The Picture

The page has yellowed with age, and the edges show the wear and tear of the countless fingers that have lifted and held them. The book itself is starting to fall apart, its binding creaks and complains with every movement. Printed on the page of the open book is a simple, black and white photograph.

The photograph is easily identifiable as being much older than 30 years. The almost surreal quality of being completely two-dimensional is all-pervading to the senses. The very scene that it attempts to record seems unreal and lifeless.

Yet the photograph displayed is indeed effective, beyond the ability of the simple Brownie camera used to form its existence. One could look into the photograph and see a story of horrific atrocities, sudden terror, and of vast sorrow. The very qualities that belie its age also assist in verifying the integrity of the story shown within.

A large field, lined with trees, was the stage set for the scene. A few blurry, man-like shapes can be seen in the background, their apparent activity now frozen in time. The subtle shades of gray fail to lend to the clarity of the view, but where the image's aesthetic continuity is lost; the imagination can take over and easily identify the marks and craters of explosions.

The main figure of the scene kneels huddled; hands clasped in front. The hues of her dress and jacket have been lost --melted into the black and gray of the lifeless reproduction. Her hair was most likely a lovely yellow in life, but is drab and unimpressive as it floats from her head on an invisible and timeless breeze.

The young girl appears no older than twenty or twenty-two; but her face shows the sorrow of an aged saint or martyr. Her eyes are half-closed, and expressionless, while her mouth is open and motionless, caught in a mournful wail by the camera's shutter. With a little imagination, it can be imagined that at the time she was rocking back and forth in sorrow.

Her entire face shows the horror of a war she didn't choose to be involved in. Hidden within the lines of mourning can be seen the history of a madman determined to conquer the world, as his troops advance across Europe and East Asia. In the numbing shock showing in her eyes appears the vision of millions of people, used and cast aside like garbage, only to fuel the fervor of carelessness, hatred, and cruelty.

Directly before the woman, in the foreground of the photograph, lies the body of another young girl. Her face is still and almost peaceful amid a confused scene of panic. The features and hair, although stained with dark smears of blood, hold a familial semblance to the mourner. The only compelling thought that germinates from the mourner's appearance is: "She should not have died!"

The entire picture and the story behind it --the living and the dead-- are all disgraced by only a brief and uninformative paragraph of explanation. A Historian's haste has lost an entire story from the past: "A Polish peasant girl mourns over her sister who was killed in a Nazi strafing and bombing run. The nearby immigrant train was mistaken to be carrying supplies to the Allied front."

Overlooked and passed off as unimportant by historians, the picture holds an insightful look into the sins of war, and more specifically, those who cause war. Whether a madman in Germany with a hatred for other races, a tyrannical king forcing his taxation, or crooked politicians unwilling to admit ignorance in tactics: War will happen. And war will bring the death of the innocent along with the guilty.

Some view war as a thing to avoid and shrink from. Others glorify it in toys and films. But war will come, and with it will come countless horrors and death. To fight can be wrong, but to not fight for what is right is worse. Those who avoid all war should read the thirteenth chapter of Job; those who search for war should read the twelfth chapter of Paul's letter to the Romans.

We must defend the cause of right and truth, but with every war will come death: that of the innocent Polish peasant girl; the rich and the poor; and our sons and our daughters. There is much we could learn from the records of history that we all too often fail to see.

Bloody Sunday

There aren’t any bagpipes a’ skirlin’ to lift my feet higher, and I’m not wearin’ a kilt – but I hold my head higher to think of them.

There’s no deep thrumming of the drums to steady my heart, and no rat-a-tat-tat to heighten my senses, but I hold my head higher to think of them.

I think of my mother, and hope she is safe and warm on this chilly night. I like to think that I do this for her, but I’m unsure. Yet, I do think of her and hold my head higher.

I remember my sisters, and their long hair. That of it self mists my eyes, and makes me hold my head higher.

I remember the tales my old Grand-dad used to tell me of some great ancestor or the other (I surely can’t remember their names) and the deeds they’d done, or battles they’d won. Yes, I hold my head up higher.

I think of the story of Bloody Sunday, and the deaths of fourteen of our brave countrymen. What went through their minds in their final second of life? Odd that this is a sunday as well. Perhaps, as they died, they held their heads higher.

I make myself ready, clearing up my sleeping area, along with my mind. Dawn isn’t far off, and with its early light I know men will die. Men will bleed and die. Blood as red and rich as mine will no doubt flow, maybe even mingled with mine. No matter, I’ll hold my head higher.

The Captain came by a short while ago, noticing, he said, how calm I seemed. He almost seemed sad, although I don’t know why. Perhaps he has a touch of the gift, and knows what I do not. Never-the-less, I held my head higher.

If John were here, we’d stand together, side by side, brothers. But, that cannot be. He was a man, that John. I never thanked him for the jacket he gave to me. I wear it now, and hold my head higher.

I’m suited and ready as the sky begins to grow lighter, and my weapon feels good in my hands. I hope it well sees its use today. I sight the hill before me, choosing the place where I’ll go over it. We’ll be charging soon and I hold my head up higher.

The Lieutenant is giving the signal, and the men slowly rise, moving forward with determined looks, their eyes steady and somber in the faint light of early dawn. To see them, you’d think we had a fair chance in this. Yet, to see them, I hold my head higher. These are men.

Devil take the odds. I top the hill with the ancient battle cry, the sun at my back, my eyes seeing the enemy spread before us, and I shout the louder.

The sounds of warfare everywhere, outnumbered seven to one, we charge on. They’re a brave lot to face us, numbers not counting. We’re not green troops.

Give ‘em what-for, boys. They’d better run. An Irishman’s going to war.

The Tears of a Hero

The dark, black box trimmed with gold lay silent, pointing an invisible, accusing finger at the faithless enemies of freedom; those who mock the efforts of the brave, the silent, the dead in glory. To fall in battle has ever been praise-worthy, and the soldier in the box was no different.

The dark, blue triangle, flecked as it was with white, made an impressive view as it silently presented its proclaimation for Justice and Liberty for all. Men will scarcely die for only a few truthful ideals presented in flags, but this was one of the few.

The soldier went to his honored rest as the black box was lowered into the lap of the Earth.

Then as the triangle was lowered onto the her lap, it humbly received The Hero's single, painful tear.

Today, the Fourth day of May, in 1971, anti-war protesters began four days of demonstrations in Washington, D.C. aimed at shutting down the nation's capital.

Learn from our history, friends. Support our troops or leave our Country. And vote for someone who isn't a disgrace to our veterans and troops; not someone who throws away his pride and his medals for political gain, then lies about it for political gain.

Vote for someone who supports the heroic sons and daughters of our nation's true Heros.