Veteran's Day 2006

I wish I knew how to add pictures and songs and 

different things to enhance my blog to make your 

visit more enjoyable….but this is what I have for 

today….it’s from my heart with tears in my eyes.

134th Infantry Regiment

“All Hell Can’t Stop Us”

page 78 (the year I graduated….how sweet is that?)

…another group of men found itself in similar 

circumstances.  Staff Sergeant George W. Daugherty, 

Sergeant Penn D. Soland, Sergeant Harold H. Schultz,

and Private First Class Hobert Hunt likewise found 

themselves isolated.  They kept up sniper fire until 

three of them decided that they could infiltrate 

through the enemy positions to rejoin their units.  

Sergeant Schultz remained in position to fire while 

his companions made the attempt.  They were successful, 

and some time later, Schultz too was able to make it to 

safety....

Harold H. Schultz is my Daddy.  He came home from 

WWII with several medals including a Silver Star and 

a Purple Heart.  I tried to obtain his Distinguished 

Unit Award, 4 Bronze Stars and his multitude of 

Campaign Ribbons.  The records couldn’t be located 

because of the fire at the National Archives in ’73 that 

destroyed millions of records.  I went through so much 

red tape to try to present these medals to my Daddy for 

Christmas of ’03.  They never came and he died in

April of ’04.

In the summer of ’04 Jeff and I went to Washington D.c. 

to visit the WWII Memorial.  I stood there by the pillar 

representing Ohio and wept.  Not just for my Daddy 

but for all who gave.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The following article really touched me and I wanted 

to share it with you:

Old Warriors, by Jerry McCaghren

I visited an old warrior the other day. He was in a 

psych ward at a VA Hospital. His life has been 

spent in one VA Hospital after another. He once 

walked straight and tall but now he is bent and 

trembling. Hisvoice once spoke with certainty 

but now it is hesitant and halting attimes. He suffers 

from PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. His

medicine cabinet is filled with psychotropic medications 

designed tomuffle the re-occurring sounds of war. 

He takes his meds to dull the pain of battles fought 

over sixty years ago ... and he is still fighting them. 

He is haunted by war. His friends died there. And for

all practical purposes he did too.

We sat. He spoke. We listened ... my wife and I. 

Periodically, he would look up as he spoke. But 

mostly, he looked all around. Wild-eyed. Trembling. 

Anxious. Agitated. He wrung his hands. His eyes 

darted all around the room. His speech was garbled 

and slurred at times due to the medications. Pain 

was written all over his face. We traveled with him

across the beaches of Normandy ... through the 

battlefields of Germany and into a little village in 

Hungary. "War makes you mean," he said.

Occasionally, he would go quiet for several minutes. 

It was a pause pregnant with anticipation. Something 

was about to be shared that would be sacred. Some 

memory revealed that I would never forget. He then

broke the silence.

"I remember the day I went off to war. I was a young 

man." He paused again looking around the room as if 

trying to gather his thoughts. "It was like yesterday. 

I was at the train station in Dallas. Uncle Sam called. 

I answered. I was a soldier. My brothers were there. 

My sisters. My family. My sisters clung to me. They 

were sobbing."

He suddenly became quiet, staring off into the distance

. I waited for him to speak again. "The train had pulled 

into the station. All the soldiers were kissing their loved 

ones. Entire families had come. The sobs of mothers and 

fathers could be heard over the roar of the train's engines. 

Final embraces. And for some ... final goodbyes ... forever!

My sisters continued to hold me and wouldn't let me go. 

I was trying to act like a soldier but not doing it very well. 

And then my mother spoke."

When he mentioned his mother, his demeanor softened. 

For a moment, his thoughts drifted from distant battle

fields to his beloved mother. She was a short, stocky 

woman of German descent. Tough. Determined. Patriotic. 

Spiritual. Daughter of God. She knew her Creator and 

Knew Him intimately. For her, each day was greeted 

with prayer. And when the darkness fell and the stars 

glistened in the heavens, she ended her day on her 

knees talking to her Father. And throughout the day 

she punctuated every step with thanksgiving and 

praise. Her life was filled with hardship, but her faith 

matched all that could be thrown at her.

"I was a young man."

When the old soldier spoke of his mother, the pain 

was momentarily erased from his face. Calmness 

came. Suddenly, we stood on sacred ground. 

Words were well chosen. He bowed out of reverence. 

I leaned forward to listen because I knew this might 

be my last chance to hear the story. "My mother was 

standing a few feet away and spoke to my two

sisters. 'Clifford, Lillian, you girls let Raymond go.' 

And then she said: 'Raymond, you go serve your 

country faithfully. You be the best soldier in the 

field you can be. And you remember that your mother 

will be on her knees praying for you every day."

With that, his hands came up to his face covering 

his eyes. The tears squeezed between his fingers 

and ran down his face. He trembled. I brushed away 

my tears. My wife wept.

Several minutes passed. He struggled to regain 

his composure. It never returned. With eyes welling 

up with tears he said, "Knowing that my mother was 

on her knees praying for me is what sustained me 

throughout the war."

We talked for a few more minutes. His nurse came 

around and told him it was time for his next group 

session. The psychiatrist was waiting. With that, we 

stood, prayed, and embraced. Perhaps it was our 

last embrace.

I watched him go down the long hallway, a hallway 

filled with broken warriors from distant battlefields 

in years gone by, and then he disappeared. One 

day soon, that old warrior is going to die. I long for

that day. I pray for that day. Because I know that 

when that day comes, my Dad will be at peace 

for the first time in over sixty years.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Proud To Be An American

By Lee Greenwood

If tomorrow all the things were gone,
I’d worked for all my life.
And I had to start again,
with just my children and my wife.

I’d thank my lucky stars,
to be livin here today.
‘Cause the flag still stands for freedom,
and they can’t take that away.

And I’m proud to be an American,
where at least I know I’m free.
And I won't forget the men who died,
who gave that right to me.

And I gladly stand up,
next to you and defend her still today.
‘Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land,
God bless the USA.

From the lakes of Minnesota,
to the hills of Tennessee.
Across the plains of Texas,
From sea to shining sea.

From Detroit down to Houston,
and New York to L.A.
Well there's pride in every American heart,
and its time we stand and say.

That I’m proud to be an American,
where at least I know I’m free.
And I won't forget the men who died,
who gave that right to me.

And I gladly stand up,
next to you and defend her still today.
‘Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land,
God bless the USA.

And I’m proud to be and American,
where at least I know I’m free.
And I won't forget the men who died,
who gave that right to me.

And I gladly stand up,
next to you and defend her still today.
‘Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land,
God bless the USA.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“When I stand before God at the end of my life,
I would hope that I would not have a single bit of
talent left, and could say, ‘I used everything you
gave me.’”

- Erma Bombeck

I hope that you enjoyed your visit here today..

Hugs, Happiness and Harmony,

Julie L. Rose

snlrose@hotmail.com