Remember Veteran's Day

Remember Veteran's Day

Preface / Introduction

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Table of Contents

1. May 30, 2011. U.S. Memorial Day. Remember! 2. 'For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the repeated risk of his life...' Marine Corporal Dakota Meyer... recipient of the Medal of Honor. True grit. 3. The boy next door... the best of the Great Republic. You sleep easy through the night because of him... and millions like him. A Tribute!


http://www.LizsWorldprofit.com Copyright Elizabeth English - 2012 4 of 12

May 30, 2011. U.S. Memorial Day. Remember!

by Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Let us recall this day and its purpose first by reminding you of one of the most celebrated poems of war, youth too soon ended and of the flower that evokes it all, the blood-red poppy.

In Flanders Field by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, M.D. Canadian Army (1872-1918).

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow Between the crosses row on row, That marks our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.

When I was a boy growing up in Illinois in the late 'forties and 'fifties, every school child was expected to take a few paper poppies (made so we knew by wounded and maimed U.S. Vets) and collect some pennies for them from friends and neighbors who never needed to be reminded of what we were doing or why they should contribute, even if it was the widow's mite. And if it were the widow or mother with a gold star always in the front window, she responded with exultation and alacrity, hugging her student visitor, and tears would soon be shed. While you didn't comprehend why, you soon found yourself with tears, too -- and the adults called you a "good boy" and always looked into your eyes as they said so.

21 in Flanders fields in the midst of war.

I made my first trip to Europe, to the France I was destined to love deeply, not least for her wounds and too frequent miseries; the year was 1967. Vietnam was on the world's agenda, rending the people and the nations. On this trip I (unlike all my traveling companions who had very different locales on their itinerary) decided to go, taking a bus tour to Flanders fields. I had helped distribute the paper poppies for many years; I knew the famous poem, and I was curious to see what the vestiges of carnage and military butchery looked like.

But I little knew the power of these fields and of the palpable spirit of this place, the spirit that spoke to you, and at once: "Remember, we are your dear departed, your brothers, your fathers, your young boisterous uncles too soon taken; the cheerful postboy and the brilliant medical student. We are here, all of us,in our millions; we wish you to understand the profundity of this place, the purpose of this place, the solemnity of this place... and the gripping tale, certain to impress you, that we tell in our very life's blood.

This is a place of unsettled ghosts, of too much loss, too much death, too many to remember and an urgent need never to forget a single one.

Then of a sudden the compelling insistence of this hallowed place made itself known to you. Tourists like you, babbling of places where they had found good values and other places where they had not; these tourists now saw the majesty of unending death, too soon, by too many... and their very words stopped... as they saw around them on every side the unmitigated panoply of death...

Our vehicle went slowly through these fields where death had staked its boundless claims, for more limbs, for more blood, for more and still more fragile bodies and of a world of plans, expectations,



destinies, ended right here...

You feel all at this tragic place... and are quiet like your fellow travelers; not one saying a single word... the only sound the wheels of your vehicle, now a cortege, and the tears falling fast... while complete strangers take hold of their neighbor's hand and squeeze; it is all any of us can do... and we all want the warmth of life and seek it now.

What I learned that day, what you must know, is the immensity of these places of eternal rest for a generation. Here and at many similar places this generation abides for the ages, these fields profoundly marked with pristine graves and simple headstones, that show the last day of their life, the first day of their oblivion.

You think, you hope that the end is nigh, but you cannot say so. You cannot say anything; your vehicle goes slowly, the better for you to understand the awe of this place... and your spirit is sorely troubled and challenged.

And still your vehicle rides through more of the unending graves, each for a life unseasonably, unnaturally ended... and one word rises before you and the other travelers: why? What could have justified so much death and confusion, so much ended too soon, the promise of so many lives, and these so young? Why?

After several hours, your tour is ended... but the graves of Flanders fields are not at an end. They are, at tour's end, what they were at tour's beginning: a metropolis of the dead, where the great numbers you see are only a tiny fraction of the unimaginable totality.

And at last, from so much pain, so palpable and pathetic, comes a valiant thought. That the acres of Flanders fields, at least in part, are the story of the greatest gift of all, to die for the good of all, to give your life so that the lives of untold others can be lived fully, happily.... having received from these dead their lives, their prosperities, everything that makes life worth living.

Since the inception of our great republic wars, insurrections, riots, uprisings have punctuated our national existence. And each has yielded a generous quota of good people who died that America and all Americans might live.

The danger, my fellow countrymen, is that any part of us, any one of us should live without blessed remembrance and heartfelt gratitude to the dead... all of them expired in the unending service of the nation, our allies, and the troubled planet we aim to sooth and uplift. Every great cause, every event within these causes has called upon the best among us... and has resulted in the greatest sacrifice of all, for so many.

What the dead of Flanders fields and of all America's far-flung endeavors want is what only we living can give. And that is our full love and devotion to such as these. We can only be fulfilled by giving it... which is what we do today, and gladly so. It is little enough for the sublime greatness of their gift to us.



'For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the repeated risk of his life...' Marine Corporal Dakota Meyer... recipient of the Medal of Honor. True grit.

By Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's program note. For this article, there is only one song that will do: the Marines' Hymn of the United States Marine Corps with its revered and unmistakable opening line, "From the halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli".

Given that it's one of the signature songs of the nation surprisingly little is known about it. The music is from the "Gendarmes' Duet" from an 1867 revision of the 1859 opera "Genevieve de Brabant" by Jacques Offenbach, the man who wrote the music for the scandalous "Can, can." The lyrics are more obscure because there is no known 19th century version. Legend has it that it was penned by a Marine on duty during the Mexican war (1846-1848), hence "From the halls of Montezuma..."

On September 15, 2011 at a White House ceremony presided over by President Obama it will be played with the pride and flourishes it has earned for Dakota Meyer, the man fate allowed to serve instead of die... and whose selfless heroism embodies the best of the nation... at a time when America needs to be reminded of who we are, how we got here, and the people and characteristics we need to carry the great Republic forward....

"Operation Enduring Freedom," part of the Afghan War which promised much, and delivered little.

Every once in a while, the nation remembers it is at war, first in Iraq, then, very much an afterthought, in Afghanistan, where warfare is the biggest part of its history, economy and past, present and, one sadly concludes, future. Afghanistan is simply a cauldron where the many elements of unending instability and war are blended together to create a noisome, noxious vintage. It is a place no sensible person wishes to go... and where the words "Operation Enduring Freedom" are nothing so much as high irony, grand but unobtainable objectives, a cruel hoax. Into this unforgiving land, Dakota Meyer came to make history.

The date was September 8, 2009.

It was another hazardous day in hazardous Kunar province where Meyer was serving with Embedded Training Team 2-8. There was news... and it was bad, the kind of news no Marine wants to hear and which he instinctively wants to do something about: a group of insurgents had attacked with savage results. Three U.S. Marines and a U.S. Navy corpsman were missing.

Dakota Meyer didn't have to think about what to do... he knew. His responsibility was to rescue his brothers... any other action was unthinkable. Marines help Marines. And that was what he and his combat team set out to do as they moved forward to find and engage the enemy.

Let us recreate the circumstances of that fateful day...

As the combat team moved forward it was hit by intense fire from roughly 50 Taliban insurgents dug-in and concealed on the slopes of Ganjgal village. They had to be removed to accomplish the rescue mission.

Meyer, trained for such an event, mounted a gun-truck, enlisted a fellow Marine to drive, and raced to attack the ambushers and aid the trapped Marines and some Afghan soldiers, too. What ensued was a six-hour fire fight in which Corporal Meyer called upon every feature of brain and body. The Taliban was determined Corporal Meyer would not advance... he was equally determined that he



would. The result was war, war in all its brutalities, in all its unpredictabilities, its confusions, and unexpected developments, war to the death between wary opponents who respected each other's capabilities and meant to have victory... whatever must be done.

Yes, Dakota Meyer meant to go forward... And his determination to do so changed dozens of lives, not least his own. He had brothers to rescue and nothing, absolutely nothing was going to stand in the way of getting to them and bringing them back. Absolutely nothing.

As he moved forward, inexorably forward, he changed lives. He saved 36 Marines and Afghan soldiers that day before he found the bodies of his 4 brothers. To get to them he performed deeds prodigious, sublime, unimaginable. Alone, he charged into the heart of a deadly U-shaped Taliban ambush.

But not just once... not twice... not even three times... but he went into this vortex of mayhem and death four times. What drives at man so, when such a forward policy could, in an instant, send him into eternity and his mangled body home to grieving parents and relations? What drives a man at such a moment, when all the joys and pleasures of a young life could end in an instant?

He was insistent, determined that his brothers, or whatever was left of them, should not be mutilated, humiliated, and left to rot in the inhospitable soil of this supremely inhospitable land. He did not think of death... or valor.... or heroism. He thought of brothers, of buddies, young men as young as he, just a moment ago bursting with hijinx and wise-cracking humor... now face down in their own blood and the dust of Afghanistan. These brothers, spirits now, called out to Dakota Meyer... and they did not call out in vain.

Charging alone into the enraged, determined Taliban he focused on his mission... beyond thoughts of death. At such a moment, facing fearsome odds, a man becomes so certain he will die that a profound liberation occurs... because death is likely, he means to exact a terrible price on the enemy... and he finds hitherto unknown strengths and abilities which he is determined should be fully used with deadly effect.

Meyer killed 8 Taliban!

Meyer personally evacuated 12 friendly wounded!

Meyer provided cover for another 24 Marines and soldiers to escape likely death at the hands of a determined and numerically superior foe!

On his first foray his lone vehicle drew machine gun, mortar, rocket grenade and small arms fire while he rescued five wounded soldiers.

His second attack disrupted the enemy's ambush and he evacuated four more wounded Marines.

Switching to anther gun-truck because his was too damaged they again sped in for a third time, and as turret gunner killed several Taliban attackers at point-blank range and suppressed enemy fire so 24 Marines and soldiers could break-out.

Despite being wounded, he made a fourth attack with three others to search for missing team members. Nearly surrounded and under heavy fire he dismounted the vehicle and searched house to house to recover the bodies of his fallen team members, the brothers who he valued beyond his own life and who, he knew, would have done as much for him. As any Marine would...

One of only 86 people to receive the Medal of Honor while still living.

The Medal of Honor is the nation's highest military award. It represents the highest standard of courage, boldness, and valor. Only 86 living people have received it and the last Marine to do so was



Sgt. Maj. Allan Kellogg, Jr. in 1973 for gallantry in Vietnam.

Meyer, modest, polite, affable, makes it clear that he is no hero, just a Marine doing his best for his brothers... but we are not circumscribed in what we may say about this man who, by any reckoning, should have died that day a dozen times in Ganjgal.... but who instead delivered life to many colleagues without thought of his own. It is fitting and proper to award such a rare and prestigious award to such as Dakota Meyer... a man who, so young, reminds America that great deeds are conceived in selflessness and sacrifice. God shed his grace on thee, Dakota Meyer. You remind us all of what we each must do to ensure He sheds it still on all of us and our great exercise of freedom, now challenged on all sides.



The boy next door... the best of the Great Republic. You sleep easy through the night because of him... and millions like him. A Tribute!

The boy next door... the best of the Great Republic. You sleep easy through the night because of him... and millions like him. A Tribute!

Author's program note. When was the last time you considered the state of our Great Republic and did anything -- anything at all -- to sustain and improve it?

If you cannot immediately say and cannot recall what you did, if you have nothing but rancorous thoughts and feelings about our continuing great experiment in the governance and well being of mankind, then stop and focus your full, undivided attention on this article and its subject: Howard Hector Martell, Jr. For this day, like every other day over the past 20 years, Howard Martell has served us... you, me, the Great Republic, all of us able to live life as we wish because of him and his colleagues in every great service of our great nation.

To set the stage for this story, to provide the essential sound, I have selected music from one of the greatest public affairs programs ever -- "Victory at Sea." It is a documentary television series about naval warfare during World War II that was originally broadcast by NBC in 1952-1953. The stirring music was composed by Richard Rodgers and Robert Russell Bennett. Rodgers, well known for a string of iconic Broadway musicals, contributed 13 "themes"; short piano compositions a minute or two in length. Bennett did the scoring, transforming Rodger's themes into a variety of moods, all designed to touch your heart and fire your imagination. The result was pure magic.

Find out for yourself. Go now to any search engine. Listen to a few of the "themes" to get you started. I like "Hard Work and Horseplay", "Theme of the Fast Carriers" and, of course, "The Song of the High Seas." However, to honor Howard Martell, listen to "Guadalcanal March." It is the essence of what a grand march should be... the kind of march Howard has so well earned... I'm playing it now as I write.

New London.

New London, Connecticut is a seaport city and a port of entry on the northeast coast of the United States. It is located at the mouth of the Thames River which locals demand you pronounce to rhyme with "James", unlike the great river of London, England which rhymes with 'hems". The folks in New London insist upon their rendering; after all, they were part of the victorious Revolution that tossed the Brits out -- and their eccentric pronunciations. As you hear this said, you begin to grasp the fact that New London is not merely a place of picturesque aspects; just what meets the eye. Rather, it is a place where young boys glimpse the great sea at hand, so beckoning, and dream dreams of faraway places and what life can be.

Howie Martell was such a boy.

He was born June 27,1973, attended local schools, graduating from Griswold High School. People remember him, if they remember him at all, as shy, uncertain; a boy who would smile at you... but only after you had smiled at him. Teachers with many students to instruct would remember him indistinctly and call him "average." But such an appraisal would have been incomplete, inaccurate, failing to capture his essence, for this boy was a dreamer of great dreams... and New London, for centuries the home port of audacious mariners, offered him the means to live them, mere dreams no longer.

On August 10, 1992, just 19, he left the comfort of family, friends, the only place he had ever



known, placing his future in the hands of strangers who would, in due course and short order, become comrades, a word civilians may know but so seldom understand. And so Howard Martell entered the service of the Great Republic, discovering a destination more important than any of the 48 countries he came to visit. He found himself... and became a man.

From this point, his resume tells the story... it is all USN, the resume of a man who studied hard, knew his business -- the Great Republic's business -- and was esteemed by superiors who always found him ready to assist, eager to learn, and above all trustworthy and responsible.

In the process a man was shaped who was the complete Navy professional, respected by all, able to be, as events required, a man who could lead, a man who would be loyal, a man you wanted on your team, because he (and this touches the heart of this man) always stood for the success of his team, never just his own. As people came to know him, they saw this... and admired the man who put collective success above mere personal gain. Thus the Navy took Howard Martell, once a shy boy no one could quite remember, to its heart. He received one deserved honor after another... Navy Good Conduct Medal... six times... Navy & Marine Corps Achievement Medal... four times... Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal... Iraq Campaign Medal... two times. And most telling of all a plaque from his fellow First Class Petty Officers who thereby saluted one of their own. He was indeed the complete Navy man... a man who twenty years before had made the right decision.

The need for service in the age of selfishness.

It is a truism that older citizens will engage in endless rodomontades which detail the innumerable outrages perpetrated by the young against society. How they are ill-educated, lazy, unkempt, unclean of body and language. How they cannot be depended upon... how they flout all established behavior, video game obsessed wastrels who cannot be trusted and will never amount to a hill of beans. Thus goes the jeremiad; you can catch a whiff of it whenever two adults of fifty or so gather. From the very start of the first civilization each man steps into this argument in his maturity, as easily as he dons casual clothes. It is one of the perqs of aging, and no senior citizen will ever give up this sacred right to pontificate. I shall not give it up either and so I give you some pungent thoughts on the matter of service, a concept that alternates between being an afterthought and the salvation of the nation. What we require is calm reflection and sensible policies on the matter. And so I choose to use my words not to grumble but to exhort... to touch a shy boy or girl reading this article and help them both select the responsible path, the path trod by Howard Martell and generations of young people before... the path of service... and the abiding need of the Great Republic for... you!

Young friend, our way of governance, our core beliefs, the very future of our noble enterprise is not only challenged, but at risk. You have a choice -- mindless dissipation and decay, or personal development and redemption through the bestowal of your time, mind and heart to the pressing affairs of the Great Republic. In short, you can ignobly remain part of the problem, or become infinitely more valuable as part of the solution.

There is nothing neutral about this decision. It is of the greatest possible consequence and can only be made by you. A great idea, the greatest notion of statecraft ever propounded, the Great Republic itself awaits your verdict, hopeful, expectant, confident. Howie Martell made the right choice. Will you?

... And now it is time to end Howard's military career with all the pomp and circumstance he has earned... and which a grateful Navy can provide.

Stand forward Petty Officer First Class Howard Hector Martell, Jr.. For your service, your nation, your friends, family and comrades mean to honor you before the world in due recognition for what you have so abundantly given... above all the gift of loyalty and fidelity to a great institution so



needed by this great nation.

And so through each of the hallowed retirement traditions all Naval personnel know so well... until this event, at once festive and solemn, reaches the Shadow Box. This is a symbol of a sailor's many career accomplishments and recognitions. Shadow boxes contain a U.S. flag folded into a triangle, ribbons and medals, insignia and revered devices. They act as a reminder of ranks earned by the retiree and the awards received. It is a mark of the highest honor and cherished accordingly. Yours, Howard, comes complete with the unqualified gratitude of the nation you have served so well... none better... and the sincere thanks of us all. May God grant you sunshine and a fair wind to your many ports of call still to come.

Envoi.

End this article by returning to any search engine and playing the "Victory at Sea" theme. It remains glorious.



Resource

About the Author Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Dr. Lant is also an American historian and author of 18 best-selling business books.

Republished with author's permission by Elizabeth English http://LizsWorldprofit.com.

http://lizsworldprofit.com/

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Remember Veteran's Day