MY NAME IS PARRIS ISLAND
If you have been here, you know my name, My name is Parris Island.
Better known as PI, you may know my younger brother San Diego better
known as SD. Between us we have seen recruits come and go by the
millions. I was officially started in 1915 if you were here when you
got here by ferry boat, then you are truly old Corps. All recruits see
my main gate only twice, once on the way in and once on the way out.
Mostly you come by bus in the middle of the night. Tall, short, fat,
skinny, Black, White, long hair, short hair. You come through my main
gate laughing some scared, mostly you act like teenagers, hell mostly
you are teenagers. You each come here for your own reasons, but most
come to test themselves, most need a direction in their lives.
As you pass through my main gate your lives will change from that point
on. I hope to see you leave as Marines, but you will not all leave
together as Marines. Some will leave by themselves ,not Marines. They
did not make the goal, my heart goes out to them, but not everyone can
be a Marine.
Today my heart is full of pride, for the next graduation of recruits,
now Marines, are leaving my front gate, teenagers no more, but young men
and women with a history to live up to. 13 weeks and just look at the
change. You know this is a happy day for me, but my best days are yet to
come. That's when these Marines come back to see me 20, 30, 40, years
from now. Oh yea, a lot of the old ones come back to see me, they have
not forgotten Old Parris Island and I have not forgotten them. Former Marines
and I have this bond, it's in our blood, it's Pride, it is where it all started for
both of us. My sad days are remembering the ones that can't come back to
see me those that were killed in WW1, WW11, Korea, Vietnam, Beirut, Iraq,
Afghanistan and all the little actions around the world. Hey, i've got to go,
have a bus load coming in tonight and some new Marines leaving in the
morning. Semper Fi!! You all come back to see me, you hear!
Bruce Knipp
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Friday, February 10, 2012
MY NAME IS E.G.A.
MY NAME IS E.G.A.
My name is Eagle Globe and Anchor, sometimes known as the E.G.A. I am
found in every state, city ,town or village in the country. I am found on some ring fingers and engraved on forearms in ink, I can be found on the front doors of homes and on the front yard flag poles just under the Stars and Stripes. I appear on cars and trucks, in back windows and bumpers,
trunk lids and tailgates, front grills and Lic.plates. I am found on book covers and posters, pictures and plaques hanging on walls. My likeness is found on necklaces and key chains tee shirts and jackets, hats, belt buckles and coats. You will find me in lesser known places that Marines know and others don't. Like the base of the flag pole at the Vietnam Memorial Wall, were I shine, because Marines from 8th and I polish me everyday, a new tradition is born. You will also find me on head stones spread across this land. But the place I shine brightest can not be seen, for it is in the hearts of everyman and woman who are known, as Marines.
Bruce Knipp
My name is Eagle Globe and Anchor, sometimes known as the E.G.A. I am
found in every state, city ,town or village in the country. I am found on some ring fingers and engraved on forearms in ink, I can be found on the front doors of homes and on the front yard flag poles just under the Stars and Stripes. I appear on cars and trucks, in back windows and bumpers,
trunk lids and tailgates, front grills and Lic.plates. I am found on book covers and posters, pictures and plaques hanging on walls. My likeness is found on necklaces and key chains tee shirts and jackets, hats, belt buckles and coats. You will find me in lesser known places that Marines know and others don't. Like the base of the flag pole at the Vietnam Memorial Wall, were I shine, because Marines from 8th and I polish me everyday, a new tradition is born. You will also find me on head stones spread across this land. But the place I shine brightest can not be seen, for it is in the hearts of everyman and woman who are known, as Marines.
Bruce Knipp
Monday, February 6, 2012
THE UNINVITED
THE UNINVITED
A landscape once lush with fields of crops, grass laden hills with wild flowers as blankets of color. Small islands of trees and bushes dot the country side, with small quaint villages tucked away down old country roads. The sweet smell of fresh air bathed in the warm sun light of a soft spring day, where song bird calls, fill the air. Such was the land before the great war, the war to end all wars.
The war came, it came uninvited, and it came for an extended stay. The once dark rich brown dirt was now black from all the blood shed that soaked into the ground till
it seemed it couldn't adsorb anymore. Grass and flowers grow no more, long ago stomped down by a million soldiers feet, trees that once stood proud, now nothing but twisted splintered shapes devoid of limbs, almost unrecognizable as trees anymore.
A haze now covered the sky filtering out the sun, and the stench of war fills your nostrils with the smells of death, and the only birds seen are vultures circling over head. Between the trenches of the apposing armies is no mans land, and the only man to walk there unafraid is the grim reaper himself.
Over the top, and out of the trenches the opposing army advances into no mans land.
Now the silence is broken, and the sounds of war erupt, explosions and the sounds of bullets, noise so loud you can almost not hear the death screams of the man next to you. A short time later all falls silent, and the thousand yards between trenches is once again littered with the dead and wounded. When the war started
on the 28 of June 1914 they said they'ed be home for Christmas, they just didn't tell them what year.
65 million soldiers from 6 major countries would fight in this war, 10 million would never come home, and
10 million civilians would also die from war, starvation and disease.
Nothing last forever, and so it is with war, on the 11th day, of the 11th month, at the 11th hour 1919 the war came to and end. The land will return to it's former beauty, and the soldiers will try to forget all the sights and sounds and smells of war.
The war was won, but the peace was lost. In 1939 a mere 20 years it would begin again.
Now playing at your favorite battlefield, WW2, THE SEQUEL.
Bruce Knipp
A landscape once lush with fields of crops, grass laden hills with wild flowers as blankets of color. Small islands of trees and bushes dot the country side, with small quaint villages tucked away down old country roads. The sweet smell of fresh air bathed in the warm sun light of a soft spring day, where song bird calls, fill the air. Such was the land before the great war, the war to end all wars.
The war came, it came uninvited, and it came for an extended stay. The once dark rich brown dirt was now black from all the blood shed that soaked into the ground till
it seemed it couldn't adsorb anymore. Grass and flowers grow no more, long ago stomped down by a million soldiers feet, trees that once stood proud, now nothing but twisted splintered shapes devoid of limbs, almost unrecognizable as trees anymore.
A haze now covered the sky filtering out the sun, and the stench of war fills your nostrils with the smells of death, and the only birds seen are vultures circling over head. Between the trenches of the apposing armies is no mans land, and the only man to walk there unafraid is the grim reaper himself.
Over the top, and out of the trenches the opposing army advances into no mans land.
Now the silence is broken, and the sounds of war erupt, explosions and the sounds of bullets, noise so loud you can almost not hear the death screams of the man next to you. A short time later all falls silent, and the thousand yards between trenches is once again littered with the dead and wounded. When the war started
on the 28 of June 1914 they said they'ed be home for Christmas, they just didn't tell them what year.
65 million soldiers from 6 major countries would fight in this war, 10 million would never come home, and
10 million civilians would also die from war, starvation and disease.
Nothing last forever, and so it is with war, on the 11th day, of the 11th month, at the 11th hour 1919 the war came to and end. The land will return to it's former beauty, and the soldiers will try to forget all the sights and sounds and smells of war.
The war was won, but the peace was lost. In 1939 a mere 20 years it would begin again.
Now playing at your favorite battlefield, WW2, THE SEQUEL.
Bruce Knipp
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Time To Let It Go
They come in the middle of the night, dreams from times long past,
filled with the ferocity and violence that men share in times of war. Your
transported back to a time you must remember, but try so desperately
hard to forget. Your brain says it's time to let it go, but your dreams don't
listen to your brain. And some nights, from the dark recesses of your mind
it replays the events from so long ago, like a video you have no
control of, it plays back in the hours of your deepest sleep. It's not just
seeing the images, it's the sounds and smells of war, its reliving it all
over again. It seems that know one leaves the battlefield unscathed,
all leave a piece of themselves there, and in turn, a piece of there,
comes here.
Bruce Knipp
Monday, January 30, 2012
THE VETERAN
THE VETERAN
At a National Cemetery somewhere in the Western U.S. when the light of day
is just breaking out from the darkness of night, highlighting the tops of grave markers through the mist of the cool morning air. A lone figure is making his way through the head stones, suddenly he stops, bends down and picks up a small fallen American Flag, pushes it back into the ground steps back and does a slow hand salute, then continues on his way.
He's wearing an old military field jacket, a backpack filled with all his processions, a pair of camouflaged trousers that have seen better days,
an old worn out hat that says Vietnam Veteran, his hair is uncombed, uncut and unkept, and so to his salt and pepper beard.
As he walks between the head stones he reaches in his pocket and comes out
with a tattered piece of paper, written on it is, Plot D Row 16 Grave 11.
Now at grave 11 he takes a deep breath, then takes a knee, runs his fingers
over his friends name as his eyes fill with tears. He takes off his pack
reaches deep inside and comes out with a purple felt box, inside a purple
heart medal and ribbon and a note, "I will never forget" and places it at
the base of the head stone. Three month ago he did the samething at the
Wall in D.C. under the panel where his friends name appears.
It's taken him three months to get here, by any means he could, mostly by
foot. In reality this journey started decades ago, in the jungles of
Vietnam. And at least a decade for him to finally fall pray to the demons
that now haunt is soul. Nightmares, flashbacks, anger, and hypervigilance are his constant companions, and the only friend he has left is alcohol.
Now he says a small prayer for his friend and himself, stands up snaps to attention and gives a slow hand salute. Picks up his pack and with tears
streaming down his face, he heads out of the cemetery where he will either
get the long overdo help, or blend in with the nearly 200.000 homeless veterans roaming America.
Bruce Knipp
At a National Cemetery somewhere in the Western U.S. when the light of day
is just breaking out from the darkness of night, highlighting the tops of grave markers through the mist of the cool morning air. A lone figure is making his way through the head stones, suddenly he stops, bends down and picks up a small fallen American Flag, pushes it back into the ground steps back and does a slow hand salute, then continues on his way.
He's wearing an old military field jacket, a backpack filled with all his processions, a pair of camouflaged trousers that have seen better days,
an old worn out hat that says Vietnam Veteran, his hair is uncombed, uncut and unkept, and so to his salt and pepper beard.
As he walks between the head stones he reaches in his pocket and comes out
with a tattered piece of paper, written on it is, Plot D Row 16 Grave 11.
Now at grave 11 he takes a deep breath, then takes a knee, runs his fingers
over his friends name as his eyes fill with tears. He takes off his pack
reaches deep inside and comes out with a purple felt box, inside a purple
heart medal and ribbon and a note, "I will never forget" and places it at
the base of the head stone. Three month ago he did the samething at the
Wall in D.C. under the panel where his friends name appears.
It's taken him three months to get here, by any means he could, mostly by
foot. In reality this journey started decades ago, in the jungles of
Vietnam. And at least a decade for him to finally fall pray to the demons
that now haunt is soul. Nightmares, flashbacks, anger, and hypervigilance are his constant companions, and the only friend he has left is alcohol.
Now he says a small prayer for his friend and himself, stands up snaps to attention and gives a slow hand salute. Picks up his pack and with tears
streaming down his face, he heads out of the cemetery where he will either
get the long overdo help, or blend in with the nearly 200.000 homeless veterans roaming America.
Bruce Knipp
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