Fiddler's Green

The beautiful thing about the military is that you lose track of old friends, switch duty stations, walk into the briefing room and lo and behold - there they are. The years melt away and you fill the gap with stories of wives, children, and the myriad of other things that fill our lives.

I learned today that an old friend's son was killed in Afghanistan last July. I remember when he was fourteen and wanted nothing more than a day with his dad. He died, a cavalryman, saving his soldiers. This one goes out to his mother and father. Nothing we say can ever be enough.

Fiddler's Green (Cavalry)

Halfway down the trail to hell
In a shady meadow green,
Are the souls of all dead troopers camped
Near a good old-time canteen

And this eternal resting place
Is known as Fiddler's Green.

Marching past, straight through to hell,
The infantry are seen, '
Accompanied by the Engineers,
Artillery and Marine,


For none but the shades of Cavalrymen
Dismount at Flddlers' Green.

Though some go curving down the trail
To seek a warmer scene,
No trooper ever gets to Hell
Ere he's emptied his canteen,

And so rides back to drink agaln
With friends at Fiddlers' Green.

And so when man and horse go down
Beneath a saber keen,
Or in a roaring charge or fierce melee
You stop a bullet clean,
And the hostiles come to get your scalp,
Just empty your canteen,

And put your pistol to your head
And go to Fiddlers' Green.


TIA

Earl