The Graybeards - Korean War Veterans Association

The Poets’ Place...
The Real Forgotten War
The guns of war are silent now
Yet I can hear them still,
I see the faces of the dead
I guess I always will.
They 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.
The 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
The 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.
The grind of the wheels of the engine
Was the only goodbye I head.
Then 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.
Then 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, Korean War 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,
The 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,
The shock was suicide.
Days later when the casket came,
Draped in the Nation’s flag,
They 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. The 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