Pass The Ammo

America’s forces have won all their wars,
From Revolution to war in Iraq;
And Lefties don’t point to the Vietnam War,
Where you stabbed winning troops in the back.
No, the truth is we win; we win time and again;
Done it time after time after time.
Doesn’t matter to you, ‘cause whatever we do,
We’ve always somehow dropped the dime.

To Lefties our generals just have to be wrong,
Wrong tactics, wrong weapons, wrong forces;
We’re the gang who somehow can never shoot straight,
To hear the mainstream media sources.
Just look at their headlines, view every day’s news,
With their blistering barrages of blame.
To warriors out here at the point of the spear,
It’s those losers’ “No Right Answer,” game.

In this lugubrious game loved by Liberal elites,
There’s just but one rule to enforce:
Whatever we do, in whatever war,
Must naturally be wrong of course.
There is no right answer, no matter what,
Even when our warriors are winning;
There’s always the sly implication we lie,
In the splenetic stories they’re spinning.

In peacetime they charge our forces too large
During wartime they squall they’re too small;
In peacetime they whine we’re spending too much;
But in war, “Where’s the armor for all?”
With consummate confidence they know what’s best,
Puerile pundits so smug and so smarmy,
Pontificate loud to their Liberal crowd,
That we once again have the wrong Army.

Pick a war, any war, or a period of peace;
Field marshals of the media are spinning;
If generals of journalism are so in the know,
Why are genuine generals winning?
So here at the front, harsh home of the grunt,
We ignore their attempts to defame.
The troops know the score, know what this war’s for;
They can stuff their “No Right Answer,” game.

(Inspired by The Wrong Army, by Jeff Edwards, USN, Ret., warrior and novelist)

SSGT Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66

Another submission by Russ.

A flickering dawn lights Islam’s hills
A faint emerging light.
Can the torch of Lady Liberty
Flare away Medieval night?
How fitting our bold symbol
Of all that’s good and right
Eyewitness to the Jihad’s wrath,
Stands forefront in this fight.

Her torch is not mere sculpted bronze,
To those in Mullahs chains;
But a lamp held high against the sky
Showing them that hope remains.
Their feudal sheiks view us with scorn,
So obsessed with earthly pleasure;
But one thing they fear that we hold dear,
Is that Bill of Rights we treasure.

We drove a tyrant from his throne,
Brought his people free election.
Think it concerns them overmuch,
WMD’s escaped detection?
Just behold those blue-stained fingers,
Like the Lady’s torch, held high,
So proud of their brave turnout,
Putting Liberals to the lie.

How say you now nay Sayers?
What of your dire predictions?
Like fools you swore naught’s solved by war,
Another of your Liberal fictions.
But now you face a hard clear truth:
A truth that you forswore:
This aborning Bush Democracy
Was midwifed by his war.

Within the womb of Islam,
Freedom’s heart so feebly beats.
Is it up us to make it thrive,
To birth it their streets?
What say you disbelieving Libs,
How now shall this thing go?
Shall we execute your exit plan,
Or stay and help it grow?

By Russ Vaughn

One came to us sooner, the other came later,
The first is a Fool the second’s a Traitor.
The Fool showed his colors in dark murky waters
Giving fathers good cause to lock up their daughters.

Stern Teddy decries we’ve no plan to get out,
Invoking his own, an unbridled rout.
To him exit strategy has but one purpose,
Get the door open and swim to the surface.

The Traitor, well folks, that’s more complicated,
His history’s distorted, war records inflated.
He’s a hero he claims but his buddies say no,
Leaving him as a hero with no place to go.

When our country was bleeding, he bled us with leeches,
Giving false testimony, which history impeaches.
Then somehow expected that we’d all forget,
And elect him commander, oh sure, John, you bet.

Getting back to the Fool, do we heed this old boozer,
Who constantly tells us that we are a loser?
When facts tell us different, tell us we are a winner,
Despite the nay says of this blowhard ‘aginner.

We’re on the right side, we’re fightin’ for freedom,
And those who oppose us, well, we’re gonna bleed ‘em.
The jihadists we fight end in bloody repose;
And the Fool and the Traitor with a bad bloody nose.

Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66

It began when ol’ Dubya gave Al Gore the boot,
Those gun-hating Dems really started to shoot.
Their weapons of choice though leave much to desire
For they’re usually off-target and so often misfire.

In his blustering barrages, as everyone knows,
Al Gore is most likely to blow off his own nose.
And in hitting his targets, Teddy’s chances are slimmer
He’s no better at bombast than he was as a swimmer.

John Kerry took aim at Bush’s war in Iraq
But salvoes from Swiftees left him smoking black.
Daschle went to Dakota with all barrels loaded;
When the smoke finally cleared, he had clearly imploded.

They were gunning for George, but without enough practice
And ended up full of holes, their butts full of cactus.
That dimwitted cowboy turned out muy mal
Blew the Libs clean away at their O.K. Corral

Howard Dean, more than most, embodies the phrase,
“Shoot yourself in the foot,” yet may see better days.
If DNC chiefs decide the Party needs Deaning,
Shooting yourself in the foot will have Party-wide meaning.

Senator Boxer shot holes in her own reputation,
Taking potshots at Condi before the whole nation.
We can’t wait for the chance to see Nancy Pelosi,
Take aim at ol’ George: “BAM!” there goes her toesy.

We’ll not tolerate lying, fumes Senator Dayton,
A lightweight compared to the lady he’s baitin.’
But he shoots from the lip and quite clearly he misses,
While eighty-five colleagues hand out Condi kisses.

This “Gang that won’t shoot straight,” is really no puzzle,
Did you ever see a Lib knew his butt from his muzzle?
Have you fathomed the lesson that runs through this poem?
All guns should have locks if there are Libs in the home.

Russ Vaughn

More good stuff from Russ

How many of you Liberals does it take to win a war?
Well how the hell can we tell? You wonâ?Tt fight one anymore.
You say that you support the troops, but the truth’s plain as your face,
You’d pull us from the battle, march us home in full disgrace.
You’ve no stomach for the fighting, got no mettle, got no pluck;
If you ran this war on terror, we’d be a very well plucked duck.
The wolves of Jihad smell your dread, can smell your craven breath,
And emboldened by the fear they scent, lust for our bloody death.

But wait, you protest piously, We are fighters for the poor.
Might we suggest you start to fight, before wolves come through the door?
Do you think they’ll still believe in you, your poor, your gays, your blacks,
When the wolves run wild among them, sinking fangs into their backs?
Think then that they’ll be caring, when they’re counting out their dead,
We inflict pain on a captive wolf to learn what’s in his head?
Do you really think, you bleeding hearts, when they bleed in scarlet torrents,
They’ll care we cage the savage wolves, search lairs without signed warrants?

For years we watched your “feel good” courts defang our criminal laws,
Handcuff our police, give felons rights, espouse the criminals’ cause.
Felonious wolves were freed to prey, and we suffered their wild rages
Till thinking men took back the courts, put the wolf packs back in cages.
With your same old clueless feelings you now decry this war;
And with your same old fuzzy logic, common sense you still ignore.
We must look into root causes and we must try to feel their pain?
Pardon if our eyes start rolling, at your same old lame refrain.

Its hard to fathom whence you come, perhaps some flawed eugenics,
That begets utopian pessimists, sires optimistic cynics.
Thanks be the power to rule the land remains beyond your means;
A regime of yours, would be like, no doubt, being ruled by pimpled teens.
Your quixotic quest for a world love nest, denies some truths quite real,
Like the need to have some thinking folks to preserve your right to feel.
Abhorring blood on your own hands, there’s a hard truth youve ignored,
Someone else must take your plowshare, and beat it back into a sword.

So how many of you Liberals does it take to win a war?
Or is there simply nothing you believe worth fighting for?
How is it that you’ve never learned, like most when they grow older,
That appeasing badness is a bad idea, only makes the bad guys bolder.
Has your fear of spilling human blood made you Jihad’s useful fools,
Ignoring that their wolf packs never fight within the rules?
By your demand we stay our hand, you weaken and you bind us;
Forcing us to fight off wolf attacks with that hand tied behind us.

So we bend some rules, in war you fools; so what, Show some respect,
When it’s your fuzzy-headed “feelings” thinking men fight to protect.

Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66

Russ has been sending me his excellent writings for a while now, and I always appreciate every one of em. You might recall reading Rough Men, and Fightin Words some time ago.

Here is When the World Dials 911.

Disaster strikes a world away
We get the call, what do we say?
We move at once, to ease their plight,
To aid them through their darkest night.
But come shrill cries from carping Press,
That’s not enough to fix this mess.
We know that, fools, but give us room,
To counter Mother Nature’s doom.

America gives to those in need,
With no regard to faith or creed.
We’re there for all when need is great
A helping hand to any state,
That’s fallen under Nature’s wrath
And needs a lift back to the path.
So what they may have mocked our ways?
We’ll turn our cheek ’til better days.

But there are those who hate us so,
They’ll carp and snipe and hit us low,
Who’ll bend disaster to their needs,
And try to choke us on our deeds.
They’ll play their dirty liberal tricks,
For them it’s only politics.
In the face of massive human pain,
They only think of their own gain.

But the world knows sure whom it must call,
When disaster strikes, when nations fall.
America is the beaming light
That fades, dispels disaster’s night,
And standing firm provides relief
To salve the pain, allay the grief.
So to Hell with what our critics say,
America’s fine, still leads the way.

Russ Vaughn

Thanks Russ, for sending me this.

Rough Men

“Good people sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.”George Orwell

With a nod to the Mudville Gazette for the quote

There’s a character trait that’s decided by fate
Comes sadly to many, far too faint, far too late.
They won’t face the aggressor, stand up to his ire
They have not the will to fight his fire with fire.
So they bend over backwards to see all sides as fair,
Till they’re faced with dragon breath fire in their hair.
Like our brethren in France, who’d know better than we,
Yet seem never to learn, seem doomed never to see.

Yes, it seems there are some who’re determined by fate,
To possess not the courage to step up to the plate,
Who shrink from all threat because nothing’s worth war.
But how can they know lest they’ve been there before?
Thank God some have courage, the will, yes, the grace,
To stand for the shirkers, stand strong in their place.
Thank God we have stalwarts who’ll stand for us all,
Who will rise to the challenge at their nation’s call.

The faint-hearted, who fear, whose reaction is flight,
Have no comprehension of those who will fight.
To hide their own trepidation they attempt to demean
The rough men, who defend them, as barbaric, obscene.
Yet these rough men stand ready, hard weapons to hand,
To put placaters behind them, draw a line in the sand,
To preserve for the peaceniks what they won’t defend,
So their own unearned freedom won’t perish, won’t end.

To appeasers, rough men are coarse government tools.
To rough men, appeasers are dumb delusional fools.

Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66

You media pansies may squeal and may squirm,
But a fightin’ man knows that the way to confirm,
That some jihadist bastard truly is dead,
Is a brain-tappin’ round fired into his head.
To hell with some wienie with his journalist degree
Safe away from the combat, tryin’ to tell me,
I should check him for breathin,’ examine his eyes.
Nope, I’m punchin’ his ticket to Muj paradise.

To hell with you wimps from your Ivy League schools,
Sittin’ far from the war tellin’ me about rules
And preachin’ to me your wrong-headed contention
That I should observe the Geneva Convention,
Which doesn’t apply to a terrorist scum
So evil and cruel their own people run from,
Cold-blooded killers who love to behead,
Shove that mother’ Geneva, I’m leavin’ em dead.

You slick talkingheads may preach, preen and prattle,
But you’re damn well not here in the thick of the battle.
It’s chaotic, confusin’ it all comes at you fast,
So it’s Muj checkin’ out because I’m going to last.
Yeah, I’ll last through this fight and send his ass away
To his fat ugly virgins while I’m still in play.
If you journalist wienies think that’s cold, cruel and crass,
Then pucker up sweeties, kiss a fightin’ man’s ass.

Russ Vaughn
2d Bn, 327th Parachute Infantry Regiment
101st Airborne Division
Vietnam 65-66

Read Russ’ explanation of this poem.