The last two weeks have not been very good to me. First, my dad went to the hospital, then I found out about Bruce's death, and just tonight found out that an old Army buddy of mine was killed in Iraq.
I'm feeling pretty bad, and regretting not keeping in touch with him. All I can think about is the fun times we had back when we were stationed in Germany. From little stuff like making jokes about his initials being ABC and mine being ABT, to spending Christmas day 2001 in 6 inches of snow, freezing to death pulling guard duty.
What makes it worse is that after I left Germany, I didn't keep in touch with him. The last time I saw him was back in early '04, when he was down here for a school. He had been in Iraq already, and I was about to deploy.
After that, I never saw him or talked to him. Just a little while ago, I foundnd out from his ex-wife in an email she sent me, that he was killed in Iraq a year and a half ago. I remember what I was doing the day he died, because I only had about two weeks left in Baghdad before coming home. The big thing in the Stars & Stripes was about a unit that had arrived barely a month prior from Korea and got into a big firefight, and lost a lot of soldiers. It turns out one of those who were killed was my friend. I didn't know then because I stopped reading the paper after that, so I never saw the casualty list in the next paper.
I'll probably tell my roommate when he gets back from work, since he was in the same unit with us back in Germany. I wonder how he'll take it. And now of course I'm worried about him as well, since he's deploying fairly soon. And for my brother, who just got to his first duty station three weeks ago.
Bivouac of the Dead
The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on Life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On fame's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents to spread,
And glory guards, with solemn round
The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind;
Nor troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dreams alarms;
No braying horn or screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.
Their shriveled swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed,
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,
And the proud forms, by battle gashed
Are free from anguish now.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are past;
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore may feel
The rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce Northern hurricane
That sweeps the great plateau,
Flushed with triumph, yet to gain,
Come down the serried foe,
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew the watchword of the day
Was "Victory or death!"
Long had the doubtful conflict raged
O'er all that stricken plain,
For never fiercer fight had waged
The vengeful blood of Spain;
And still the storm of battle blew,
Still swelled the glory tide;
Not long, our stout old Chieftain knew,
Such odds his strength could bide.
Twas in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyr's grave
The flower of his beloved land,
The nation's flag to save.
By rivers of their father's gore
His first-born laurels grew,
And well he deemed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory too.
For many a mother's breath has swept
O'er Angostura's plain --
And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its moldered slain.
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,
Alone awakes each sullen height
That frowned o'er that dread fray.
Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground
Ye must not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air.
Your own proud land's heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave;
She claims from war his richest spoil --
The ashes of her brave.
Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast
On many a bloody shield;
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes sepulcher.
Rest on embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave;
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
For honor points the hallowed spot
Where valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanquished ago has flown,
The story how ye fell;
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor time's remorseless doom,
Can dim one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb.
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!!!!!WE ARE ALL MADE OF STARDUST!!!!!