CJB
05-30-2016, 08:09 AM
Yesterday, I was witnes to a moving tribure. A gathering of old soldiers and patriots, who had come together in one place to remember, and honor their fallen brothers, those that did not make it home.
There was a small group of disabled veterans, who were each a keynote speaker of sorts. Retelling stories, not of their own tragedy, but that which had befellen their comrades.
One man, Al, who was no doubt in his 90's, at times weeping, recalled how his buddy Johnny had fallen in France, 70 something years ago. I'm paraphrasing here...as the emotion of the moment was barely tolerale.
Al and Johnny were infantrymen. They fought through France after D day. They knew the fight would be a bad one, as "we" were bringing the war to the enemy's front door. They were tired from months of marching, sleeping where they could, eating what that could,, and living and fighting as they could.
Pinned down someplace between Paris and Germany, a shell from German artillery hit. Both of them were hurt, but Al was in bad shape. His right leg was missing below the knee. The other, he know if he lived, would be taken off later. His left hand looked like scraps from a butcher's shop. He could not see from the left side, and didn't know yet that part of his face had been blown off. Johnny was bleeding from his gut, but crawled to Al. A spare set of bootlaces were tournquets. The small medical statchel Johnny carried, had one roll of bandage, one pad, and just one vial of morphine. Johnny used all he had on Al, and slapped the morphine dose into his better leg. Then having done all he could, he held his buddy close, and they waited.
Al told Johnny to leave him, but he didn't know that Johnny was unable. Al didn't know that Johnny had crawled on his elbows, dragging himself to his injured buddy. He found out later that Johnny's back was broken, his spine severed, his kidney and intestines blown through, and that Johnny was mortally injured. But, for well over an hour, dozing into and out of being awake, Al felt Johnny holding him close, occasionally saying they were gonna make it.
After a long time, a Medic and two soldiers came. Al felt them pull Johnny from him, and they were going to leave him for dead. Johnny said, no... he's alive, take him first. That was the last words Al heard Johnny speak. Johnny died before the Medics could get back to him, but Al found out later, that there was probably nothing that could be done for him.
Johnny died, Al lived.
And so, Al told his story, not his own, but that of Johnny's selfless actions while close to death. Al was sitting in his wheelchair, crumped over. One leg, which was saved, stretched out straight forward, that way for 70 years. With his remaining right hand, he held the staff of the American Flag. A biker held the microphone. Al's face all twisted, he could not speak well, nor loudly, even with the mic. There was no whisper. No beer got popped open. No foot shuffled. No eye remained dry in the crown of 250 or more who joined the tribute.
And rather end this little recounting on a sad note, let me also let everyone know that Al is full of life. He injected some "side details" about raiding a French wine celllar, getting baths and battle uniforms washed from French women, and killing the enemy. Al made his best recovery, spent his life motivating other disabled men and women, soldiers or not.
And, Al said he's voting for Dontal Trump, and if someone could line up his wheel chair, he'd use his "battering ram", as he called his remaining leg, to kick Bernie and Hilliary right in their butts!
And... yah, the screen got a little hard to read at times, while I typed this out for ya's all.
There was a small group of disabled veterans, who were each a keynote speaker of sorts. Retelling stories, not of their own tragedy, but that which had befellen their comrades.
One man, Al, who was no doubt in his 90's, at times weeping, recalled how his buddy Johnny had fallen in France, 70 something years ago. I'm paraphrasing here...as the emotion of the moment was barely tolerale.
Al and Johnny were infantrymen. They fought through France after D day. They knew the fight would be a bad one, as "we" were bringing the war to the enemy's front door. They were tired from months of marching, sleeping where they could, eating what that could,, and living and fighting as they could.
Pinned down someplace between Paris and Germany, a shell from German artillery hit. Both of them were hurt, but Al was in bad shape. His right leg was missing below the knee. The other, he know if he lived, would be taken off later. His left hand looked like scraps from a butcher's shop. He could not see from the left side, and didn't know yet that part of his face had been blown off. Johnny was bleeding from his gut, but crawled to Al. A spare set of bootlaces were tournquets. The small medical statchel Johnny carried, had one roll of bandage, one pad, and just one vial of morphine. Johnny used all he had on Al, and slapped the morphine dose into his better leg. Then having done all he could, he held his buddy close, and they waited.
Al told Johnny to leave him, but he didn't know that Johnny was unable. Al didn't know that Johnny had crawled on his elbows, dragging himself to his injured buddy. He found out later that Johnny's back was broken, his spine severed, his kidney and intestines blown through, and that Johnny was mortally injured. But, for well over an hour, dozing into and out of being awake, Al felt Johnny holding him close, occasionally saying they were gonna make it.
After a long time, a Medic and two soldiers came. Al felt them pull Johnny from him, and they were going to leave him for dead. Johnny said, no... he's alive, take him first. That was the last words Al heard Johnny speak. Johnny died before the Medics could get back to him, but Al found out later, that there was probably nothing that could be done for him.
Johnny died, Al lived.
And so, Al told his story, not his own, but that of Johnny's selfless actions while close to death. Al was sitting in his wheelchair, crumped over. One leg, which was saved, stretched out straight forward, that way for 70 years. With his remaining right hand, he held the staff of the American Flag. A biker held the microphone. Al's face all twisted, he could not speak well, nor loudly, even with the mic. There was no whisper. No beer got popped open. No foot shuffled. No eye remained dry in the crown of 250 or more who joined the tribute.
And rather end this little recounting on a sad note, let me also let everyone know that Al is full of life. He injected some "side details" about raiding a French wine celllar, getting baths and battle uniforms washed from French women, and killing the enemy. Al made his best recovery, spent his life motivating other disabled men and women, soldiers or not.
And, Al said he's voting for Dontal Trump, and if someone could line up his wheel chair, he'd use his "battering ram", as he called his remaining leg, to kick Bernie and Hilliary right in their butts!
And... yah, the screen got a little hard to read at times, while I typed this out for ya's all.