Posts Tagged ‘Germany’

In the United States of America, when the People forget They are the government those with aspirations to power and control rule all those who will not or choose not. As it was stated by Mr A.Lincoln, a government of the People, by the People, for the People. When that is forgotten, the People become the slaves of the whims of government.

In Socialism, it is conformity to the social norms as imposed by the masses or majority rule. It is a form of democracy in that majority rules until docility occurs. Docility occurs when the social norm becomes ‘let others do for me, I am only concerned with me.’ When the majority sides in docile form, the minorities vie for power and control. Out of the morass comes the victor of dictatorship, a tyrant is born. The titling of the tyrant does not matter. The form remains the same. The results of tyranny remain the same. Those outside the voice of the tyrant become the ‘abnormal’ and not ‘representative’ of the masses.

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Uncle John

By Dave Doc Rogers
© 20090131
For the “Support our Support” contest at Writers Café
He sat on his couch, surrounded by loved ones, showing a turkey shoot trophy for first place. He was an older man reliving the vigor of youth. I sat there watching as a young man, ignorant of the importances of life. Here was my uncle; my mother’s sister’s husband. I suppose proximity and familiarity diluted the strength of this man. I did not realize until much later the value of the man who sat there excitedly retelling how an “old man” like himself out shot all of those “younger” guys. My dad, no longer a young man himself, shared in that laughter. Knowing eyes did not divulge much more than laughter.
It was the thing all young men did. They kissed their wives or their girlfriends, waved good-bye to their moms, boarded a bus, and went to basic training. For those living in rural, depression-era Georgia during the 1930s and early 1940s, a money earner for the family just got on that bus. They would have to do with even less now. Some may have argued that very point. Others said nothing because it was the right thing to do. In middle Europe at the same time, no one had an option. They were engaged in a war.
My Uncle John arrived at boot camp, received the haircut, was issued new clothes, was told where to go. He distinguished himself as a country boy who could shoot. They transferred him to one motorized division to another one for special infantry. After training, he went to England. After England, he spent considerable time in France. He was with the boys that survived when they landed at Normandy. He was with them when his division was honored for holding a key city until relieved. I was told his tank was hit. He went one way. His best friend went the other. They didn’t see each other again for many years. Grown men bawling like babes on a downtown street.
The honored sergeant returned home. There were no outward signs of damage. It was a different era. They didn’t talk about combat fatigue or battle stress. They just dealt with ‘their’ issues. Those that served in the Pacific or in Europe understood what it was like. The horror stories these men could not share because the eyes staring back at them would disbelieve. For an infantry soldier, warfare gets very close and personal. Uncle John was no exception. My mother related a story after my uncle’s return from war where his mind returned to war while his body was in central Georgia. It involved shoving his oldest boy against the wall, shouting interrogating words in German, and a loving family trying to get their dad back. When he came back to his mind, he left for three days. He loved his family much.
There were no other tales told of my Uncle John beyond here is a man who helped raise ten kids, loved his wife, worked really hard, loved to fish, loved to hunt, and loved his extended family as his own. He and his brother-in-law helped create a legacy of sorts. Because of their honored service to their country in extremely difficult times, many of the children of the extended family proved themselves also in military service; even in times when the military effort was disliked. I, too, served.
A movie came out about saving a private which lead to a mini-series about a parachute infantry regiment. My Uncle John was one of those that shouted Currahee! He was one of the fortunate few that returned home. Having watched the mini-series several times and knowing what I know of war from books, film, interviews, and marginal experience, I gained a better measure of the man who sat upon his couch surrounded by loved ones talking about a turkey shoot trophy. I never heard him make a big deal of his time in Europe. I heard him make a big deal about his family and living life. His sons and daughters spoke more of their father’s time in Europe than he did. He was one of the fortunate few that returned to live life among people, to face the challenges of normalcy, to hope to never send their sons and daughters to go do what he did.
My Uncle John spent the remainder of his days a father, a grandfather, and a great grandfather. He had the misfortune to bury his wife at younger age than should have been. A man of goodly physical strength waned to old age and disease. He was laid to rest, a hero; not of war but of life. War shaped his passion for living. Life tasted all the more sweeter. Those things taken as common and unappreciated became of high value, because of whom and what he left behind in Europe during the 1940s.
My Uncle John rests with his wife now. He lived a full life; fuller than most, perhaps less than others. He gave of himself willingly for God and country and for a people he did not know. He returned and worked and lived. No one knew the horrors he saw except for a few, a band of brothers. Greatness is not always born out of doing well in great events. Most of the time it is born out of doing the most commonplace things to the best of your ability over the balance of your life and hoping it was enough to impact another’s life.
My Uncle John’s legacy continues on through his children, me, my writing, and through the living that hear the retelling of his life.

In loving memory:
John Lee Eubanks
December 23, 1920 to April 27, 1997
506e PIR, 101st Infantry Division, USA
“Easy Company”


John Eubanks_WWII 506PIREasyco01

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here be the keltoi
the historian said
here be a vast and varied people
skilled in trade and in the working of metals

our heart is in the land
it is our charge
savage to the usurper
loyal friend to our kin

father begat son
brother begat clan
clan begat village
village begat the keltoi

rolling hills
deep forests, green
wide fields of heather
grasses tall, wind waved

mountains tall
icy blue
white capped and wind swept
dark masses we call home

the earth is our mother
but she did not give us birth
she feeds us, nourishes us
she gives unto us wisdom

you see,

we are a people
born out of time
ancient is our culture
timeless is our way

hairs of gold, copper, and brown
black as the night and white as snow
eyes of crystal, emerald, and blue
brown and amber, black and gray

lovers of color, let our plaide show
lovers of craft, hammer and chisel
clay, bronze, and iron sing to our heart
alive and vibrant, they sing beneath our hands

the mystic, the fairy
the wyrding way
a more ancient past calls us
ancient beyond the sacred grove

places of meeting
stones stacked high
places to listen
mother teaches wisdom

of dragons and fell mysteries
to our heroes did call
into the mysts, atop the great spire
into the dark hollow, depths of mother earth

the creator loved us
gave us feet to tread
a restless heart
a desire to see

restless feet planted
calls to our heart, “come see…”
wanderlust taken
no place to call ours

we walk this earth
tending its land
the land sings to us
we feel its heart

rain washed highlands
swift running rivers
deep, mist covered lowlands
salt sea breezes

towering pines
ancient oaks
rock hard maples
sturdy ashes

twilight deep forests
the boar and the bear
lions and eagles
harpies and gryphons

roaring seas
rolling hills
sky piercing mountains
heart of the earth ravines

the earth, she calls to me
return to my ancient home
beneath the skies of Gaellea
ever westward we roam

songs sung by bards
in the twilight of the night
of heroes, witches, and kings
of damsels and crones

our history plays
in the song of a key
no words are written
the story maker sings

of family and calling
plaide and voices say
i am kelt and clan
i am praeton, scot, eyre, welsh, belgae, frank

my people still call to me
beyond the great divide
do not forget your ancestors
dream of heroes and keltic pride

©2008 Dave Doc Rogers

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