Dear Rangers,
I got these from Andychap.
Truly Free
You've probably seen the bumper sticker somewhere along
the road. It
depicts an American Flag, accompanied by the words "These
colors don't
run". I'm always glad to see this, because it reminds me of an
incident
from my confinement in North Vietnam at the Hao Lo POW Camp,
or the
"Hanoi Hilton," as it became known. Then a Major in the U.S. Air
Force,
I had been captured and imprisoned from 1967-1973. Our treatment
had
been frequently brutal. After three years, however, the beatings and
torture became less frequent.
During the last year, we were allowed outside most days for a
couple
of minutes to bathe. We showered by drawing water from a
concrete tank
with a homemade bucket. One day as we all stood by the tank,
stripped of
our clothes, a young Naval pilot named Mike Christian found the
remnants
of a handkerchief in a gutter that ran under the prison wall. Mike
managed to sneak the grimy rag into our cell and began fashioning
it
into a flag.
Over time we all loaned him a little soap, and he spent days
cleaning
the material. We helped by scrounging and stealing bits and
pieces of
anything he could use.
At night, under his mosquito net, Mike worked on the flag. He
made red
and blue from ground-up roof tiles and tiny amounts of ink and
painted
the colors onto the cloth with watery rice glue. Using thread from
his
own blanket and a homemade bamboo needle, he sewed on stars.
Early in the morning a few days later, when the guards were not
alert,
he whispered loudly from the back of our cell, "Hey gang, look
here". He
proudly held up this tattered piece of cloth, waving it as if in a
breeze.
If you used your imagination, you could tell it was supposed to be
an
American flag. When he raised that smudgy fabric, we
automatically stood
straight and saluted, our chests puffing out, and more than a few
eyes
had tears.
About once a week the guards would strip us, run us outside and
go
through our clothing. During one of those shakedowns, they found
Mike's
flag. We all knew what would happen.
That night they came for him. Night interrogations were always the
worst. They opened the cell door and pulled Mike out. We could
hear the
beginning of the torture before they even had him in the torture cell.
They beat him most of the night. About daylight they pushed what
was
left of him back through the cell door. He was badly broken; even
his
voice was gone.
Within two weeks, despite the danger, Mike scrounged another
piece of
cloth and began another flag. The Stars and Stripes, our national
symbol, was worth the sacrifice to him. Now whenever I see the
flag, I
think of Mike and the morning he first waved that tattered emblem
of a
nation.
It was then, thousands of miles from home in a lonely prison cell,
that he showed us what it is to be truly free.
Condensed from a speech by Leo K. Thorsness, recipient of The
Congressional Medal of Honor.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
In Your Own Words(tm).....Remember Me?.....
copyright 1776, by the American Flag
Hello, Remember me? Some people call me Old
Glory, others call me the Star-Spangled Banner,
but whatever they call me, I am your flag, the flag
of the United States of America. Something has
been bothering me, so I thought I might talk it over
with you, because it is about you and me. I can
remember some time ago, when people would line
up on both sides of the street to watch the parade,
and naturally I was leading every one, proudly waving
in the breeze. When your daddy saw me coming,
he immediately removed his hat and placed it
against his left shoulder so that his hand was
directly over his heart -- remember? And you were
standing there, straight as a soldier. You didn't have
a hat, but you were giving the right salute with your
right hand placed over your heart. What happened?
I'm still the same old flag. Oh, I've added a few more
stars since you were a boy, and lot more blood has
been shed since those parades of long ago. But now,
I don't feel as proud as I used to feel. When I come
down the street, you stand there with you hands in
your pockets. You may give me a small glance, but
the children don't seem to know who I am. I saw a
man take his hat off, then he looked around, didn't
see anyone else do it, so he quickly put his back on.
Is it a sin to be patriotic today??? Have you forgotten
what I stand for? Where I've been? Guadalcanal!
Korea! Vietnam! Look at the memorials and see the
names of those Americans who gave their lives to
keep us free. When you salute me you're saluting
them! Well, it won't be long till I'll come down the
street again, so when you see me place your hand
over your heart and I'll salute you by waving back!
Sent to me by: [EMAIL PROTECTED]
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Our Ragged Old Flag: B. Lee Pemberton
Every nation has a flag of some sort, a combination of colors,
emblems and
insignias having some significance to the people of that country. To
some, a
flag is a symbol of hope -to others, a symbol of oppression or
conquest; to
all, any flag is difficult to ignore, or look upon without some sort of
emotional response.
America has a flag, a rectangle of alternating colored stripes in red,
white,
and blue: Red, for the human blood that has soaked into the soil of
many
foreign lands -many bearing names we can barely pronounce- as
some mother�s
son died alone on some battlefield far from home. White, for the
purity of
our purpose in joining that foreign war, sending our finest strong
young men
into a killing field from which they may return still breathing -but
dead
inside, their young minds so horrified by the carnage their eyes
have
witnessed that their soul simply could not bear the pain. Blue, for
the grief
and sorrow flooding over the family of survivor and casualty alike,
as they
struggle to grasp the enormity of the loss their loved ones have
suffered.
There are stars in one corner of America�s flag, white stars on a
field of
blue, each a mute witness to a State that forms the nation known
as the
United States of America. Today, there are 50 such stars,
representing the 50
States locked in an agony easily as cruel and divisive as any war:
as in
1861, today the American people are again at each others throats;
father
against son, brother against brother, mother against her own
children. But
unlike the other wars, today the guns are silent and wrapped in
their heavy
canvas. No jet aircraft scream through smoke-laden skies while
artillery fire
rips vegetation from the shattered earth. There are no choppers
piloted by
heroes in sunglasses and paper-thin airframes, darting in from out
of nowhere
to rescue the dead and dying, no technicians guiding planes they
cannot see
by tracing blips on a radar screen, in the midst of imminent,
paralyzing
danger.
In this war of good and evil, the combatants are locked in battle in
a
theatre where countless other battles have been won and lost,
none perhaps
though quite so critical to our nation�s survival as this present
conflict.
And none with the far-reaching consequences of this conflict which
has
sullied our flag forever with its capitulation to the forces of evil and
lawlessness by those sworn to defend our flag and every
Constitutional word
that has empowered the Stars and Stripes everywhere she has
flown since first
fluttering aloft so long ago.
This ragged old flag Americans so love has soaked in the tears of
many a
soldier, sailor, airman or marine who would never see his 21st
birthday, a
date when the law said he became a man. But he died like the strongest and
best of men, bravely facing eternity from a life he had barely begun to live.
And then they brought him home, a flag draped over what they found of him, a
flag that would find its way to the family that loved him, a flag that would
be the last contact his family would have with his memory, a flag that would
rest neatly folded forever on a sacred spot on a shelf, the symbol of that
young man�s gift to America.
Some, those who somehow returned from a conflict as far removed from its
originators as reality from theory, brought flags home with them,
bullet-riddled, torn, ragged, bloody, mud-stained shards of cloth bearing
little resemblance to that proud banner snapping sharply as it stood to the
breeze over the Capitol building and the White House in Washington on this
sad day in February, 1999. But the all-but unrecognizable bits of cloth in a
soldier�s hand, brought back as a reminder of a day, a buddy, or a war won or
lost, meant something to the man who somehow kept possession of it all the
thousands of miles home: oh, the stories that ragged old flag would tell -if
he could ever speak around the lump in his throat when he looked at it.
Many of those beneath the sparkling banner high over the Capitol on this
February day have never known the terror of watching Old Glory riddled with
bullets and shot from its staff while they try desperately to bury themselves
out of harm�s way in a pitifully bare field of burned stubble. Many of those
in fine suits and pompous speech on this February day have never heard the
heart-stopping roar of artillery shells passing overhead, or ever gotten
their hands seriously dirty -with real dirt.
But it is their hands that -on this February day- are dirty with the soil of
expediency, greed and cowardice; it is their hands tearing holes in Old
Glory, defiling her so that never again can she catch the breeze and put a
lump in every throat as she inspires the worst of us to want to be our best.
Unloved, unrespected, our Stars and Stripes -Old Glory, to millions of us who
love her- will never be the same. She has been brought down, not by bullets,
bombs, blood, tears, mud or time -but vanquished by men to whom she was not
worth fighting for!
Our Ragged Old Flag. The symbol that will live forever in the hearts of true
Americans everywhere. Our Ragged Old Flag. Born in the heart and soul of
Americans since 1607, and murdered by cowards in 1999.
Our Ragged Old Flag
� 1999 B. Lee Pemberton
Free Permission To Reprint, if
Proper Credit and � notice included.
Church of the Lion of Judah
Post Office Box 48742
Sarasota, Fl 34230-8742
-World's Largest Evangelical Internet Ministry!-
"Surfing For Souls On The Internet!"
[EMAIL PROTECTED]
( http://www.bealenet.com/~ron/index.html )
"W.W.J.D. .........WITH YOU?"
There's a storm coming, our Storm.
PROCLAIMING GOD'S LOVE TO A DYING WORLD
Say to the captives, 'come out,' and those in darkness, 'Be free!'
Isaiah 49:9
I looked to the heavens to where God dwells
I looked into my life to see he lives there as well.
Love in Jesus
Adrian Bonham aka Morning Light
Outpost 49
Hawkesbury Royal Rangers
Windsor, N.S.W.
Australia
F.C.F. 94
http://www.summit.net.au/~founder1/
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