Small Town Veteran

Baby boomer, nerdy kid, Viet Nam veteran, engineer, daddy, grandpa.
Politically incorrect.  Proud anti-idiotarian

"For those who have fought for it, freedom has a taste the protected will never know."

"May no soldier
go unloved."

Delenda Est!

Death before


(Membership transferred
to Bill's Bites)

Delenda Est!

Some links I like to keep handy at all times

Worthy Sites

Bill's World
Brandi Jean
Lt. Robbie

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Russ Vaughn: All the Way!

[Via email from Russ, who'll be a valued member of the OLD WAR DOGS team when we open the new site to the public.]

All the Way!
Paratroopers are taught to never give up; their motto is “All the Way, Airborne!”

The way I see Liberals, when all’s said and done,
Is like those who’d fall out of their last jump school run.
We all started those runs with the will to succeed,
But for some the pain just surpassed their need,
To stand in that door in the blast of the props,
To go all the way, pulling out all the stops,
Accepting the challenge that stood you up here,
Your feet in the door, your heart pounding with fear.

Some folks are quitters, who fall by the way,
While others run past them, determined to stay,
Enduring the aches, sucking glory through pain,
For the jump wings they seek and the glory they gain.
“All the way,” is their hymn, the cadence they sing,
As they blow past the burn, reaching for the brass ring;
But the quitters fall out; they can’t handle the pain,
Ensuring only the best and the hardest remain.

War is like jump school, the going gets rough,
And playing at tough is just not enough.
It’s the spirit within you that says you won’t quit,
Proves that you’re worthy, proves that you’re fit,
To fight on in combat when comrades are falling,
To fight for your life, for your cause, for your calling,
With never a thought you might possibly yield,
And never one thought of retreat from the field.

Those who toughed out those runs, stood in that door,
Don’t understand those who won’t fight anymore;
Can’t fathom their calls for retreat from Iraq,
Calls to pull out our troops, to bring them all back,
Thank goodness we’ve men who’ll stand in that door
And go all the way till the fight is no more.
Paratroopers are winners, who’ll stay ‘til it’s done,
But most Libs are quitters, who won’t finish the run. 

Russ Vaughn

Posted by Bill Faith on June 28, 2006 at 03:24 AM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack


Russ Vaughn: Hallowed Human Shields

Hallowed Human Shields

Libs think Hillary’s smart as a whip,
I think she’s just a fraud.
She couldn’t hold Ann Coulter’s slip;
Ann’s America’s sharpest broad.
She chews up liberal talking heads,
With wit so quick and cunning,
Rips Alan Colmes to bloody shreds,
And sends Matt Lauer running.

But now she’s really gone too far,
All the liberal lambs are bleating;
Is there nothing sacred she won’t tar?
My word, she’s widow-beating!
“Can you believe it?” reporters gasp,
“Those are victims that she’s dissing;
How dare that vicious rightwing asp
Threaten widows with her hissing?”

Our lovely Ann’s beyond the pale,
Got the Libs all hot and fuming;
Why, this attack is off the scale,
Sacred cows this blonde's exhuming.
And with every shovelful of dirt,
We see from her indiscretion,
How Libs exploit such human hurt,
Then dare our right to question.

No, we mustn’t challenge anything,
Regardless how dumb or windy,
From a brain-fried lefty dingaling,
Like grave top screeching Cindy;
Or Cleland, Murtha, and Kerry,
Because of war, beyond aspersion,
Or those Jersey Widows Merry,
No, we daren’t dispute their version.

But Ms. Ann, so lithe and lethal, went ahunting in Liberal fields,
And sank her fangs in the haunches of their hallowed human shields.

Russ Vaughn


Allah has a somewhat related note here.

Posted by Bill Faith on June 13, 2006 at 03:15 PM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack


Abu Musab al Zarqawi Is Still Dead Today Too

Damn I enjoy writing that. The last time I did was here.

The Star Spangled Banter
(Zarqawi Version)

Oh say did you see that bright flash of light?
You so proudly we nailed at the twilight’s last gleaming…
Though we bet you saw stars on your very last night,
O’er the networks we watched your ass silently steaming…
And the rockets red glare spreading your ass everywhere,
Gave proof through the night that you’re no longer there…
Oh say does our banter now waft o’er your grave,
From the land of the free and the home of the brave…

Russ Vaughn


John B. Dwyer: Killing Zarqawi


Autopsy shows Zarqawi was indeed killed by bomb blast

Zarqawi: More Inappropriate Glee

"Lovely wooded acre lot, spacious open-air home for sale."


Captain Ed: The Beat Didn't Go On


Christopher Hitchens: Why Amman helped track down Zarqawi.


The WaPo has some information I didn't know before here.

Posted by Bill Faith on June 12, 2006 at 04:35 AM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack


Forsaken Honor, Forgotten Shame
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
-- Macbeth 1.7

The liberals found a new Macbeth
To bait the media with claims of death,
And atrocious acts by his own men,
Opportunely vague 'bout where and when.
But liberal bloggers shared with glee,
New proof of our troops' infamy;
Web witches stirred their bitter brew,
Caring not their broth might be untrue.

But liberals heed not lessons learned,
That hollow heroes leave them burned.
So fools rush in, disdaining danger,
And hold on high a phony Ranger,
Exploit a mentally troubled youth,
To extend their version of the truth.
Because our troops they so despise,
They swallowed whole his vicious lies.

So now we witness once again,
The Lefties just can't seem to win,
When it comes to picking warrior heroes,
Liberal heroes often turn out zeroes,
Who wrap themselves up in the flag,
And unlike heroes, boast and brag;
And trot out rows of Purple Hearts,
For scratches on their body parts.

Why must they seek to elevate
Themselves with lies that desecrate
The brave and honorable reputation
Of those who serve, protect our nation?
John Kerry, Murtha and Macbeth,
All share a trait, exploiting death.
In their own selfish quest for fame,
They've forsaken honor, forgotten shame.

Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66

Posted by Bill Faith on May 27, 2006 at 07:12 PM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Russ Vaughn: Just One Old Ernie Pyle

Just One Old Ernie Pyle

As a boy of four in ’44 I missed out on his style;
But at thirty-six in ’76 I learned more of Ernie Pyle.
To read his tributes to our troops always brought the question why,
That my own war’s correspondents didn’t hold our troops as high.
I’d witnessed acts of bravery as great as World War Two,
But press accounts of those same acts were seldom, they were few;
More likely to be displayed in morning print or evening news,
Were American acts of cruelty to prop up protestors’ views.

Ernie placed himself in battle’s midst, not seeking safer shelter;
He sought the trenches sought the fight, sought out the helter-skelter.
He told the folks back in the States grim truths about their brave,
Providing families insights they could reread, they could save.
Ol’ Ernie gave the folks back home proud memories they could treasure,
Unlike sly Walter Cronkite feeding enemies evening pleasure.
Nope, Ernie wrote of men he loved up until his final deadline,
Unlike Arnett and other creeps seeking only a bigger headline.

Where did they go those of the press who believed America good?
The ones who’d write about our troops and for the things they stood?
What madness does possess them that they now extol our losses,
Finding fault in all we try to do, debasing all our causes?
We serve, we fight so that they might have freedom to convey,
The good things that we’re doing, the good we do each day.
But instead they undermine us in their sniping, gloating style;
I’d swap every damned one of ‘em for just one old Ernie Pyle.

Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66

I can't mention Ernie Pyle without including these two links, which Russ says inspired the above poem:

War correspondent Ernie Pyle's columns to find a new audience through the Web

The Wartime Columns of Ernie Pyle

Posted by Bill Faith on May 27, 2006 at 03:55 PM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack


Russ Vaughn: Mr. Bush, Tear Down That Cross

Mr. Bush, Tear Down That Cross

On a hill in San Diego
Stands a monument to our losses;
A tribute to our wartime dead
Like many other crosses.
Against a tranquil azure sky,
This cross has borne the years,
It’s spreading shadow falling
Upon graves that bear our tears.
For decades no one’s questioned
This pale tribute to our slain,
Until angry Libs at ACLU,
Decided to complain;
And seek a federal order
From robed fools in Sodom town,
That this offensive Christian symbol
Must forthwith be torn down.

To everything’s a season,
A time for birth and dying,
A time, too, for love of country
To fall victim to Liberal lying;
A time for those of any faith,
Those heartfelt, frank believers,
To be ridiculed and rejected
By hollow harsh deceivers;
But there is a time as well
When truth must sure prevail,
When our hearts sense basic truth,
Causing fools like these to fail.
And stand we must against these fools,
Or it will be our gravest loss,
If these fools succeed when they demand,
Mr. Bush, tear down that cross.

The Left’s has ne’er forgotten how Ronald Reagan brought their fall
When with his words he changed the world by tearing down their wall.

Russ Vaughn

(Copied from The American Thinker with Russ's permission)

Posted by Bill Faith on May 12, 2006 at 12:33 AM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack


Down Mexico Way (Russ Vaughn)

Try crossing our southern border; try going the other way,
To enter Mexico illegally for an extended, unlawful stay. 
Ignore immigration quotas, all their visas and their fees,
And quietly slip their border, anytime you damn well please.
Just sneak in past the policía, ignoring Mexican laws;
You’ve a desperate need to improve your lot; you have a righteous cause.
With Evil Bush in power now, destroying your liberal order,
You’ve a right to seek asylum, to trespass their northern border.

Once there, speak English only and demand it in their schools;
Forget assimilation; make Mexicanos change their rules.
What right do these Latinos have to make you learn their lingo?
Tell those churlish campesinos¹ you’ve the right to remain a gringo.
Move right on in, live your own way, ignore their cultural norms,
And demand the use of English on all their official forms.
Free healthcare is, of course, your right; let poor peones² pay,
For bilingual health providers throughout your border-bending stay.

Be sure to have a baby just as quickly as you can;
A citizen in the family helps legitimize your clan.
Then have another three or four, or maybe six or eight;
Don’t worry how you’ll feed them, just demand help from the state.
Paisanos³ paying taxes may resent your reckless breeding,
And protest loudly to their states about your gringo kids they’re feeding;
“But it’s just our way,” is your excuse, “Brought from our Yanquí land.”
How dare they question gringo ways they’ll never understand?

So defend your Anglo ethos; yield not your Yanquí essence;
And demand a driver’s license to legitimize your presence.
Just so you know what you’ve done wrong in case of policía stops,
Insist the Federales must teach English to all cops.
Make Mexicans accept your ways, make them your pliant fools;
Demand a Yanquí culture course be taught in all their schools.
So what you paid no taxes; when you’re an old gringo who will care?
File for your Seguridad Social, after all, you’re due your share.

If all this sounds preposterous, an irrational expectation,
Dems are demanding it for Illegals now in our multicultural nation.

Russ Vaughn

¹Rube, hick, unsophisticated person
²Laborer, worker

Posted by Bill Faith on May 1, 2006 at 03:02 PM in Mexican-American War 2, Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack


Russ Vaughn: Poor Lad

New poem inspired by Cindy's latest antics:

Poor Lad

A mother weeps with tears that burn,
From her son’s death will she not learn?
Will she then honor what she lost,
Pay tribute to his personal cost?
Or will she use his death to preach,
Perched on his coffin will she screech,
And damn the cause her dead son served,
Her special spot in hell reserved?

There are those many who agree,
This mother has a voice that’s free,
To vent her anger scream her sorrow,
Remind us all of death’s tomorrow.

But what of those men fighting there?
Must they this mother’s anger bear?
Mad mother questioning what they do,
Who disrespects our valiant few.

I’m tired of her public pass to grieve,
From the media world, she now should leave,
And give her son’s poor soul some rest,
Stop undermining our bravest best,
Who fight to let this woman speak,
To let her scream, to let her shriek,
Her misguided hatred of her nation.
And the very ones give her salvation.

Oh, Cindy please fade into night,
And cease your rage against the light,
That illuminates your dead son’s goal,

The saving grace that guards his soul,
Which sadly you can’t seem to see,
What he sought most is victory;
A victory that his buddies won,
Now they, not you, salute your son.

How tragic that a soldier’s death should be so poorly used;
Poor lad, so sad, so tragically, by his mother so abused.

Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division Vietnam 65-66

Posted by Bill Faith on April 21, 2006 at 07:39 PM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack

Donny Boy

(With a tip a’ me hat to the gent who penned the original)

Oh Donny boy, the snipes, the snipes are bawling,
From spin to spin, some generals now decide,
The war’s all wrong and for your head they’re calling,
‘Tis you, ‘tis you must go, they want your hide.

But guard your back from those now in the meadow,
From starry pundits claim they told you so.
To hype their books, they snipe you from the shadow,
Oh Donny boy, oh Donny boy, they hate you so.

And if you run when all the media’s lying,
Then truth is dead as dead the truth may be.
They’ll howl and hound you ‘til you are a’ dying,
And spiel an evil epitaph for thee.   

And they will sneer no matter what befalls thee,
At all your dreams of sweetest victory,
For if you win they’ll still not ever love thee,
You’ll see no peace until Bush cuts you free.

Oh Donny boy, the snipes, the snipes are bawling,
From spin to spin, they’re crying for your hide.
Your war is lost is what the media’s calling,
Tis you must go, they want ol’ Rummy fried.

Russ Vaughn

"I-know-better" generals get on the slippery slope
by Charles Krauthammer

WASHINGTON -- Last time around, the anti-war left did not have a very high opinion of generals. A popular slogan in the 1960s was "war is too important to be left to the generals.'' It was the generals who had advocated attacking Cuba during the missile crisis of October 1962, while the civilians preferred -- and got -- a diplomatic solution. In popular culture, "Dr. Strangelove'' made indelible the caricature of the war-crazed general. And it was I-know-better generals who took over the U.S. government in a coup in the 1960s best-seller and movie "Seven Days in May.''

Another war, another take. I-know-better generals are back. Six of them, retired, are denouncing the Bush administration and calling for Donald Rumsfeld's resignation as secretary of defense. The anti-war types think this is just swell.

I don't. ...

[Read on here.]

Posted by Bill Faith on April 21, 2006 at 04:52 PM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack


Russ Vaughn: Higher Education

Higher Education
Inspired by the Sean Hannity interview with Ward Churchill

We send our kids to college,
To get an education;
We send them there for knowledge,
Not to learn to hate their nation.
The billions that we pay,
These high priced institutions,
Should pay to teach our kids a way,
To seek life’s best solutions.

But Sixties losers from the Left,
Have seized the ivory towers,
So now our kids must sit bereft,
Absorbing agitprop for hours.
They hear not the words of Winnie,
A true Churchill of distinction,
But some phony Indian ninnie,
Who prophesies their extinction.

And while your kid can’t get in Yale,
Can’t make the grade or cut,
They admit a turbaned, Taliban male,
A terrorist from a hut.
So now he learns at our expense,
And no woman dare sit near,
How to worm his way past our defense,
Undermine all we hold dear.

What fools they are who claim to be,
The brightest in our nation;
Not even smart as you and me,
Despite their lofty station.
No common sense do they possess,
Or they’d teach our kids what’s right;
Their Marxist minds a muddled mess,
They’re fools won’t see the light.

Someday our warriors will return seeking higher institutions,
Should not surprise those so unwise, they may face retributions.

Russ Vaughn

Posted by Bill Faith on April 8, 2006 at 07:35 PM in Poetry, Russ_Vaughn | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack