On this day, November 11, 11:11 A.M., 1918

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Thread: On this day, November 11, 11:11 A.M., 1918

  1. #1
    Join Date
    Jul 2009
    North Carolina, USA

    On this day, November 11, 11:11 A.M., 1918

    Let us celebrate Veterans day today!! But more importantly, we should remember the men who fought in the trenches and in the air during the First World War. Originally called Armistice day, Veterans day was originally made to honor the end of the 1st World War on Nov. 11, 11:11 A.M. 1918. Later, Congress mandated that the day should honor all veterans of all Wars. God bless the souls of our Doughboys and Marines, and the men fighting overseas as we speak.

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  3. #2
    Join Date
    Sep 2008

    Re: On this day, November 11, 11:11 A.M., 1918

    God bless them all!
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  4. #3
    Join Date
    May 2008
    Clifton, NJ

    Re: On this day, November 11, 11:11 A.M., 1918

    Amen to that.
    "That which does not kill us, makes us stronger."

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  6. #4
    Join Date
    Mar 2005
    Fayetteville, NC

    Re: On this day, November 11, 11:11 A.M., 1918

    "In Flander's Fields"
    By John McCrae

    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.

  7. #5
    Join Date
    Jul 2009
    North Carolina, USA

    Re: On this day, November 11, 11:11 A.M., 1918

    This is a poem written by My Great Grandfather
    By: Sgt. Leo T. Brinson, 119th Infantry 30th Division


    There’s a broken, battered village
    Somewhere up behind the line;
    There’s a dugout and a bunk there
    That I used to say were mine.

    I remember how I reached them.
    Dripping wet and all forlorn,
    In the dim and dreary twilight
    Of a weeping summer dawn.

    All that week I’d buried brothers
    In one bitter battle slain;
    In one grave I laid two hundred,
    God, what sorrow and what pain!

    And that night I’d been in trenches,
    Seeking out the sodden dead,
    And just dropping them in shell holes,
    With a service swiftly said.

    For the bullets rattled ‘round me,
    But I couldn’t leave them there,
    Water-soaked in flooded shell holes.
    Rift of common Christian prayer.

    So I crawled ‘round on my knees,
    And I listened to the roar
    Of the guns that hammered Ypres,
    Like big breakers on the shore.

    Then there spoke a dripping sergeant,
    When the time was growing late:
    “Would you please to bury this one,
    Cause he used to be my mate?”

    So we groped our way in darkness
    To a body lying there,
    Just a blacker lump of blackness,
    With a red blotch on his hair.

    Though we turned him gently over,
    Yet I still can hear the thud,
    As the body fell face forward
    And then settled in the mud.

    We went down upon our faces,
    And I said the service through,
    From “I am the Resurrection”
    To the last, the great “Adieu.”

    We stood up to give the blessings
    And commend him to the Lord,
    When a sudden light shot soaring,
    Silver swift and like a sword.

    At a stroke it slew the darkness,
    Flashed its glory on the mud,
    And I saw the sergeant staring
    At a crimson clot of blood.

    There are many kinds of sorrow
    In this world of Love and Hate,
    But there is no sterner sorrow
    Than a soldier’s for his mate.

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On this day, November 11, 11:11 A.M., 1918