Thursday, November 17, 2005

I got started and can't stop now!

I apologize for straying off my normal subject matter, but this war business is really disturbing. I find myself joining a snowball effect, that I only hope grows. I find the cause for the Iraq part of our war is really not worthy of our soldier's lives.
...and I really like this LINK.

According the the story by the AP's Liz Sidoti, Rep. John Murtha (news, bio, voting record), a decorated Vietnam combat veteran, choked back tears telling reporters.

"It's time to bring them home..."

I could not agree more. I agree for the lives of each and every person over there. I agree that as long as the bush admninistration exercises its abuse of power, and profits from it, that they do not deserve the respect of the soldiers who serve them. I believe that the cause is not just.

The AP further reported that he said, "They are united against U.S. forces and we have become a catalyst for violence," he said. "The war in Iraq is not going as advertised. It is a flawed policy wrapped in illusion."

A flawed policy wrapped in illusion...hmmmm. That means that no matter how you glorify the lives sacrificed, the lives lost, the reason for why they died will never change.

I like what the HONORABLE Mr. Representative Murtha said when he spoke of the vice president cheney's criticism of him:

"I like guys who've never been there that criticize us who've been there," said Murtha, a former Marine. "I like that. I like guys who got five deferments and never been there and send people to war, and then don't like to hear suggestions about what needs to be done."

because it only serves as an example of what I explained in my earlier blog. The soldiers in the service "question why" FAR LESS often than they think "just take care of the guy next to me."

It's a habit, if you really questioned why, then you could drive yourself crazy just trying to come up with a believable reason in situations where the war policy might be "flawed." That's not how you conduct unpleasant war business. You support the commander in chief, whoever the person may be, and you can't do that by leisurely questioning why. You take care of the guy next to you, that's what being a good soldier is about. Being a good soldier is not actively seeking out "five deferments," like mr. cheney did. You know politics can really jerk a guy's life chain when war's involved. In Korea, we sent Task Force Smith (a mere battalion that practically got anhiliated); then we sent McArthur who went in, took care of business and got fired by politicians who couldn't take the fact that war is ugly business. McArthur didn't question why he was there, he took a mission and ran with it. It would have left us with one Korea instead of what we have today. In Vietnam, politicians put leashes on our soldiers while the enemy ran across to the neighbor's yard. You know what, now they're sending soldiers in to Iraq, Task Force Smith style, and what for?

The nation of Iraq doesn't need to be a democratic society because we want it to be. It needs to be a democratic society when enough social change occurs for it to happen naturally or maybe never. Really now, if we thought that everybody needed to be democratic why aren't we taking over Cuba? If we thought everybody needed to be democratic, why aren't we forcing free elections on China? We hold China to a higher standard than ourselves. The States who United make China hold to a United Nations agreement about Human Rights that the USA never signed itself. And we think we know what's best for Iraq? No, not really. The bush administration probably has an idea to protect vital national [family?] interests.....hmmmmm OIL OIL OIL OIL?

White House press secretary Scott McClellan, now he's a piece of work, such a loyal staffer! he says
"... it is baffling that he is endorsing the policy positions of Michael Moore and the extreme liberal wing of the Democratic Party."

How the hell did Michael Moore make it into the conversation? (the HONORABLE Michael Moore) The "extreme liberal wing?" Then he must be in the extreme conservative wing? You know we have the far left and the far right, but it takes each sides' extreme views to hopefully reach confluence. I belive that the Honorable Mr. Murtha is already in the confluence waiting for the rest of the two extremes to join him in the middle. The Honorable Mr. Murtha takes his duties as a representative (of the people) seriously and with a great deal of experience.
A Colonel of mine once said, the greatest General's are the one's who never forget what it's like being a new recruit. I'm sure it was probably quoted a lot down through the years but, Mr. Murtha is a prime example of living it as a truth. He hasn't forgotten the Soldiers that the administration is sending into harm's way. He is a representative who should be listened to. It is against policy for soldiers to criticize their commander in chief with full vigor. It's unlawful for Officers to criticize the president or his policy.

Therefore, it is only right that an HONORABLE REPRESENTATIVE WITH EXPERIENCE ON THE OTHER SIDE OF SOMEONE'S GUN, speak out for the lives of other soldiers on the business side of Iraqi guns. That's what being a representative is all about. Congress is supposed to represent the people. The people needing representation right now are your cousins, your aunts, your brothers, sisters and your next-door neighbors who wear a United States of America uniform.

Scott ,mcclellan also said,

"The eve of an historic democratic election in Iraq is not the time to surrender to the terrorists...After seeing his statement, we remain baffled — nowhere does he explain how retreating from Iraq makes America safer."

Nowhere, no time has the bush administration explained how the Iraqi terrorism threat began because, WE'RE OCCUPYING THEIR COUNTRY! The Iraqi terrorists are just that-terrorists INSIDE OF IRAQ, not terrorists in Wiley City, WA, in Worley, Idaho, in Pulaski, NY, in Porcupine, SD, in the town of Council Grove, KS. Nowhere has mr. mcclellan explained how removing us from Iraq will remove the threat to THEM, the Sovereign Nation of Iraq. It is not a "retreat." It is a natural recognition that we might not be doing the BEST thing with the lives of soldiers who will give their lives in accomplishing whatever is set before them.

The AP also reported that Murtha, who did support the war when we probably ALL thought it was a just cause (self included) is part of:

"...plummeting public support for a war that has cost more than $200 billion and led to the deaths of more than 2,000 U.S. troops."

Now, isn't that just close to what I just said in my last two blogs? Billions of Dollars, and over two thousand lives, across the span of FIFTEEN wasted years were spent when we could have been making changes here on our own soil. Lets spend some money. We say we don't have it, but $200 Billion dollars later, we still say we don't have it. Now we can't ever tell over two thousand dead soldiers that we don't have the money to spend on research for viable renewable fuel resources, maybe because we spent it on war operations that made people like defense contracting agencies' executives rich, right mr. cheney?

Tell it to all the living wounded soldiers, missing hands, legs, sight; look them in the eye and tell them they were wounded in Iraq protecting the people in all those small cities named above.
Yes, this blog has taken a drastic turn. This entry may be all over the place. It might be ill-composed. But then wasting $200 billion dollars, with nothing to show for it after 15 years, is no less ill-composed when you consider that the administration is also throwing lives (over 2000 lost lives so far) at a problem. I'm gonna stand on my soap box and keep saying:

Lets JUST spend some more billions of dollars we don't have,
instead of spending billions of dollars and even one more life of people who serve you with pride in uniform.

They deserve to go only where it's absolutely necessary and as a last resort to protect lives, not corporate interests.

Who cares if I'm right? Even if I'm wrong, we'll all be ahead of the game when all those oil fields go tits up, and we'll have your next-door neighbor's kid still around to speak about.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Cairns In The Sand

Just a pre-read note: this was published previously in a journal that I do not speak of. They mangled it so badly that I called the editor up and tore her a new one. It is my writing. It is about an incident that happened during Operation Desert Shield, just prior to Desert Storm. It is non-fiction...(Uh, yeah, that means it's a true story)
I'll see you at the end of the read. HOO AHHH!

I squirmed, struggling to turn from my back to my side. Any exercising of my abdominal muscles threatened to burst my bladder. Despite being a consistent part of each of the recent seven days, the pain, never-the-less, maintained a novel potency. This water, the cure, I felt was just as painful as the condition of dehydration. In my struggle to gulp water as quickly as I lost it, I became a model of overachievement; a bent-over model, clothed only in brown boxers and green jungle boots, sans socks. Painfully, I could only take short, quick wisps of the desert’s dark air. I stepped gingerly as I negotiated the maze of duffel bags and cots. I scraped a shin on one of those cots, and I ignored even the thought of wincing, fearing that a gasp would kill me.
I reached for the tent flap. As I pulled it open, I felt the cool crisp rush of the outside air. I closed the flap before any more of the darkness could sneak into the tent. I took steps with hands groping, stirring the blackness before me. Finally feeling the door of the Humvee, I turned north and shuffled what felt like several miles to reach the rear hatch of the vehicle, where I turned west and leaned against it at waist level. I glanced, eyes right, and began to piss a giant puddle. I struggled to keep from using any muscles; I surrendered unconditionally to the forces of gravity. Minutes later, I was panting with relief, thankful for the ability to breathe normally again. I stayed bent over, savoring the moment.
The pain had retreated, and, once again, I assumed command of my body. I wiped sweat from my forehead and backwards into my fresh new haircut. I tilted my head forward, and I scratched furiously, trying to shake sand from the top of my freshly shaved head. I stood up, straightening my frame back into the shape of a soldier. My strength was renewed; my confidence was restored. I walked seven steps from the rear of the vehicle to the front of it, and I peered into some direction of the darkness. I saw the vague shape of the Criminal Investigation Detachment tent only a few steps away, and I heard the sound of another giant piss puddle forming somewhere in the immediate darkness before me. I looked to the left and to the right of the sound; the rods of my eyes processed an image of one of our resident CID agents relieving himself. I waived, and the movement registered in his eyes. I walked over, and we made small talk. I told him I drank nineteen of the one and a half-liter water bottles--one full liter for each hour I was awake. He began to straighten up and said he too had drunk to excess. Then he went back to his tent, grabbing another full bottle of water before he went inside it. I turned, hoping I was facing my tent, and walked like a miniature Indian Frankenstein in boxers, arms leading the way.
On the fall of one of my footsteps, I nearly jumped out of my boots and boxers. The silence of my comical journey was shattered by the shock wave of a tremendous crash, and then another, and finally one more. The CID agent said, “I wonder what that was.”
Doing far more than wondering, I said, “I don’t know,” already several footsteps away from where I had been. I followed tracks earlier vehicles had made in the sand; all fear of sand vipers, scorpions, and camel spiders faded in the face of my curiosity.
About one hundred yards into my trek, I met a fellow sergeant, staring at his Humvee; it was a turtle stuck to the steep north side of a sand dune. It balanced tragically upon the shoulders of a young MP who was sitting underneath the right doorpost; his loose seatbelt was still clipped around him. I asked the sergeant what happened; he mumbled something about a vehicle rolling down from the top. I failed to recognize the shock in his blank stare at the vehicle.
I was running and screaming all the way back to the tent, never realizing that the darkness had been replaced by complete clarity. I screamed “Hey!” and “Somebody help me!” with every step I ran toward my tent. I was taking short quick wisps of air, afraid I would not get the words out quickly enough or loudly enough.
The CID agent met me between the tents. On the verge of tears, I shrieked that one of our vehicles had rolled over and, “Wake everybody up, I need help!” I sped into my tent, screaming the news to my platoon. I saw nothing but my flashlight lying on the ground, where, once before, I had seen nothing but complete darkness. Jumping over a bag, I ran from the tent screaming for them to follow. I took short quick wisps of air again, afraid that I couldn’t replace oxygen quickly enough.
I screamed into the heart of our Military Police compound for people to wake up and help. I raced back to the Humvee. The sergeant was trying to reach over the Private and blot out some sparking wires. I looked with my flashlight, whose cursed beams generated a picture of legs trapped beneath the side of the vehicle. This Private was supporting the weight of the vehicle on his upper spine. Blood clogged his mouth, his nose, and his ears.
“Don’t rock it, you’re gonna hurt him!” I screamed at the sergeant, who had regained his composure. I leaned into the weight of the Humvee; “Don’t worry, I’m not pushing it up, I’m just gonna keep it from going any further,” I grunted.
My platoon began showing up, and I assigned several of them to the task of holding the vehicle. I sent one soldier scurrying off to get a Humvee with a winch positioned on the other side of the deadly sand dune. Then, I watched somebody try to put the electrical fire out with a fire extinguisher; it wasn’t working. My lieutenant called out to his driver to bring his vehicle over; he needed the vehicle radio to tell the dustoff medical helicopter where to come to. More extinguishers exploded, more sparks flew, and I held on to a rapidly dimming glimmer of hope as best as I could.
Some idiot who normally wore lieutenant bars came running up to the scene and used a command voice, that he should have used earlier, to transform this accident from the Private’s problem into my own private nightmare. “Nobody touch the vehicle!” he commanded, and eight or nine pairs of hands flew from the surface of the vehicle. My shoulder suddenly felt heavy from the ton and a half of vehicle weight. I was positioned looking straight down at the helpless Private when the vehicle slipped.
In half of an instant, I lost all those short quick wisps of air.
I grunted from the deep dark parts of my soul as I pushed for them; I tried to scream “No!” but the air had rushed from my pleading mouth. I sucked at the heavy air; fear clenched my throat. I squeaked as I tried to breathe for the Private. My ears attacked my being with the sound of the vehicle groaning and scraping against his spine; my ears soaked up that sickening sound because his lifeless broken body could not hear. My heart pumped double-time as chunks of blood dropped from his face. His body lost all sign of life, and I felt that moment in a way as no man should ever have to suffer. My soul gathered momentum as I began to slip in the sand; my feet flew, forcing furrows of sand to go flying into oblivion. My tear-filled eyes saw his body bend unnaturally under the weight I could not hold, and they summoned my soul to speak now or surrender his spirit to the sweet hereafter.
I shouted in the last half of the same instant. My diaphragm contracted; my lungs pushed air past the fear; my mouth opened; my body pleaded for help because his could not move.
“Get your hands up here, you’re crushing him!” I shouted past the tears welling up in my eyes, past the sobs hiding in my throat. “Don’t let go of it!” I shouted, suppressing sobs with a great gasping mouth. They shored their shoulders up against it once again. I fought an incredible anger as I began to pray. “Dear Lord, don’t let that happen again!” I begged. After my personal hope for the best was damp with reality, his lifeless, misshapen body was rescued from the horrible position. He was laid on the sand as CPR commands pierced the air. We shouted his name from the sidelines.
“C’mon, don’t give up, keep trying,” we all shouted to the lifeless lump lying before us.
Someone from his squad yelled “Come on, don’t give up, we love you man.” I was soaking in a mixture of sweat and sand. I watched as his platoon sergeant and lieutenant worked in a concert of chest compressions, breaths, and an occasional whisper of encouragement to the Private’s body. The adrenaline raced through me, and I began to shake.
As I walked up the dune, someone asked why they had disobeyed our captain’s order not to take the vehicles up the dune to our observation post. Somebody else said their lieutenant gave them the ok to do it because they were cold. My shakes of fear turned to a shudder of disgust.
About thirteen minutes into my newest emotion, the helicopter flew from the darkness; it flew right to us; then it kept flying into the darkness, missing our location. About twenty-five nerve-wracking minutes later, it touched down. His body was put onto the craft, and it lifted off. I found some shred of solace from knowing that, like his soul, his body was being lifted into the heavens.
My lieutenant’s driver came up the hill to where I was crouched on the crest of the sand dune. Private McPherson cupped his hand over my shoulder and asked, “Are you ok Hadji?” I shook my head. I took short quick wisps of air to keep from breaking down in front of a junior soldier.
Inside, my soul sobbed, shook, quivered and sniffled. The war was weeks away, but I had already been “blooded.” In the absence of complications such as enemy soldiers’ bullets, land mines, and artillery, I prepared myself for the tragedies that could form in my very near future; I spent about an hour alone on the dune, quietly sobbing, praying, hoping, and searching.
I took a long, slow, deep breath as I made my way down the slope. I strode silently through the sand to my tent; pulling the flap open, I crossed into the deep, dark blackness.

This is why I love writing. I can bring you to the same place, the same emotions as I had.
In this story, if you thought he died, I brought you to the same place as I was that horrible night. He managed to live, but when he left, he had been under CPR sustainment for so long, we didn't know if there was going to be brain damage. We didn't hear much about him after he was evacuated. Then about six months after we got back (like a year after the accident) he showed up at Fort Hood, Texas. He still had to use a walker or cane and he was still re-learning how to walk normally, but he smiled. I smiled. I didn't say much. It was enough to know that someone had escaped the ultimate sacrifice and his family still had him.
His Platoon Sergeant and Lieutenant got Bronze stars for saving him, even though the lieutenant is the one who gave them permission to drive up a sand dune, against our Captain's Standing Orders. North side of dunes no good, wind blows south----->>>
south side is a gentle slope down---->>>>>>>>>>>>
North side is very steep and easy to tip over on. That's how come we weren't supposed to be driving on any sand dunes.
This is one of many things that go on every day in the military life. I just turned 39 and I count myself lucky that I'm relatively injury free from all the fun stuff I did in over 11 years in the military.

Friday, November 11, 2005

His Name Was William Palmer

His Name Was William Palmer...

His Name will remain William Palmer...

I will always remember his name...

After reading this, you will remember his name too...

That's me in the picture... a killer wearing a bowtie, way back in the day

When you remember the war, you should remember how it started; you should remember who was there when it started; you should know who sacrificed in the line of duty to their country. But most important of all, you should know William Palmer. You should have a name to place with what happened over in Iraq. Only a soldier who has served in the heat of battle can tell you what it means to be there. To me, I learned what it meant to serve when the first casualties came back with shot up armored vehicles.

When the 1st Cavalry Division started the ground war in 1991, we had several "Berm Buster" operations. The "Sand" countries in the area designate country boundaries with giant walls of sand. They are about 20 feet high and make good observation points. I served on a couple of Berm Buster operations, and in each one, we lost good men. We had some injured when our engineers blew gigantic holes in the sand wall. That was our first taste of battle. I watched from a front row seat in my HMMWV (Humvee) with my team. We listened to the radio as the engineers did their work, the field artillery took out some targets of opportunity, and the Bradleys, field artillery and Tanks made their moves into the kill zone. I watched through binoculars as it all happened. We waited for orders. Each vehicle in my MP platoon was at least 200 yards apart from each other. We were tasked with guarding the AXP (Ambulance Exchange Point). We watched as the armored ambulances brought back dead and injured back to our point where humvee ambulances would transport them or helicopters would evacuate them to the rear. We listened in as the casualties were reported on the radio. In the heat of battle, we glared at the captured Iraqi soldiers who were also brought back to our point and given to us to guard.

In the months preceding the battle, it was a constant struggle to gain maps, GPS systems and general information about even where we were at in relation to everybody else in the numerous Nations' Divisions of Armies. I never did get to replace my LORANS unit with a GPS system. We bartered smuggled alcohol for badly needed maps.

We cruised different Division's Areas to gather any information. We scrounged for everything including a radio. Then we scrounged for a coding device for our radios. We stole toilet seats from the 82nd Airborne Divison's Privies so we had something to put on top of our five gallon buckets that became our portable toilets.

Nothing came easy. We were sent on missions with less than perfect instructions. I almost shot a Saudi Colonel because of a mix up with a traffic control point on Tapline Road. We didn't have complete comfort what the amount of information that was given to us, we trusted our Lieutenant and platoon sergeant because we had to.

With all the things that got mixed up, it seems strange then that one piece of information would make its way completely across the battlefield with such clarity and speed. It was during the 100 hour "official" ground war that we were way out in the middle of Iraq swinging out to the far west on the infamous "Hail Mary" that one of our buddies was all the way across the battlefield, near the coast in the 2nd Armored Division's Tiger Brigade (Army) supporting the Marines. The 502nd Military Police Platoon was a subordinate unit of the 2nd Armored Division. We were all from Fort Hood, Texas and the 2nd Armored Division was attached to the 1st Cavalry Division until they broke off to support the Marines. Until they did, they camped with the 545th MP company, the 1st Cavalry Division's MP company. I was brand new to the 545th when the war started, so I was still getting to know people in each MP unit.

There was one guy in particular who was super quiet. His name was William Palmer. He didn't really play volleyball, he just watched. Some people said he was just really homesick. He was young, and married...and like us, would soon be in battle. I didn't know him very well. He was in a different platoon. I did sit next to him quite a few times in the Mess Tent because, like me, he was often writing letters. Before the berm buster operations or any big moves, I always made sure my team called home. I often wondered if I was telling them to call home just because I didn't know if we'd all make it back alive to a phone.

Some of us didn't. It was during this hectic 100 hour period that we heard, probably within hours, that someone way over on the coast had become a casualty. You know we couldn't get information about anything, but for some reason, we got word of this casualty from the other side of the country so soon. He died. His parents would never get the phone call from him that he was coming home. His name was William Palmer. His wife would never hold him again. His child would never know him. I didn' t know him very well, but I remember his face. I remember how quiet he was. I remember the shock I felt from knowing that someone so quiet, so genuinely gentle and friendly, had just been killed in war.

You should be shocked too. You should know that war is ugly. It kills people at random. Small mistakes, in war, are not small. War killed William Palmer. I'm pretty positive that of all the MPs over there, William Palmer probably had the strongest urge to go home. He had plenty of reasons to want to go home. He had a wife, kid on the way, loving parents.

There are people who genuinely thrive on the adventure associated with combat operations. Then there are those who serve, but with a greater perception of humility. I know only one of the people who were killed during Operation Desert Shield. I knew him only vaguely. But he made an impact on me. It was then and there, that I came to my foolish idea that War ought to be the absolute last option. I hoped that after this, I would never see any more of my friends serve and make the ultimate sacrifice. I hoped that if they did have to serve the cause would be just. I hoped that we would never dishonor the dead, their families, and those who still serve by sending them off to war without legitimate, honest attempts to avoid war first.

It's foolish to think that administrations with such a lack of moral and ethical character are holding up their end of the deal. In light of the most recent news stories about Judith Miller, one has to question whether we've all been duped. You see, it's easy to go along with the orders when you serve, because it's more about taking care of the guys next to you. It's less about questioning the "Why" of war. Now that I'm out of the Army, I do question why. I question why because men like William Palmer will never have that opportunity. Men and women today serve with distinction. It is part of the bargain that sometimes you have to do the unpleasant things. Sometimes you have to put it all on the line. But it should NEVER be for frivolous reasons.

A man's life, a woman's life is worth more than all the politics in the world. If we have to pay even fifty cent's more per gallon be it. The economy will adjust. Or we will. It's a hard road to change. It's an easy road to ignore the fact that frivolous war acts between nations include people that you and I know. Operation Desert Storm was touted as worthy and the right thing to do. You know what? I'm not so sure it ever was.

I question whether the billions we have spent on the War could have been better spent on research.

You know what? It might not have made a difference for a while. It might have taken several years to perfect newer engines, newer fuels, newer commuting laws. So what... It might have taken years--years that over two thousand dead women and men soldiers would have spent with their families. It might not have been the answer: spending money on new fuel technologies, but until we've tried, we shouldn't be sending more and more people that you know off to die. Lori Piestewa, Darren Cunningham, Sheldon Black Hawk, Jill, Uncle Joe, your cousin Andrew, the guy who lives down the street from you, they deserve every effort we have to avoid war. We haven't taken every last effort to solve this fuel "crisis" problem. Only after we find out that we don't have any other options left, is when I believe that we should be there risking, not our lives, but lives of soldiers.

Driving a fuel inefficient S.U.V.?

Using way too much fuel than is really necessary?

Not supporting newer renewable fuel resources?

If you are then you are making certain Administration Oil Tycoons and Defense Contractors rich, and adding weight to a false idea that the Iraq part of our war is absolutely necessary. This Veteran's Day I will not dishonor the memory of William Palmer with support for a war, when we REALLY HAVEN'T TAKEN EVERY LAST STEP TO AVOID IT. We just make excuses that we need to do it NOW. Well as I recall, we started Operation Desert Shield wayyyy back in August 1990. Fifteen years later, billions of dollars later, with over two thousand souls lost across the sand, and we still don't have an end in sight. What could the billions of dollars and 15 years we spent on the war have done in the way of research and development? As long as oil tycoons are in office, we'll never know.

You won't know William Palmer from reading this. But you will know that name from this day forward. You will know the name of one person who died fighting this war. You will know that he would have made a great father. He was somebody's son. He was a friend to those around him. You will know that I have tears for such a gentle soul, killed in a random an ugly act we call war.

If you've read this far, then you have a responsibility, not to believe me, but to search your soul, and ask: if we all just contributed a little, if we all just changed our habits a little, if we all sacrificed a little, would the people you know, just like William Palmer in Operation Desert Storm in 1991, really have to sacrifice their lives? Send your relatives off to war, send the people you know, and the people you don't know. But I challenge you to send them off with a hug and wonder if they'll come back; wonder if we're all doing as much as we can to avoid the Iraq war; wonder if you'll ever see them again; wonder if there's another fifteen years we're going to waste, another two thousand soldiers' lives we'll ALL sacrifice. How many more soldier's lives, on EACH side will we sacrifice before it equals 15 years of research and peace?

Have a Happy Veteran's Day. Somebody should be enjoying their "day off from work," their "three day weekend," because there are over two thousand families that will not celebrate it. Instead they'll be visiting graves of children. The graves of father's they will never get to know; the graves of their sisters. Somebody will visit William Palmer's grave.

Before you offer full support, before you say we have done every last thing to avoid the Iraq part of the war, you need to ask if you could send your loved one off to war. You need to ask yourself, if your country could invent new fuel resources and that would save your loved one's from making life sacrifices, why aren't you supporting that idea? Why aren't you supporting the idea that we could be spending just money on the problem, instead of money and lives like William Palmer's?

On this Veterans Day you will remember his name was William Palmer. What's the name of the person you know over there? What's the name of the person who has someone over there? What's the number names on memorials you would support before supporting research?