Posted on Dec 17, 2013
What will be our Vietnam Wall Memorial for OIF/OEF?
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I love the wall in DC. Feels like you are walking on holy ground. I have seen numerous make shift, temporary, unit or event specific memorials for our fallen in these two wars. Is there a project in the making for a more permanent, all inclusive design
What would you like to see? A wall or something else?
I'd love to see some brainstorming and maybe even some personal stories on here from those who have lost a friend/family member to these wars.
Also should it be a combined memorial or one for each war?
What would you like to see? A wall or something else?
I'd love to see some brainstorming and maybe even some personal stories on here from those who have lost a friend/family member to these wars.
Also should it be a combined memorial or one for each war?
Memorial
Operation Enduring Freedom (OEF) - Afghanistan
Operation Iraqi Freedom (OIF)
Department of Veterans Affairs (VA)
Edited 12 y ago
Posted 12 y ago
Responses: 48
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The wall should be tasteful and honor those that served in this conflict/war.
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Ritual is the healing with sacred intent makes all of our actions sacred; when I lead a ritual to welcome back Vietnam veterans home, there wasn't a dry eye in the the room.and asked all veterans to wash their hands of the blood of war, Gordon had his first full night of sleep since the war and started a healing in his own life which lead to this poem (which has healed so many that I shared it with) in my own world for creating World Peace by 2025 (I need help) collaboration and healing the wounds of war and practising World Peace in our lives especially at this time in History to create a morality that we can all believe which will give us meaning in our lives.I forgot what the question was but although he died a few years ago,This is Gordons way to heal from war;
Lunch
He came to lunch with me today the Vietnamese boy
sat at the table on my left, as he always does
and my hand trembled as I tried to eat
I've never known his name odd, because
he's been around so long-twenty-four years
on the edges of my dreams,twenty-four years
a silent presence haunting the sleepless
early-morning hours that sometimes snatch me still
too-easily alarmed from sleep.
Fourteen years, maybe fifteen, (hard to tell with all the blood),
beatified with fierce pride of new manhood,
childhood innocence burnished by war
to a hard metallic sheen.
I've come to love him, this boy so like myself,
but still my hand trembled as I raised my cup to drink.
He didn't eat,(he never does)
Just watched me (as he always does)
never speaking, watched me
silent through his pain.
Silent since that dark and early-morning hour
twenty-four years ago, jungle-dark and early-morning hour
when he cried out in warning to his brothers
as we lay tense and trembling, he and I,
trapped in bloody embrace in the fear-kissed dark
of the killing field, cries out again in warning and in pain
as I put one hand over the hole in his gut to stop the blood,
one over his mouth to stop the cries.
He writhes, twisting from my touch, thrashes in shadow
as I reach again to silence his cries, our tortured dance
masking sounds of his brothers' advance,
painting us as targets in the dark—
And the hiss-whispered order flung with desperate urgency
from the darkness on my right: "Cut that slope’s throat!
Now!"
Shadow-fractured moonlight flows the cutting edge of knife I draw with bloody hand. “Please,” I whisper, “Don't”
lift my hand (“Please!”) from his lips
(“Please don’t!”) cries erupt anew
and I raise the blade and choose --
He's never cried out since,
nor laughed, this beautiful man-child warrior.
He simply watches me, like at lunch,
trying to talk, to chew, to swallow.
No longer seeking escape.
Trying only to control the trembling--
He came to lunch with me today,
and I don't mind so much any more.
Still,I wish I knew his name
so I could set him free--
You see you cannot kill someone
without becoming jailer to his soul.
Gordon Mustain
Lunch
He came to lunch with me today the Vietnamese boy
sat at the table on my left, as he always does
and my hand trembled as I tried to eat
I've never known his name odd, because
he's been around so long-twenty-four years
on the edges of my dreams,twenty-four years
a silent presence haunting the sleepless
early-morning hours that sometimes snatch me still
too-easily alarmed from sleep.
Fourteen years, maybe fifteen, (hard to tell with all the blood),
beatified with fierce pride of new manhood,
childhood innocence burnished by war
to a hard metallic sheen.
I've come to love him, this boy so like myself,
but still my hand trembled as I raised my cup to drink.
He didn't eat,(he never does)
Just watched me (as he always does)
never speaking, watched me
silent through his pain.
Silent since that dark and early-morning hour
twenty-four years ago, jungle-dark and early-morning hour
when he cried out in warning to his brothers
as we lay tense and trembling, he and I,
trapped in bloody embrace in the fear-kissed dark
of the killing field, cries out again in warning and in pain
as I put one hand over the hole in his gut to stop the blood,
one over his mouth to stop the cries.
He writhes, twisting from my touch, thrashes in shadow
as I reach again to silence his cries, our tortured dance
masking sounds of his brothers' advance,
painting us as targets in the dark—
And the hiss-whispered order flung with desperate urgency
from the darkness on my right: "Cut that slope’s throat!
Now!"
Shadow-fractured moonlight flows the cutting edge of knife I draw with bloody hand. “Please,” I whisper, “Don't”
lift my hand (“Please!”) from his lips
(“Please don’t!”) cries erupt anew
and I raise the blade and choose --
He's never cried out since,
nor laughed, this beautiful man-child warrior.
He simply watches me, like at lunch,
trying to talk, to chew, to swallow.
No longer seeking escape.
Trying only to control the trembling--
He came to lunch with me today,
and I don't mind so much any more.
Still,I wish I knew his name
so I could set him free--
You see you cannot kill someone
without becoming jailer to his soul.
Gordon Mustain
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CN Mudman Johnson
Lunch
He came to lunch with me today the Vietnamese boy
sat at the table on my left, as he always does
and my hand trembled as I tried to eat
I've never known his name odd, because
he's been around so long-twenty-four years
on the edges of my dreams,twenty-four years
a silent presence haunting the sleepless
early-morning hours that sometimes snatch me still
too-easily alarmed from sleep.
Fourteen years, maybe fifteen, (hard to tell with all the blood),
beatified with fierce pride of new manhood,
childhood innocence burnished by war
to a hard metallic sheen.
I've come to love him, this boy so like myself,
but still my hand trembled as I raised my cup to drink.
He didn't eat,(he never does)
Just watched me (as he always does)
never speaking, watched me
silent through his pain.
Silent since that dark and early-morning hour
twenty-four years ago, jungle-dark and early-morning hour
when he cried out in warning to his brothers
as we lay tense and trembling, he and I,
trapped in bloody embrace in the fear-kissed dark
of the killing field, cries out again in warning and in pain
as I put one hand over the hole in his gut to stop the blood,
one over his mouth to stop the cries.
He writhes, twisting from my touch, thrashes in shadow
as I reach again to silence his cries, our tortured dance
masking sounds of his brothers' advance,
painting us as targets in the dark—
And the hiss-whispered order flung with desperate urgency
from the darkness on my right: "Cut that slope’s throat!
Now!"
Shadow-fractured moonlight flows the cutting edge of knife I draw with bloody hand. “Please,” I whisper, “Don't”
lift my hand (“Please!”) from his lips
(“Please don’t!”) cries erupt anew
and I raise the blade and choose --
He's never cried out since,
nor laughed, this beautiful man-child warrior.
He simply watches me, like at lunch,
trying to talk, to chew, to swallow.
No longer seeking escape.
Trying only to control the trembling--
He came to lunch with me today,
and I don't mind so much any more.
Still,I wish I knew his name
so I could set him free--
You see you cannot kill someone
without becoming jailer to his soul.
Gordon Mustain
He came to lunch with me today the Vietnamese boy
sat at the table on my left, as he always does
and my hand trembled as I tried to eat
I've never known his name odd, because
he's been around so long-twenty-four years
on the edges of my dreams,twenty-four years
a silent presence haunting the sleepless
early-morning hours that sometimes snatch me still
too-easily alarmed from sleep.
Fourteen years, maybe fifteen, (hard to tell with all the blood),
beatified with fierce pride of new manhood,
childhood innocence burnished by war
to a hard metallic sheen.
I've come to love him, this boy so like myself,
but still my hand trembled as I raised my cup to drink.
He didn't eat,(he never does)
Just watched me (as he always does)
never speaking, watched me
silent through his pain.
Silent since that dark and early-morning hour
twenty-four years ago, jungle-dark and early-morning hour
when he cried out in warning to his brothers
as we lay tense and trembling, he and I,
trapped in bloody embrace in the fear-kissed dark
of the killing field, cries out again in warning and in pain
as I put one hand over the hole in his gut to stop the blood,
one over his mouth to stop the cries.
He writhes, twisting from my touch, thrashes in shadow
as I reach again to silence his cries, our tortured dance
masking sounds of his brothers' advance,
painting us as targets in the dark—
And the hiss-whispered order flung with desperate urgency
from the darkness on my right: "Cut that slope’s throat!
Now!"
Shadow-fractured moonlight flows the cutting edge of knife I draw with bloody hand. “Please,” I whisper, “Don't”
lift my hand (“Please!”) from his lips
(“Please don’t!”) cries erupt anew
and I raise the blade and choose --
He's never cried out since,
nor laughed, this beautiful man-child warrior.
He simply watches me, like at lunch,
trying to talk, to chew, to swallow.
No longer seeking escape.
Trying only to control the trembling--
He came to lunch with me today,
and I don't mind so much any more.
Still,I wish I knew his name
so I could set him free--
You see you cannot kill someone
without becoming jailer to his soul.
Gordon Mustain
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What about agent orange spouses who have passed ? They died from being in the war also!
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CDR Eben Hedman
Operation Iraqi Freedom and I believe "Operation Enduring Freedom". Please correct me if I am wrong.
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Pvt SanJuana Méndez
CDR Eben Hedman what nobody has mentioned is conflict that led to these 2: Operation Desert Storm, 16 Jan 1996 (not sure about yr) which, coincidentally, was foreseen by Nostrodamus some 300 yrs ago.
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CN Mudman Johnson
speaks for itself;Lunch
He came to lunch with me today the Vietnamese boy
sat at the table on my left, as he always does
and my hand trembled as I tried to eat
I've never known his name odd, because
he's been around so long-twenty-four years
on the edges of my dreams,twenty-four years
a silent presence haunting the sleepless
early-morning hours that sometimes snatch me still
too-easily alarmed from sleep.
Fourteen years, maybe fifteen, (hard to tell with all the blood),
beatified with fierce pride of new manhood,
childhood innocence burnished by war
to a hard metallic sheen.
I've come to love him, this boy so like myself,
but still my hand trembled as I raised my cup to drink.
He didn't eat,(he never does)
Just watched me (as he always does)
never speaking, watched me
silent through his pain.
Silent since that dark and early-morning hour
twenty-four years ago, jungle-dark and early-morning hour
when he cried out in warning to his brothers
as we lay tense and trembling, he and I,
trapped in bloody embrace in the fear-kissed dark
of the killing field, cries out again in warning and in pain
as I put one hand over the hole in his gut to stop the blood,
one over his mouth to stop the cries.
He writhes, twisting from my touch, thrashes in shadow
as I reach again to silence his cries, our tortured dance
masking sounds of his brothers' advance,
painting us as targets in the dark—
And the hiss-whispered order flung with desperate urgency
from the darkness on my right: "Cut that slope’s throat!
Now!"
Shadow-fractured moonlight flows the cutting edge of knife I draw with bloody hand. “Please,” I whisper, “Don't”
lift my hand (“Please!”) from his lips
(“Please don’t!”) cries erupt anew
and I raise the blade and choose --
He's never cried out since,
nor laughed, this beautiful man-child warrior.
He simply watches me, like at lunch,
trying to talk, to chew, to swallow.
No longer seeking escape.
Trying only to control the trembling--
He came to lunch with me today,
and I don't mind so much any more.
Still,I wish I knew his name
so I could set him free--
You see you cannot kill someone
without becoming jailer to his soul.
Gordon Mustain
He came to lunch with me today the Vietnamese boy
sat at the table on my left, as he always does
and my hand trembled as I tried to eat
I've never known his name odd, because
he's been around so long-twenty-four years
on the edges of my dreams,twenty-four years
a silent presence haunting the sleepless
early-morning hours that sometimes snatch me still
too-easily alarmed from sleep.
Fourteen years, maybe fifteen, (hard to tell with all the blood),
beatified with fierce pride of new manhood,
childhood innocence burnished by war
to a hard metallic sheen.
I've come to love him, this boy so like myself,
but still my hand trembled as I raised my cup to drink.
He didn't eat,(he never does)
Just watched me (as he always does)
never speaking, watched me
silent through his pain.
Silent since that dark and early-morning hour
twenty-four years ago, jungle-dark and early-morning hour
when he cried out in warning to his brothers
as we lay tense and trembling, he and I,
trapped in bloody embrace in the fear-kissed dark
of the killing field, cries out again in warning and in pain
as I put one hand over the hole in his gut to stop the blood,
one over his mouth to stop the cries.
He writhes, twisting from my touch, thrashes in shadow
as I reach again to silence his cries, our tortured dance
masking sounds of his brothers' advance,
painting us as targets in the dark—
And the hiss-whispered order flung with desperate urgency
from the darkness on my right: "Cut that slope’s throat!
Now!"
Shadow-fractured moonlight flows the cutting edge of knife I draw with bloody hand. “Please,” I whisper, “Don't”
lift my hand (“Please!”) from his lips
(“Please don’t!”) cries erupt anew
and I raise the blade and choose --
He's never cried out since,
nor laughed, this beautiful man-child warrior.
He simply watches me, like at lunch,
trying to talk, to chew, to swallow.
No longer seeking escape.
Trying only to control the trembling--
He came to lunch with me today,
and I don't mind so much any more.
Still,I wish I knew his name
so I could set him free--
You see you cannot kill someone
without becoming jailer to his soul.
Gordon Mustain
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I would love to see huge american flag with names of all those who have died engraved underneath it.
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The Engineer Regiment has a permanent memorial for all the fallen Engineers from both wars. It's right next to the Engineer Museum on Ft. Leonard Wood.
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