NOW's ALL THEIR WORTH?"
You can't see crosses in the night.
Dear God I loved my little fella -----------------
Amen
To the forgotten Daughter's of our fallen Brothers
1776 ------------- Thru time
You'll always be --- "Daddy's little girl"
love, Daddy
A SMALL WHITE CROSS
by jimmie joe
Little Daughter, Daddy's Daughter
back when Daddy held her tight.
Little Daughter, Daddy's Daughter,
Daddy was her wondrous knight.
A wondrous knight in shining armor,
she was Daddy's special joy.
Daddy's glad that she's his Daughter,
she's sure glad she's not a boy.
Little Daughter held Dad's finger
after walking time began.
Little Daughter hugged her Daddy.
Hugged him tight --- Hugged him again.
Little Daughter missed her Daddy
after Daddy left for war.
Daughter sees her Mommie crying,
what is Mama crying for?
========
Daddy's death to her means nothing,
not when she is two or three.
She only knows her mothers crying
'cause Daddy died across the sea.
Little Daughter's just know missing
when their Daddy's not around.
Playing there beside a white Cross,
why is Daddy in the ground?
========
Will you believe your God's in Heaven?
Daddy's love is never thru.
You will not hug him, see him, touch him
but he's hugging, loving you.
She'll miss her Daddy less thru time
and Child that is only right.
Time will heal the hurt from Daddy
not being there to hug at night.
========
Will you believe your God's in heaven?
Daddy watches his girl grow.
Daddy loves his little Daughter,
it's important that she know.
As she grows into her teen years
Dad's a flitting memory
and I tell you Daddy's Daughter
that's the way that life must be.
She ask questions of her Daddy's Daddy,
not too often anymore.
'Cause she sees Granddad's eyes misting
when she brings up Daddy's war.
Now she's a Woman fully grown
and tomorrow she'll be wed.
Today she visits Dad's white Cross,
visits Daddy so long dead.
By his Cross this Daughter's kneeling
as she talks to Dad that day.
Her mind opens repressed memories
of when together they would play.
Once again she is a small girl,
bouncing, laughing with her Dad.
Bouncing, laughing --- Now she's missing ---
----------------------- All the time they never had.
For nineteen years the tears don't flow,
tears now run like a stream.
Tears of anger, love and missing,
"Daddy's real, not just a dream!"
As the memories flood thru her
a great change will soon come on.
The anger, hurt and missing sorrow,
soon, quite soon will 'most be gone.
========
Daughter, believe your God's in heaven
now that your heart has opened wide.
Daddy's always loved his Daughter,
He looks on you with love and pride.
Now a peacefulness does soothe her,
her soul is filled with Daddy dear.
She feels Daddy in her heart and soul,
knows always, always, always
her Daddy's always been quite near.
********
Daddy, tomorrow is my wedding day,
now , I know that you'll be there.
Up in front, real close beside me
there will be one vacant chair.
I know there is a God in heaven.
I know Daddy with me abides.
I know the chair will not be empty.
Daddy will be there by my side.
I love you Daddy ------- Amen
*******************
God bless you Daddy's Daughter,
To the forgotten Fathers of our fallen Brothers
1776 ---------- Thru time
A Fathers pain
A SMALL WHITE CROSS
by
jimmie joe
In Flanders field the poppies grow
beside the Crosses, row on row.
Those rhymes I learned in grade school
in year nineteen twenty-three.
The Crosses then meant nothing
to a small young lad like me.
They drafted me in world war two,
even tho I had a son.
I never was in combat.
I was a lucky one.
Those Crosses placed around the world
meant nothing to me still.
I'd never been in combat.
Never seen the young Boys killed.
We were hero's back on V- J day,
each and every one.
White Crosses still meant nothing.
I'd never fired a gun.
Now I kneel here beside a Cross,
so white in light of day.
Now I kneel here beside a Cross,
'neath it my son does lay.
'Twas along the Naktong River
in far off Korea land.
God took my son at just nineteen.
White Crosses now I understand.
I understand the pain they hold,
each and every one.
Forgive me God, I didn't know.
Until you took my son.
I slowly raise my eyes to heaven,
the White Crosses catch my eye.
Rows on rows of Crosses
and my heart, my soul does cry.
They stretch beyond this graveyard,
beyond the county, cross this land.
A million small White Crosses.
I beg you God please stop them.
Please God, I understand.
*****************************
I've preface the poem with the words to TAPS I first heard from a fellow light machine gunner from West Virginia, it was along the Naktong River in 1950. I remembered most of the words and found them in their entirety on the net, therefore I accept them as original as we will get?
To the Cross without a name
*****************
The words from a "1862" Civil War Battlefield
*
"TAPS"
**
Day is done.
Gone the sun.
From the lake,
from the hill,
from the sky.
All is well.
Safely rest.
God is nigh.
Thanks and praise,
for our days,
'neath the sun.
'Neath the stars,
as we go, this we know.
God is nigh.
=========================
****************************************
SMALL WHITE CROSS
*
There are no Crosses row on row,
for many Warriors brave.
No, Flanders fields, no poppies grow,
on unknown far off graves.
*
P.O.W.s and M.I.A.s,
buried where none can say,
in most cases they won't be found.
A price their loved ones pay.
*
The internment of our Warriors
near the death camps of our foe,
will interest very few of us.
Most just don't care to know.
*
The loved ones have no place to kneel
beside a small white Cross.
No special ground for solitude
in weeping for their loss.
*
There is no special place for flowers,
no Cross to bear a name.
We have the tomb of unknown soldier
but that cannot be the same.
*
These Warriors names are not unknown,
we know their names quite well.
Why are there no white Crosses
for these men who went thru hell?
*
No name inscribed in Cross of stone
to show their sacrifice thru time?
Erase them from their homelands view.
Erase them from our mind.
*
Our national cemeteries 'cross this land
have their rows of Crosses white.
Our Warriors who just disappear?
We leave in darkness of their night.
*
I've not had a son missing in War,
if so I'd want his Small white Cross.
I'd want my place to kneel and pray.
"alone to weep my loss."
*****************
I now speak of our brothers "Wall,"
with it's names in marble black,
with the names of Warrior dead inscribed
plus those who didn't make it back.
====
As I observe this wall of honour
and the caring with their pain,
I can feel the Warriors spirits
as they drift across my very soul,
pang my heart, mist thru my brain
====
The black marble wall is powerful,
my emotions swell toward tears.
The names inscribed in marble black
are much too young in years.
====
What spirits do and where they roam
this old Vet cannot say.
'Near sixty-thousand names on marble wall?
Somehow I feel an urgent need.
An urgent need to nearly weep and
an urge to kneel and pray.
====
The tears along the wall infect me,
puts painful turmoil in my head.
It was not my war, was not my fight,
still I feel these comrades dead.
====
I feel the time they didn't have,
like my dead comrades of old.
Why do I feel those Warriors spirits
who make old memories unfold?
====
Why do I feel this sense of comradeship
with Warriors not known by me?
It's all the names, dead young Boys names,
they lived a while --------- and then they died.
Tell them our "Freedom's free."
*******************************
A formation of standing Warriors statues
will never be the same,
they are not real, they cannot be.
What's real is Warriors name.
====
A name tells us the Warrior lived,
tells us of time that wouldn't be.
Tells us of rights we must protect,
proves our "Freedoms are not free."
====
Our dead were not tin soldiers,
our dreams were all the same.
Do not give us statues.
Thank you for our "missings" names.
********************
On the Island of Oahu
where summer always dwells.
Is a place they call the "punchbowl"
for those Boys who went thru hell.
====
Our missing from the Korean War
who's remains could not be found,
have their names inscribed on tablets
in this warm and peaceful ground.
====
The ground is never frozen
and the grass is always green.
Our missing Buddies names are there
in that peaceful bowl serene.
====
There is no stench of summers death,
no grotesque shapes of frozen dead.
But a sad something will remind us,
deep back inside, hid from all view,
old Visions in our heads.
====
I honour you my Warrior Brothers,
I'll join you in a while.
Will you welcome me as comrade brave
or will there be no smile?
====
Have I upheld your sacrifice and death
as I lived time you never had?
Is our Homeland as Free as when you left?
By "Gods own truth" your answer is -----------?
Your answer friend ---------- is mine.
Hdq. CO. 3RD. BN. 34th. Inf. Regt.
George CO. 21st Inf. Regt.
24th Infantry Division
Eagle River, AK 99577
Old Comrades
- by Thomas Lynn, Lawrenceville, GA
I walked among my comrades brave,
upon that bloody hill
And saw no movement, none at all,
for it was deathly still.
There were no cries from trembling lips,
no soldier's blasphemy;
I called their names out, every one,
but no one answered me.
I know each rock, each clump of trees
that marks this hallowed ground
For in my mind I see them fall
and I hear that battle sound.
Now the silence takes my breath
for all that I can see
Are rows on rows of crosses
where old comrades used to be.
Purple Heart
By Korean Veteran,
S/Sgt. James G. Harris, U.S. Army
There is a time in some men's lives
their country calls in time of war,
and asked to heed what they deplore.
These gallant men who fight with pride
with pain that lives and dies inside.
They place their lives in danger's way
to face the enemy each day.
Some wounds severe with loss of limb
while some will heal and try again.
To suffer wounds with death at hand
to fight a war in many lands.
They do their duty and beyond
they're swift to act and to respond.
They shed their blood, some live, some die
to keep OLD GLORY flying high.
Their children cry, their widows weep,
the blood that's shed runs very deep.
They live with pain for many years
and suffer stress that brings the tears.
To HONOR THOSE WHO PLAYED THE PART
We give, with thanks, THE PURPLE HEART.
Check ou this web site: http://www.greenberet.net/HaLo
Angels are Everywhere - "The Soldier"
by Anonymous
In 1949, my father had just returned home from the war. On every American highway you could see soldiers in uniform hitchhiking home to their families, as was the custom at that time in America. Sadly, the thrill of his reunion with his family was soon overshadowed. My grandmother became very ill and had to be hospitalized. It was her kidneys, and the doctors told my father that she needed a blood transfusion immediately, or she would not live through the night.
The problem was that Grandmother's blood type was AB negative, a very rare type even today, but even harder to get then because there were no blood banks or air flights to ship blood. All the family members were "typed," but not one member was a match. So the doctors gave the family no hope; my grandmother was dying.
My father left the hospital in tears to gather up all the family members, so that everyone would get a chance to tell Grandmother good-bye. As my father was driving down the highway, he passed a soldier in uniform hitchhiking home to his family. Deep in grief, my father had no inclination at that moment to do a good deed. Yet it was almost as if something outside himself pulled him to a stop, and he waited as the stranger climbed into the car. My father was too upset to even ask the soldier his name, but the soldier noticed my father's tears right away and inquired about them. Through his tears, my father told this total stranger that his mother was lying in a hospital dying because the doctors had been unable to locate her blood type, AB negative, and if they did not locate her blood type before nightfall, she would surely die. It got very quiet in the car. Then this unidentified soldier extended his hand out to my father, palm up. Resting in the palm of his hand were the dog tags from around his neck. The blood type on the tags was AB negative. The soldier told my father to turn the car around and get him to the hospital.
My grandmother lived until 1996, 47 years later, and to this day no one in our family knows the soldier's name. But my father has often wondered, was he a soldier or an angel in uniform? Sometimes, we never know who God will bring into our lives to carry out a special mission nor do we know whose lives God will have us touch.
By Eli Culbertson
The cold bleak hills of Korea
Are far away from the USA
Where we fought the fight for freedom
And the right for human liberty.
And in captivity as POW’s, we saw
The worst of inhumane treatment
That man can give to man
It happened in the Bean Camp, Pak’s Palace
The Mining Camp, Death Valley,
In the Cornfield and on the Death March.
It consisted of beatings, murders, and starvation
Brainwashing, mock trials and isolation
Kneeling barechested in the snow,
Standing with arms held high
While the Bull or the Whip beat you over the head
With corn cobs or sticks or rifle butts,
And all allowed since each guard was
His own judge, jury, and executioner.
And this was done in the name of
Stalin and Kim, IL-Sung.
Whether the "Tiger" led this
Or by "Dirty Pictures Wong"
It is still remembered in my mind
As a long dark dreary passage of time
Which many of us could not endure
It was really not "Give-up-it is"
The flesh was weak and the mind unable to cope
But why did some of us die,
And others live?
I know not why.
Sometimes I’ve said, simply, that
"I would not let the bastards kill me."
And yet there is more to it than that.
As Father Coyos reminded me at my daily prayer,
"Please God, increase the value of this food".
Brings to mind what our captors used to say,
"Well, if you believe in God
a.. Then let him feed you."
So I suppose in many cases, such as mine
He did.
But how can we live today,
Without remembering the past?
We cannot.
And most important, we must remember our
Buddies who did not make it.
Thornton, Jester, Anderson, Cox, McKinley
And the Roll Call goes on.
Left behind. Somewhere on the cold Korean
Hillside, or beside the road.
Let’s bring them home.
If not their remains, at least their Roll Call
Enshrined forever in appropriate memorial
As at the Punch Bowl
TO THAT FORGOTTEN WAR.
The above poem, if you want to call it that, was written in 1992 during the Gulf War. It was used as part of my group therapy for PTSD, which most POWs have. Eli Culbertson.
I was walking my post on a Korean night,
The wind was cold and the area quiet,
I was thinking of home, and the loved ones there;
Over here friends, those thoughts aren't rare;
Of the end of the war and the time of return,
And the things back home for which I yearn.
I could see the flash of the guns in the sky,
And I prayed for those who tonight would die
For a cause and belief they knew was just;
Secure in their faith, for in God is their trust.
Dying for freedom and a sincere peace;
Praying for the day when hostilities cease.
They are only young men doing a war's dirty work,
Guarding our freedom from the evils that lurk
In the acts and teahings of the tryant race'
For the rest of the world, setting the pace
In the fight for freedom and a lasting peace
Aggression, and all its' fears must cease.
These things I thought as I walked my post,
And it seemed to me, I could see the host
Of men who had died in freedom's fight
Being joined by those who passed on tonight.
As I walked with God a prayer I said,
"Peace for the living and rest for the dead."
written at K-13 in 1952
I heard the roar of an airplane
Diving for the kill,
Heard the chatter of its' guns,
Saw men dying om the hill,
Heard the crash and thunder,
Saw the flash of the heavy guns,
Heard the rumble of the tanks,
For the battle's just begun.
I heard the scream and boom of shells
Tearing up the sod,
Heard the voice of a GI
As he softly prays to GOD,
I heard the cry of a wounded soldier
On a hillside swept with snow
Saw the hurrying forms of medics
Taking the wounded down below.
I heard the whine of a glancing bullet
Screaming toward the sky,
Heard the thud of another,
Saw a GI fall and die.
Heard the whistle of a large shell,
Saw the foxhole where it hits,
Heard the boom of its' explosion,
As it blow a man to bits.
I hear the order being given
For the men to take a hill,
See them meet a wall of hot lead,
See some fall and lie still.
After many bloody hours,
And the loss of many men,
Thay have taken the objective,
To be driven back again,
Leaving more good men dying
On the hillside as before.
I hear the order being given
To retake the hill once more.
Another village we have taken,
But on the outskirts of this town,
In a ditch, we saw some GIs
Where the REDS had shot them down,
Their hands tied behind their backs
Tied with barbed wire so tight,
There was blood on everything,
I will ne'er forget that sight.
Men are fighting and are dying
On the battlefields of war,
Pray for them, my fellow townsmen,
Even if you do no more.
Feb, 1952
We just said goodbye to a good man,
A husband, a father, a friend,
A buddy to all who knew him
In that land where young lives did end,
A loving and devoted grandfather,
All these and just one thing more;
A neglected combat veteran
Of the forgotten Korean War.
Over fifty four thousand men died there,
Proud to answer their countries' call.
Over eighty one hundred still missing,
For no one could see them all fall.
No black granite wall for their tribute,
No statue to honor their dead,
No names were written in concrete;
Just a lonely white cross at their head.
No Hallowed ground foe their sleeping,
No flags to wave in the wind,
Just the hills where their blood flowed so freely
And the faithful boys' there did end.
The hills hold all the memories
Of the men who gave up their lives.
They are the monuments to honor our soldiers,
They'll endure through mans' anger and strife.
The first men died south of Suwon,
In the retreat back to Pusan;
Here they held to a small fragile foothold,
Against the enemies waves, they held on.
They finally broke out of the preimeter
And north to the Yalu they fought.
There the Chinese joined in the conflict
And made all the dying for nought.
Ther was Glouscester, Hamburger, nd No Name,
The peaks of Jane Russell took an iron will.
The summit of Old Baldy came down a few feet,
And blood ran in streams down Pork Chop Hill.
They left blood in the harbor at the city of Inchon,
And in the battle for Seoul many a good man fell,
At the reservoir of Chonjin they were surrounded,
And the retreat to Hamhung was a cold, icy Hell.
There were victories, just dig in and hang on.
It was a vicious, long, dirty, small war.
The young men who fought in this conflict
Became old men, changed evermore.
When hundreds of Chinese charged up the hill,
And the guns became too hot to hold,
They became so sick of the killing,
Their young spirits became so hard, and cold.
Their blood consecrated all of the mountains,
And the rivers flowing through the land.
Became the only monuments to all these men,
And in honor they'll evermore stand.
When my life on this Earth is over,
And I shall dwell down here no more.
Just say "We have buried another veteran
Of the forgotten Korean War."
written by in 1976
It has always been the soldier,
Not the president,
Who takes care of us.
It is the sailor,
Not the reporter,
Who has given us freedom of the press.
It is the marine,
Not the poet,
Who has given us freedom of speech.
It is the airman,
Not the campus organizer,
Who gave us the freedom to demonstrate.
It is the person in uniform,
--- who salutes the flag
--- who serves beneath the flag
--- and whose coffin is draped by the flag
That allows the protestor to burn the flag.
Author unknown
Copyright © 1998 Korean War Veterans National Museum and Library