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Veterans Day

The following words aren't mine. In fact, they've been around so long people may have read it a time or two before, but on this great day I suspect it bears honor to read it again. I wish I knew who wrote it but I think he or she would rather each and every one of us personally thank a veteran for their service rather thank them for writing these words.



Some veterans bear visible signs of their service: a missing limb, a Jagged scar, a certain look in the eye.

Others may carry the evidence inside them: a pin holding a bone together, A piece of shrapnel in the leg or perhaps another sort of inner steel: The soul's ally forged in the refinery of adversity.

Except in parades, however, the men and women who have kept America safe Wear no badge or emblem. You can't tell a vet just by looking.

What is a vet?



He is the cop on the beat who spent six months in Saudi Arabia sweating two gallons a day making sure the armored personnel carriers didn't run out of fuel.

He is the barroom loudmouth, dumber than five wooden planks, whose overgrown frat-boy behavior is outweighed a hundred times in the cosmic scales by four hours of exquisite bravery near the 38th parallel.

She or he is the nurse who fought against futility and went to sleep sobbing every night for two solid years in Danang.

He is the POW who went away one person and came back another or didn't come back AT ALL.



He is the Quantico drill instructor who has never seen combat but has saved countless lives by turning slouchy, no-account rednecks and gang members into Marines, and teaching them to watch each other's backs.

He is the parade riding Legionnaire who pins on his ribbons and medals with a prosthetic hand.

He is the career quartermaster who watches the ribbons and medals pass him by.

He is the three anonymous heroes in The Tomb Of The Unknowns, whose presence at the Arlington National Cemetery must forever preserve the memory of all the anonymous heroes whose valor remains unrecognized with them on the battlefield or in the ocean's sunless deep.

He is the old guy bagging groceries at the supermarket, aggravatingly slow, who helped liberate a Nazi death camp and who wishes all day long that his wife were still alive to hold him when the nightmares come.



He is an ordinary and yet an extraordinary human being a person who offered some of his life's most vital years in the service of his country, and who sacrificed his ambitions so others would not have to sacrifice theirs.

He is a Soldier, Marine, Sailor or Airman, and also a savior and a sword against the darkness, and he is nothing more than the finest, greatest testimony on behalf of the finest, greatest nation ever known.



So remember each time you see someone who has served our country. When you see one just lean over and say Thank You.

That's all most people need, and in most cases it will mean more than any medals they could have been awarded or were awarded.

Two little words that mean a lot, "THANK YOU".


IN HONOR AND MEMORY OF
Tec 4 Gerald J. Sterken
HQ Co., 192 Tank Battalian


Born: 30 March 1918 - Richland, Iowa

Parents: Gerrit & Catherine Sterken
Siblings: 2 brothers, 1 sister
Hometown: Avalon, Wisconsin

Enlisted: Wisconsin National Guard
Inducted:  U. S. Army , 25 November 1940 - Janesville, Wisconisn

Duties: mechanic

Overseas Duty: Philippine Islands

Engagements:
Battle of Bataan

Prisoner of War:
9 April 1942
The date of surrender on Bataan.

The Death March Followed.

POW Camps:
Philippine Islands: Camp O'Donnell and Cabanatuan

Died:
Friday, 24 July 1942 -dysentery & malaria

Approximate time of death - 11:30 PM


For more information of the Men of the 192nd click here.

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