Support Our Troops

• Recent speech by General Michael R. Lehnert, USMC
• From the heart of MajGen Richard Cooke, USMC (ret)
• What the media doesn't tell you…
• Should We Care?
• Cemetery Duty
• Here in America, English is our Language…

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Should We Care?

“Are we fighting a war on terror or aren't we? Was it or was
it not started by Islamic people who brought it to our
shores on September 11, 2001?

Were people from all over the world, mostly Americans, not
brutally murdered that day, in downtown Manhattan , across
the Potomac from our nation's capitol and in a field in
Pennsylvania?

Did nearly three thousand men, women and children die a
horrible, burning or crushing death that day, or didn't
they?

And I'm supposed to care that a copy of the Koran was
"desecrated" when an overworked American soldier kicked it
or got it wet?... Well, I don't. I don't care at all.

I'll start caring when Osama bin Laden turns himself in and
repents for incinerating all those inno cent people on 9/11.

I'll care about the Koran when the fanatics in the Middle
East start caring about the Holy Bible, the mere possession
of which is a crime in Saudi Arabia .

I'll care when these thugs tell the world they are sorry for
hacking off Nick Berg's head while Berg screamed through his
gurgling slashed throat.

I'll care when the cowardly so-called "insurgents" in Iraq
come out and fight like men instead of disrespecting their
own religion by hiding in mosques.

I'll care when the mindless zealots who blow themselves up
in search of nirvana care about the innocent children within
range of thei r suicide bombs.

I'll care when the American media stops pretending that
their First Amendment liberties are somehow derived from
international law instead of the United States
Constitution's Bill of Rights.

In the meantime, when I hear a story about a brave marine
roughing up an Iraqi terrorist to obt ain information, know
this: I don't care.

When I see a fuzzy photo of a pile of naked Iraqi prisoners
who have been humiliated in what amounts to a college-hazing
incident, rest assured: I don't care.

When I see a wounded terrorist get shot in the head when he
is told not to move because he might be booby-trapped, you
can take it to the bank: I don't care .

When I hear that a prisoner, who was issued a Koran and a
prayer mat, and fed "special" food that is paid for by my
tax dollars, is complaining that his holy book is being
"mishandled," you can absolutely believe in your heart of
hearts: I don't care.

And oh, by the way, I've n oticed that sometimes it's spelled
"Koran" and other times "Quran." Well, Jimmy Crack Corn
and-you guessed it- I don't care !!”

Written by a ticked-off New Jersey housewife.

cold ones. Sneaking a look at my watch, I saw the time,1655.
Five minutes to go before the cemetery gates are closed for the day.
Full dress was hot in the August sun. Oklahoma summertime was as bad as
ever -- the heat and humidity at the same level -- both too high.


I saw the car pull into the drive, '69 or '70 model Cadillac Deville,
looked factory-new. It pulled into the parking lot at a snail's pace.

An old woman got out so slow I thought she was paralyzed. She had a cane

and a sheaf of flowers, about four or five bunches as best I could tell.

I couldn't help myself. The thought came unwanted, and left a slightly
bitter taste: "She's going to spend an hour, and for this old soldier
my hip hurts like hell and I'm ready to get out of here right now!"

But for this day my duty was to assist anyone coming in. Kevin would
lock the "In" gate and if I could hurry the old biddy along, we might
make the last half of happy hour at Smokey's.

I broke Post Attention My hip made gritty noises when I took the first
step and the pain went up a notch. I must have made a real military
sight; middle-aged man with a small pot-gut and half a limp, in Marine
Full Dress Uniform, which had lost its razor crease about 30 minutes
after I began the watch at the cemetery.

I stopped in front of her, halfway up the walk. She looked up at me with

an old woman's squint. "Ma'am may I assist you in any way?"

She took long enough to answer. "Yes, son. Can you carry these flowers?
I seem to be moving a tad slow these days."
"My pleasure Ma'am." Well, it wasn't too much of a lie.

She looked again. "Marine, where were you stationed?"
"Vietnam, Ma'am. Ground-pounder. '69 to '71."

She looked at me closer. "Wounded in action, I see. Well done, Marine.
I'll be as quick as I can."
I lied a little bigger "No hurry, Ma'am."
She smiled, and winked at me. "Son, I'm 85-years old and I can tell a
lie from a long way off. Let's get this done. Might be the last time I

can do this. My name's Joanne Wieserman, and I've a few Marines I'd
like to see one more time."
"Yes, Ma'am. At your service."
She headed for the World War I section, stopping at a stone. She picked
one of the bunches out of my arm and laid it on top of the stone.
She murmured something I couldn't quite make out. The name on the
marble was Donald S. Davidson, USMC, France 1918.
She turned away and made a straight line for the World War II section,
stopping at one stone. I saw a tear slowly tracking its way down her
cheek. She put a bunch on a stone; the name was Stephen X.
Davidson,
USMC, 1943.

She went up the row a ways and laid another bunch on a stone, Stanley J.

Wieserman USMC , 1944.
She paused for a second, "Two more, son, and we'll be done." I almost
didn't say anything, but, "Yes, Ma'am. Take your time." She looked
confused. "Where's the Vietnam section, son? I seem to have lost my
way." I pointed with my chin. "That way, Ma'am." "Oh!" she chuckled
quietly. "Son, me and old age ain't too friendly."

She headed down the walk I'd pointed at. She stopped at a couple of
stones before she found the ones she wanted. She placed a bunch on
Larry Wieserman USMC, 1968, and the last on Darrel Wieserman USMC, 1970.

She stood there and murmured a few words I still couldn't make out.
"OK, son , I'm finished. Get me back to my car and you can go home."
"Yes, Ma'am. If I may ask, were those your kinfolk ?"

She paused. "Yes, Donald Davidson was my father; Stephen was my uncle;
Stanley was my husband; Larry and Darrel were our sons. All killed in
action, all Marines." She stopped, whether she had finished, or
couldn't finish, I don't know.

She made her way to her car, slowly, and painfully.
I waited for a polite distance to come between us and then double-timed
it over to Kevin waiting by the car. "Get to the "Out"-gate quick. I
have something I've got to do."
Kevin started to say something but saw the look I gave him. He broke
the rules to get us there down the service road. We beat her. She
hadn't made it around the rotunda yet.

"Kevin, stand to attention next to the gate post. Follow my lead." I
humped it across the drive to the other post.
When the Cadillac came puttering around from the hedges and began the
short straight traverse to the gate, I called in my best gunny's voice:
"TehenHut! Present Haaaarms!"

I have to hand it to Kevin, he never blinked an eye; full dress
attention and a salute that would make his DI proud. She drove through
that gate with two old worn-out soldiers giving her a send off she
deserved, for service rendered to her country, and for knowing Duty,
Honor and Sacrifice.

I am not sure, but I think I saw a salute returned from that Cadillac.

Instead of "The End"....just think of "Taps".

As a final thought on my part, let me share a favorite prayer:

"Lord, keep our servicemen and women safe, whether they serve at home or

overseas. Hold them in Your loving hands and protect them as they
protect us."

Let's all keep those currently serving and those who have gone before,
in our thoughts. They are the reason for the many freedoms we enjoy.