In 1918, on the "eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month" World War I ended. The guns were silenced.
Armistice day was set aside to remember those who made the ultimate sacrifice during that conflict. In 1954, November 11th was renamed Veterans Day to commemorate all veterans of all wars.
Today we commemorate our veterans. The men and women who served, sacrificed, bled, and died for our country. They upheld the concept of duty, honor, and country.
Many, too many, lay forgotten in the silent gardens of stone. Cold, moldering, unforgiving stone.
They marched off to fight wars the politicians waged. They went where they were supposed to go. They arrived when they were supposed to arrive. The did what they were supposed to do when they got there. They came home. Some healthy and alive. Some maimed and scarred. Some in flag draped coffins.
They were sons and daughters, grand children, nieces and nephews, fathers, mothers, friends, and neighbors. They did something called duty and they did it with honor.
When the bugle call for boots and saddles is made military people do not ask why. They do not care about the politics. They go. To the far corners of the earth. That is their duty. That is the oath they swore.
We owe a debt of gratitude to all who served. Those known and unknown. Those living and dead.
They fought for their country. They fought for the person next to them. They fought for something called duty.
They served with honor.
Let us never forget.
Let us be eternally grateful.
Bugles are calling from prairie to shore, Sign up and fall in and march off to war; Drums beating loudly, hearts beating proudly March blue and gray and smile as you go.Smoke hides the valleys and fire paints the plains, Loud roar the cannons till ruin remains; Blue grass and cotton burnt and forgotten All hope seems gone so, soldier, march on to die. (Ennio Morricone/The Story Of A Soldier)
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark 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. ( Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae)
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