[Felix The Assassin]

There always comes a time in this profession that must be delivered. The 21 gun salute, the precision of the drill team, the slight creak in the buglers voice after rendering the last respects with "TAPS". Families lose Sons, Wife's lose Husbands, children lose fathers, and soldiers lose fellow soldiers, friends, and brothers.

MSG Robert H. West and I went to "Gun School" as class mates in the Spring of '96. We were instructors together from 98-2000. He was DA selected, and performed admirably as a Drill Sergeant.

'Till we meet again on "The High Ground"

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.


[ 05-21-2006, 01:24 AM: Message edited by: Felix The Assassin ]