Walkerhill Travel & Tours
<strong>The</strong> Poets’ Place... <strong>The</strong> Real Forgotten <strong>War</strong> <strong>The</strong> guns of war are silent now Yet I can hear them still, I see the faces of the dead I guess I always will. <strong>The</strong>y say that time will ease the pain Can make a man forget Though almost fifty years have passed I see the carnage yet! Korea was so long ago Or was it yesterday? I hear the screams, in torturous dreams O let me wake I pray. <strong>The</strong> awful sounds of exploding rounds Still ring within my ears So many dead and dying Yet there’s no time for tears. Positions that are overrun With fighting hand to hand How many did I kill dear God? I pray you’ll understand. At last the fight is over <strong>The</strong> endless night is through We won our fight for Boomerang But those who lived were few. So when it’s time to judge us Lord And weigh just what we’re worth So many died, so few remember We served our hell on earth! Sfc Bob Barfield Co. F 7th Inf. Regt..3rd Div WHY DIDN’T I WAIT TO BE DRAFTED Why didn’t I wait to be drafted And be led to the train by a band And put in a claim for exemption, Oh! Why did I hold up my hand! Why didn’t I wall for the banquet Why didn’t I wait to be cheered For the drafted men get the credit While I only Volunteered. And nobody gave me a banquet And nobody said a kind word. <strong>The</strong> grind of the wheels of the engine Was the only goodbye I head. <strong>The</strong>n off to the camp I was hustled To be trained for the next half year and then in the shuffle forgotten, I was only a volunteer, And maybe some day in the future. When my little boy sits on my knee And asked what I did in the conflict and his little eyes took up to me, I will have to look back as I am blushing to the eyes that so trustingly peer and tell him I missed being drafted, I was only a volunteer. Given to Ray T. Smith, Jr. in 1942 by father Poems printed on this page are not excluded from use on back page. Who is a combat veteran? A young man who leaves his wife, mother or girlfriend behind. A young man who is will willing to put his life on the line for a country that he does not know and for people he has never met. A young man who sees his buddy getting shot and cries, wondering whether he may be the next to go. <strong>The</strong>n he comes home. Although he may have been wounded or a POW, back home no one acknowledges his heroism. No one seems to care. He is the man, when watching a parade, who cries when the American flag passes by. He knows that freedom is not free. He is the man that cries at night when he sees his buddy getting shot again and again. That is who a combat vet is. Do you know who he is? Ask your grandfather. It could be him. By John Valerio, <strong>Korean</strong> <strong>War</strong> Veteran, L Co. 23rd Reg. 2nd Div. MP A LETTER HOME “Dear Mom and Dad, the war is done My task is through, And, Mom, there is something I must ask of you. I have a friend, O such a friend, He has no home you see, And so, Mom, I would really like to Bring him home with me.” “Dear Son, we don’t mind If someone comes home with you. I am sure he could stay Perhaps a week or two.” “Dear Mom and Dad, there is Something you must know. Now please don’t be alarmed. My friend in battle was recently shot And now he has no arm.” “Dear Son, do not be afraid To bring him home with you Perhaps he could stay a day or two.” “Dear Mom and Dad, but Mom, he is Not just a friend. He is like a brother, too. That is why I want him home with us, And like a son to you. Before you give your answer, Mom, I really don’t want to beg, But my friend in battle was recently wounded, And also lost his leg.” “Dear Son, it hurts me so much to say, <strong>The</strong> answer must be no. For Dad and I have no time for a boy Who is crippled so.” So months went by and a letter came, It said their Son had died. When they read the cause of death, <strong>The</strong> shock was suicide. Days later when the casket came, Draped in the Nation’s flag, <strong>The</strong>y saw their Son lying there . . . without an arm . . . and without a leg. Author unknown At the time of this printing I have many more poems sent in by members and friends. I intend on printing them all. Some are hand written which will take some time putting into type. I am trying to print the oldest postmark first of those that are typed. <strong>The</strong> non-typed ones will be intermixed in order to not delay this and other issues. Please try to type all poems and articles if you can.—Editor. January/February, 2000 Page 47