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"It is not the critic who
counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where
the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man
who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by the dust and sweat
and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and
again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spends
himself in a worthy course; who at the best, knows in the end the
triumph of high achievement, and who, at worst, if he fails, at least
fails while daring greatly; so that his place shall never be with those
cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat."
THEODORE ROOSEVELT
(Paris Sorbonne,1910)
"
War has been waged against us by stealth and deceit and murder. This nation is
peaceful, but fierce when stirred to anger. This conflict was begun on the
timing and terms of others. It will end in a way, and at an hour, of our
choosing."-President
Bush
Pray for our Soldiers
overseas who are threatened daily and for the Men and woman who are in Iraq and
Afghanistan to
show the World our resolve.
THE TRUTH from Iraq-
a MUST read on what is really happening in Iraq
An Elite Athlete by Demerly-Bookmark to a story at the
bottom of the page
The Soldier-Bookmark
to this Story
Afghanistan
Ben and
the Guys "posing" in Afghanistan
Thank you Neil Diamond for this song. My Brother in law's ship
always came home booming this song from the ships sound system as every sailor
stood at the rail from their long service away from home. It was a very fitting
welcome home for these Sailors that fought for everyone's right to "come into
America"
Ben is home now and mustered out of
the army.
Photo's
Paul Kemper served with the Seventh
Calvary and was the "tip of the spear" in the recent campaign in Iraq. They were
on CNN leading the attack. He is home today and getting used to the Good old
USA! . Paul was also rewarded a medal for his service
in Iraq. He returned to Iraq Jan. '05.
I have to also add my Nieces husband serving in Iraq. Joe Chevez. He is with the Fourth Mechanized division. We are blessed with great Men fighting
terrorism. Joe is home now too
The
following was said to have been written by an Australian:
"You probably missed it in the rush of news last week, but there was
actually a report that someone in Pakistan had published in a newspaper
an offer of a reward to anyone who killed an American, any American. So I
just thought I would write to let them know what an American is, so they
would know when they found one.
An American is English, or French, or Italian, Irish, German, Spanish,
Polish, Russian or Greek. An American may also be Mexican, African, Indian,
Chinese, Japanese, Australian, Iranian, Asian, or Arab, or Pakistani, or
Afghan. An American may also be a Cherokee, Osage, Blackfoot, Navaho,
Apache, or one of the many other tribes known as Native Americans.
An American is Christian, or he could be Jewish, or Buddhist, or Muslim.
In fact, there are more Muslims in America than in Afghanistan. The only
difference is that in America they are free to worship as each of them
chooses. An American is also free to believe in no religion. For that
he will answer only to God, not to the government, or to armed thugs
claiming to speak for the government and for God.
An American is from the most prosperous land in the history of the
world.
The root of that prosperity can be found in the Declaration of
Independence, which recognizes the God given right of each man and woman to the
pursuit of happiness.
An American is generous. Americans have helped out just about every
other nation in the world in their time of need. When Afghanistan was overrun
by the Soviet army 20 years ago, Americans came with arms and supplies to
enable the people to win back their country. As of the morning of
September 11, Americans had given more than any other nation to the poor in
Afghanistan.
Americans welcome the best, the best products, the best books, the best
music, the best food, the best athletes. But they also welcome the
least.
The national symbol of America, The Statue of Liberty, welcomes your
tired and your poor, the wretched refuse of your teeming shores, the homeless,
tempest tossed. These in fact are the people who built America. Some of
them were working in the Twin Towers the morning
of September 11, earning a better life for their families. [I've been
told that the World Trade Center victims were from at least 30 other
countries, cultures, and first languages, including those that aided and abetted
the terrorists.]
So you can try to kill an American if you must. Hitler did. So did General
Tojo, and Stalin, and Mao Tse-Tung, and every bloodthirsty tyrant in the
history of the world. But, in doing so you would just be killing yourself.
Because Americans are not a particular people from a particular place; they
are the embodiment of the human spirit of freedom. Everyone who holds to
that spirit, everywhere, is an American.
So look around you. You may find more Americans in your land than you
thought were there. One day they will rise up and overthrow the old,
ignorant, tired tyrants that trouble too many lands. Then those lands,too,
will join the community of free and prosperous nations, And America will
welcome them!"
Pass this around the World!
I want you to close your eyes and picture in your mind
the
soldier at Valley Forge, as he holds his musket in his bloody hands.
He stands barefoot in the snow, starved from lack of food, wounded
from months of battle and emotionally scarred from the eternity away from
his
family surrounded by nothing but death and carnage of war.
He stands tough, with fire in his eyes and victory on his breath.
He looks at us now in anger and disgust and tells us this...
I gave you a birthright of freedom born in the Constitution and now
>your children graduate too illiterate to read it.
I fought in the snow barefoot to give you the freedom to vote and you
stay at home because it rains.
I left my family destitute to give you the freedom of speech and you
remain silent on critical issues, because it might be bad for business.
I orphaned my children to give you a government to serve you and it has
stolen democracy from the people.
It's the soldier not the reporter who gives you the freedom of the press.
It's the soldier not the poet who gives you the freedom of speech.
It's the soldier not the campus organizer who allows you to demonstrate.
It's the soldier who salutes the flag, serves the flag, whose
coffin is draped with the flag that allows the protester to burn the flag!!!
"Lord, hold our troops in your loving hands. Protect them as they
protect us. Bless them and their families for the selfless acts they
perform for
us in our time of need. Amen."
Prayer Wheel:
When you receive this, please stop for a moment and say a prayer
for our U.S. ground troops in Afghanistan and Iraq at this very moment - AND all over this world.
It is dark and Mike Smith's clothing is wet.
Mike Smith is an athlete, an elite athlete in fact. He is a triathlete, has
done Ironman several times, a couple adventure races and even run the
Marathon Des Sables in Morocco- a 152 mile running race through the Sahara
done in stages.
Mike has some college, is gifted in foreign languages, reads a lot and has
an amazing memory for details. He enjoys travel. He is a quiet guy but a
very good athlete. Mike's friends say he has a natural toughness. He can't
spend as much time training for triathlons as he'd like to because his job
keeps him busy. Especially now. This is Mike's busy season. But he still
seems very fit. Even without much training Mike has managed some impressive
performances in endurance events.
It's a big night for Mike. He's at work tonight. As I mentioned his clothing
is wet, partially from dew, partially from perspiration. He and his four
co-workers, Dan, Larry, Pete and Maurice are working on a rooftop at the
corner of Jamia St. and Khulafa St. across from Omar Bin Yasir.
Mike is looking through the viewfinder of a British made Pilkington LF25
laser designator. The crosshairs are centered on a ventilation shaft. The
shaft is on the roof of The Republican Guard Palace in downtown Baghdad
across the Tigris River.
Saddam Hussein is inside, seven floors below, three floors below ground
level, attending a crisis meeting.
Mike's co-worker Pete (also an Ironman finisher, Lake Placid, 2000) keys
some information into a small laptop computer and hits "burst transmit". The
DMDG (Digital Message Device Group) uplinks data to another of Mike's
co-workers (this time a man he's never met, but they both work for their
Uncle, "Sam") and a fellow athlete, at 21'500 feet above Iraq 15 miles from
downtown Baghdad. This man's office is the cockpit of an F-117 stealth
fighter. When Mike and Pete's signal is received the man in the airplane
leaves his orbit outside Baghdad, turns left, and heads downtown.
Mike has 40 seconds to complete his work for tonight, then he can go for a
run.
Mike squeezes the trigger of his LF25 and a dot appears on the ventilator
shaft five city blocks and across the river away from him and his
co-workers. Mike speaks softly into his microphone; "Target illuminated.
Danger close. Danger Close. Danger close. Over."
Seconds later two GBU-24B two thousand pound laser guided, hardened case,
delayed fuse "bunker buster" bombs fall free from the F-117. The bombs enter
"the funnel" and begin finding their way to the tiny dot projected by Mike's
LF25. They glide approximately three miles across the ground and fall four
miles on the way to the spot marked by Mike and his friends.
When they reach the ventilator shaft marked by Mike and his friends the two
bunker busters enter the roof in a puff of dust and debris. They plow
through the first four floors of the building like a two-ton steel telephone
pole traveling over 400 m.p.h., tossing desks, ceiling tiles, computers and
chairs out the shattering windows. Then they hit the six-foot thick
reinforced concrete roof of the bunker. They burrow four more feet and
detonate.
The shock wave is transparent but reverberates through the ground to the
river where a Doppler wave appears on the surface of the Tigris. When the
seismic shock reaches the building Mike is on he levitates an inch off the
roof from the concussion.
Then the sound hits. The two explosions are like a simultaneous crack of
thunder as the building's walls seem to swell momentarily, then burst apart
on an expanding fireball that slowly, eerily, boils above Baghdad casting
rotating shadows as the fire climbs into the night. Debris begins to rain;
structural steel, chunks of concrete, shards of glass, flaming fabrics and
papers.
On the tail of the two laser guided bombs a procession of BGM-109G/TLAM
Block IV Enhanced Tomahawks begin their terminal plunge. The laser-guided
bombs performed the incision, the GPS and computer guided TLAM Tomahawks
complete the operation. In rapid-fire succession the missiles find their
mark and riddle the Palace with massive explosions, finishing the job. The
earth heaves in a final death convulsion.
Mike's job is done for tonight. Now all he has to do is get home.
Mike and his friends drive an old Mercedes through the streets of Baghdad as
the sirens start. They take Jamia to Al Kut, cross Al Kut and go right
(South) on the Expressway out of town. An unsuspecting remote CNN camera
mounted on the balcony of the Al Rashid Hotel picks up their vehicle headed
out of town. Viewers at home wonder what a car is doing on the street during
the beginning of a war. They don't know it is packed with five members of
the U.S. Army's SFOD-D, Special Forces Operational Detachment - Delta. Delta
Force.
Six miles out of town they park their Mercedes on the shoulder, pull their
gear out of the trunk and begin to run into the desert night. The moon is
nearly full. Instinctively they fan out, on line, in a "lazy 'W'". They run
five miles at a brisk pace, good training for this evening, especially with
27 lb. packs on their back. Behind them there is fire on the horizon. Mike
and his fellow athletes have a meeting to catch, and they can't be late.
Twenty seven miles out a huge gray 92 foot long insect hurtles 40 feet above
the desert at 140 m.p.h. The MH-53J Pave Low III is piloted by another
athlete, also a triathlete, named Jim, from Fort Campbell, Kentucky. He is
flying to meet Mike.
After running five miles into the desert Mike uses his GPS to confirm his
position. He is in the right place at the right time. He removes an
infra-red strobe light from his pack and pushes the red button on the bottom
of it. It blinks invisibly in the dark. He and his friends form a wide 360
degree circle while waiting for their ride home.
Two miles out Jim in the Pave Low sees Mike's strobe through his night
vision goggles. He gently moves the control stick and pulls back on the
collective to line up on Mike's infra-red strobe. Mike's ride home is here.
The big Pave Low helicopter flares for landing over the desert and quickly
touches down in a swirling tempest of dust. Mike and his friends run up the
ramp after their identity is confirmed. Mike counts them up the ramp of the
helicopter over the scream of the engines. When he shows the crew chief five
fingers the helicopter lifts off and the ramp comes up. The dark gray Pave
Low spins in its own length and picks up speed going back the way it came,
changing course slightly to avoid detection.
The men and women in our armed forces, especially Special Operations, are
often well trained, gifted athletes. All of them, including Mike, would
rather be sleeping the night away in anticipation of a long training ride
rather than laying on a damp roof in an unfriendly neighborhood guiding
bombs to their mark or doing other things we'll never hear about.
Regardless of your opinions about the war, the sacrifices these people are
making and the risks they are taking are extraordinary. They believe they
are making them on our behalf. Their skills, daring and accomplishments
almost always go unspoken. They are truly Elite Athletes.
A Christmas Poem
The embers glowed
softly, and in their dim light, I gazed round the room and I
cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, her
head on my chest, My
daughter beside me, angelic in rest.
Outside the snow fell, a
blanket of white, Transforming the yard to a winter delight.
The sparkling lights in
the tree, I believe, Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.
My eyelids were heavy,
my breathing was deep, Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep
In perfect contentment,
or so it would seem. So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.
The sound wasn't loud,
and it wasn't too near, But I opened my eyes when it tickled my ear.
Perhaps just a cough, I
didn't quite know, Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.
My soul gave a tremble,
I struggled to hear, And I crept to the door just to see who was near.
Standing out in the cold
and the dark of the night, A lone figure stood, his face weary and
tight.
A soldier, I puzzled,
some twenty years old Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.
Alone in the dark, he
looked up and smiled, Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child.
"What are you doing?" I
asked without fear "Come in this moment, it's freezing out here!
Put down your pack,
brush the snow from your sleeve, You should be at home on a cold
Christmas Eve!"
For barely a moment I
saw his eyes shift, Away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts,
To the window that
danced with a warm fire's
light Then he sighed and he said "Its really all right, I'm out
here by choice. I'm here every night"
"It's my duty to stand
at the front of the line, That separates you from the darkest of times.
No one had to ask or beg
or implore me,
I'm proud to stand here
like my fathers before
me.
My Gramps died at 'Pearl
on a day in December," Then he sighed, "That's a Christmas 'Gram always
remembers."
My dad stood his watch
in the jungles of 'Nam And now it is my turn and so, here I am.
I've not seen my own son
in more than a while, But my wife sends me pictures, he's sure got her
smile.
Then he bent and he
carefully pulled from his
bag, The red white and blue... an American flag.
"I can live through the
cold and the being
alone, Away from my family, my house and my home,
I can stand at my post
through the rain and the sleet, I can sleep in a foxhole with little
to eat,
I can carry the weight
of killing another Or lay down my life with my sister and brother
who stand at the front
against any and all, to ensure for all time that this flag will not
fall."
"So go back inside," he
said, "harbor no fright Your family is waiting and I'll be all right."
"But isn't there
something I can do, at the
least, "Give you money," I asked, "or prepare you a feast?
It seems all too little
for all that you've
done, For being away from your wife and your son."
Then his eye welled a
tear that held no regret, "Just tell us you love us, and never forget
To fight for our rights
back at home while we're
gone. To stand your own watch, no matter how long.
For when we come home,
either standing or dead, To know you remember we fought and we bled
is payment enough, and
with that we will trust. That we mattered to you as you mattered to us.
Friends, keep Our military people in your prayers. They are
risking their
lives to protect what we take for granted, and we are losing soldiers
every
day. They won't be home with their families this Christmas. I pray God
will Bless Them, and keep them safe.
Happy Holidays,
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