sKerry speech to Navy vets in 1995.

"But, because of the nature of the war we fought we came back to a country that did not recognize our contribution"

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Admiral Boorda, Admiral Zumwalt, Admiral Will, Admiral Moore, Admiral Hoffman, Congressman Kolbe, families, friends and my fellow Swifties.

We have come here today -- with respect and love -- to complete the last River Run.

We have brought our memories and those dearest to us in order to put in a place of honored history a remarkable vessel of the United States Navy. In so doing we proudly share with the nation we willingly served, hundreds, even thousands, of examples of daring, courage, commitment and sacrifice.

We do that with none of the braggadocio or even brash arrogance of our younger days. We do so with the humility that comes from the intervening years and the fact that we survived while buddies did not; but we do so with unabashed pride in the quality of our service and those we were privileged to fight with -- boat for boat, man for man.

We do so knowing that no words here today -- no hushed conversation with a wife or a son or daughter -- no 30-year-later memory or description will ever convey the sight and feeling of 6 or 10 or 12 Swifts, engines throbbing, radios crackling, guns thundering towards the river bank, moving ever closer into harm's way.

But that's not all it was: We sunbathed and skinny-dipped; we traded sea rations for fresh shrimp; and left our Vietnamese recipients of Uncle Sam's technology grinning from ear to ear as they believed they got the better deal; we happily basked in wide beetlenut smiles; we glorified in shouts of "hey, American, you number one," and we casually brushed off taunts of "Hey, you number ten."

We replaced Psy Ops tapes with James Brown or Jim Morrison - - we used our riot guns to shoot duck and cook up a feast and, yes, some did water ski.

We harassed LSTs and destroyers, lauding it over our less lucky, less plucky, black-shoed Navy brothers. We parlayed our independence and proximity to the war into handouts of steak, fruit, ship board meals and, best of all, ice cream. We became the consummate artists of Cumshaw.

We believed that anyone of us -- officer or enlisted -- might one day be CNO or CINCPAC, and all the while nothing really mattered that much except trying to win a war and keep each other alive. When we broke the rules -- which we never did, of course -- we would say, What the hell can they do? Send us to Vietnam?!"

Through it all, we never forgot how to laugh -- and there were wonderful moments, not just from the gallows humor of the war but those that came from the special spirit of Swifties: the times we lobbed raw eggs from boat to boat; great flare fights that lit more than one life raft on fire; delivering lumber to Nam Can in the middle of the war; handing out ridiculous Psy-Ops packages that no one understood; and of course pet dogs that didn't understand English or Vietnamese for "don't do it there." There were as many moments of humor as Swift boats and sailors.

And we exalted in the beauty of a country that took us from glorious green rice paddy, black water buffalo caressing the banks of rivers, children giggling and playing on dikes, sanpans filled with produce -- that suddenly took us from innocence and tranquility deep into the madness of fire fights, chaos reigning around us, 50 calibers diminishing our hearing, screams for medevac piercing the radio waves, fish-tailing rockets passing by the pilot house -- all suddenly to be replaced by the most serene, eerie beauty the eye could behold. We lived in the daily contradiction of living and dying.

In a great lesson for the rest of this country in these difficult times, we never looked on each other as officer or enlisted, as Oakie or Down Easterner. We were just plain brothers in combat, proud Americans who together with our proud vessels answered the call.

We were bound together in the great and noble effort of giving ourselves to something bigger than each and every one of us individually, and doing so at risk of life and limb. Let no one ever doubt the quality and nobility of that commitment.

The specs say Swifts have a quarter-inch aluminum hull -- but to us it was a hull of steel, though at times that was not enough. It was hospital, restaurant, and home. It was sometimes birthplace and deathbed.

It was where we lived and where we grew up. It was where we confronted and conquered and where we found courage. It was our confessional; our place of silent prayer.

We worked these boats hard. No matter the mission, no matter the odds, we pushed them and they took us through violent cross-currents of surf, through 30 ft. monsoon seas, through fishstakes and mangrove, through sandbars and mudflats.

We loved these boats, even if we abused them of necessity, and the truth is -- they loved us back. They never let us down.

We made mistakes. Sometimes we bit off more than we could chew. We didn't just push the limits, we exceeded them routinely and still the boats came through. They were our partners on a grand and unpredictable adventure.

The regular Navy provided shore bombardment and forward fire control -- so did we.

The Coast Guard intercepted weapons and gave emergency medical care -- so did we.

The only thing our boats couldn't do by definition was fly; but some would say that, in light of ammo and fuel, and exuberant to have survived a firefight or a monsoon sea -- we flew too.

But the power and the strength was not just in the boats. It was in the courage and the camaraderie of those who manned them.

In the darkness and solitude of night, or parked in a cove before a mission, or in the beauty of a crimson dawn before entering the Bay Hap, or the My Tho, or the Bo De, or any other mangrove cluttered river -- we shared our fears and, no matter what our differences -- we were bound together on an extraordinary journey the memory of which will last forever.

On just routine patrols, these boats were our sanctuary -- our cloister, a place for crossing divides between Montana, Michigan, Arkansas, and Massachusetts.

The boats occupied us and protected us. They were the place we came together in fellowship, brotherhood, and ultimately love to share our enthusiasm, our idealism -- our youth.

Now we are joined together again after more than a quarter century to celebrate this special moment in our lives. It is a bittersweet moment and it is a time to reflect on those events and those friendships that changed our lives and made us who we are today.

Some were not as lucky as we were. They did not have the chance to grow up as we did. They did not get to see their children. They did not have the chance to fulfill their dreams, and we honor their memory today.

In their presence we are gathered with so much more than just mutual respect and admiration, more than just nostalgia.

But, because of the nature of the war we fought we came back to a country that did not recognize our contribution. It did not understand the war we fought, what we went through, or the love that held us together then. It did not understand what young men could feel for boats like these and men like you.

This is really the first time in 30 years that we've been able to share with each other the feelings that we had then, and the feelings we have now. They are deeply and profoundly personal feelings. They are different for each of us, but the memories are the same -- rich with the smells and sounds of the rivers and the power of the boats -- punctuated by the faces of the men with whom we served and the thoughts we shared.

Joseph Conrad said, "And now the old ships and their men are gone; the new ships and the new men have taken up their watch on the stern-and-impatient sea which offers no opportunities but to those who know how to grasp them with a ready hand and an undaunted heart."

So, today, we stand here, still with ready hand -- and more than ever undaunted hearts -- to complete this last River Run and escort these magnificent boats into history. We who served aboard them are now bound together not just as veterans, not just as friends, but as family.

To all who served on these boats, I salute you. And may God bless you and your families.

Ramsey Clark to Join Panel for Saddam’s Defense

arabnews press release 25 August 2004

NOTE :
Ramsey Clark is pictured below with Kerry and
Vietnam phony vet Al Hubbard
Who was head of the
Vietnam Veterans Against the War movement.

NEW:
FReeper smith288 has an online version of
Kerry's "The New Soldier"
You can read it without downloading pdf files!
CLICK HERE

From Kerry's "The New Soldier":
Al Hubbard Sgt., 22 Troop Carrier Squadron Aug. ’65-June ’66

Emotions: Walking down the flight line at Saigon past stacks of aluminum cases containing American bodies and past stacks of aluminum luggage containing American currency. Seeing the tight, sad face of an Airman loading the bodies aboard a dirty Air Force Transport and the wide smiling face of a stewardess greeting the passengers aboard a clean Pan American Clipper Jet. Hearing a Vietnamese beg you to leave his country and an American colonel tells you to bomb his country. Hearing a Vietnamese invite you to live in his home, after the war and an American explain why you can’t live in his block, after the war. Flying over barren, brown, safe American held terrain and over lush, green unsafe enemy terrain. Feeling happy to be leaving a country in which you do not belong and sad to be returning to a country in which you are not allowed to belong. Sacrificing a portion of your consciousness so you won’t have to deal with being there and building mental blocks so you won’t have to deal with having been there.

- Al Hubbard, proven fraud who never set foot in Viet Nam. The only Vietnamese he ever met was when he was collaborating with the North Vietnamese in Paris
on the American Communist Party's nickel.
John Kerry's explanation: "He (Hubbard) simply exaggarated his particular position.
But nobody knew it at the time. And those things happen."

The New Soldier, (46 pages)
By John Kerry
and Vietnam Veterans
Against the War
PART I (pdf file)
PART II (pdf file)
PART III (pdf file)

Kerry hopes everyone
in the USA gets this book!

Send this url for the online version

http://ejsmithweb.com/fr/newsoldier/

Print this out (46 pages) and disribute it,
especially to the liberals you know.

Copy and paste the links to everyone you know.

http://nomayo.mu.nu/archives/New%20Soldier%20Inro.pdf

http://nomayo.mu.nu/archives/New%20Soldier.pdf

http://nomayo.mu.nu/archives/New%20Soldier%20Epilogue.pdf

We replaced Psy Ops tapes with James Brown or Jim Morrison - - we used our riot guns to shoot duck and cook up a feast and, yes, some did water ski. We harassed LSTs and destroyers, lauding it over our less lucky, less plucky, black-shoed Navy brothers. We parlayed our independence and proximity to the war into handouts of steak, fruit, ship board meals and, best of all, ice cream. We became the consummate artists of Cumshaw.

Must one be under the influence of psychotropic drugs to understand what this buttwipe was trying to say?

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