'FROZEN
SOLDIERS' Dedicated
To My Father RIP Lance Corporal Riley (B. 1920-D. 1966)
by
Jeff Riley
Born
into a time frame that propelled him into WW II, my dad, Bob S. Riley, would join
the Army under the buddy system.
At
a time in history when young men went to war to fight not on political expediency
or ideology or specter of an education, but on patriotic zeal and passion for
freedom, was the watchword, the call that emblazoned young men's heart. . If it
meant dying in a blood strewn battlefield of foreign soil, filled with stench
of death and mangled madness, then if that was where freedom lay, then freedom
would be found. For what price is too much for freedom?
After
receiving basic training, he had an opportunity to attend OCS( officer candidate
school) though he only had an 8th grade education. My dad passed on the opportunity
as he wanted to be in battle with his friends and if dying was his fate, then
he was sold out to that fate.
Patton
Speaks To The Troops - England, May 31, 1944
"Now
I want you to remember that no bastard ever won a war by dying for his country.
You won it by making the other poor dumb bastard die for his country. Men, all
this stuff you've heard about America not wanting to fight, wanting to stay out
of the war, is a lot of horse dung. Americans traditionally love to fight. ALL
REAL Americans, love the sting of battle. When you were kids, you all admired
the champion marble shooter, the fastest runner, the big league ball players,
the toughest boxers . . . Americans love a winner and will not tolerate a loser.
Americans play to win all the time. I wouldn't give a hoot in Hell for a man who
lost and laughed. That's why Americans have never lost and will never lose a war.
Because the very thought of losing is hateful to Americans. Now, an army is a
team. It lives, eats, sleeps, fights as a team. This individuality stuff is a
bunch of crap. The bilious bastards who wrote that stuff about individuality for
the Saturday Evening Post, don't know anything more about real battle than they
do about fornicating. Now we have the finest food and equipment, the best spirit,
and the best men in the world. You know . . . My God, I actually pity those poor
bastards we're going up against. My God, I do. We're not just going to shoot the
bastards, we're going to cut out their living guts and use them to grease the
treads of our tanks. We're going to murder those lousy Hun bastards by the bushel.
Now some of you boys, I know, are wondering whether or not you'll chicken out
under fire. Don't worry about it. I can assure you that you'll all do your duty.
The Nazis are the enemy. Wade into them. Spill their blood, shoot them in the
belly. When you put your hand into a bunch of goo, that a moment before was your
best friends face, you'll know what to do. Now there's another thing I want you
to remember. I don't want to get any messages saying that we are holding our position.
We're not holding anything, we'll let the Hun do that. We are advancing constantly,
and we're not interested in holding onto anything except the enemy. We're going
to hold onto him by the nose, and we're going to kick him in the ass. We're going
to kick the hell out of him all the time, and we're going to go through him like
crap through a goose. Now, there's one thing that you men will be able to say
when you get back home, and you may thank God for it. Thirty years from now when
you're sitting around your fireside with your grandson on your knee, and he asks
you, "What did you do in the great World War Two?" You won't have to say, "Well,
I shoveled shit in Louisiana." Alright now, you sons of bitches, you know how
I feel. Oh! . . . I will be proud to lead you wonderful guys into battle anytime,
anywhere. That's all."
Dad
was a foot soldier in Patton's Army and as such saw more than his share of bloodshed.
Tired, hungry with death all around he would witness horrible atrocity. He would
lose many of his buddies on the plains of battles and in the forests of fights.
He would show heroism on many occasions and was awarded many medals.
He
also drove tanks, blew up bridges and did whatever it took to advance the cause
for which he was called. He single handily took out a German bunker when under
fire, by attacking it despite the imminent prospect of death sailed on to his
mission. Tossing hand grenades into the bunker, he wiped out German soldiers who
would have surely taken out many more Americans. For this he was recognized.
He
came home and was never wounded during all of the battles. His friends did not.
He came alone. But he came home with the images of soldiers on the battlefield
frozen in time, those who would not have families so that others may. He came
home scarred and battle weary on the inside like most do. One cannot kill others
and not be affected by it. He often lamented having to kill young boys barely
teenagers, that Hitler threw on the battlefield in desperate attempts to stop
the advancing Americans.
Once,
when I was about 14 years old, I was wearing a surfers cross around my neck. To
me it was just a symbol of rebellion at the time. My dad saw it on me and approached
me. The cross was in the shape of a German Swastika of which I had not considered.
Instead of insisting that I remove it, he simply told me that I was free to wear
it if I liked, but he warned me that other soldiers may not like it. No long speeches
of why, none needed, I removed it and never wore it again.
Unfortunately, my father died of a heart attack at the age
of 46 when I was 15. I never got to know him as a man. I miss that. I'm not sure
what would be different in my life had it been different but I do know this. He
would tell me too never quit, never let someone take freedom from you, never lay
down when it's time to stand up, stand up, be proud for rivers of blood have been
poured and "Give Em Hell" to those who would come against.
Sadly,
my dad and all others who fought the good fight would be stunned by today's events.
To sit and watch planes flying into buildings by Islamic Terrorist and not to
answer with all out war. Making politics out of attack would be an abomination
to him and his friends frozen in times on battlefields afar. Political correctness
and sensitivity is a joke and one that my dad would surely fight against. You
see he also knew the enemies within the camp and like then, now he would if he
were here and able, gather his buddies frozen in time of foreign soils and gather
them together in and all out assault. I can hear his battle cry " Give Em Hell".
May we not forget from whom we have sprung and may we most honor all of those
living and dead by not idling forfeiting what others paid for.
