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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 29-May 13:50:24 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 21854
[catid] => 1
[aid] => Mick
[title] => THE HILL CALLED
[time] => 2003-08-13 12:05:00
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => Hamburger Hill was just a name. A terrible place for a political game. It didn’t mean nothin’’ to the men in suits Just how much blood dripped on our boots. Survival was always first on our minds, But none of us thought we would. And though we all were “Airborne,” Our odds weren’t very good. Eleven times in ten days, We attempted that climb in May. In the steamy Ashua Valley, Where flesh did burn all day. Go into a deli if you would like to see The ambiance that war can be. With no refrigeration in the sloppy mud. Just the putrid color and smell when mixed with blood. Finally we made it, Right up to the top. With pieces of our buddies, Clinging to our clothes like slop. Then there was the carbon and smoke from many shells. I really can’t be certain, but it seemed much worse than hell. On Hill 937, for ten days we were bare. And when the battle ended, we simply marched away from there. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 158 [topic] => 57 [informant] => robert_edgar_burns [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => war )
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