September 23, 2013
This guy is worth 10,000 gun-grabbing lefty nihilists...
A true hero in a West turned sick and feeble!
England is dead, and my heart breaks every time I think of it. A friend there once told me she and her husband would visit Belgium to practice their sport, target-shooting at a shooting range! Guns are diagnostic, because the real sickness of our time is people who have been hollowed out. Empty souls, believing nothing. And they hate belief above all things, like orcs hate light. Guns are a symbol of belief; they stand for believing in something enough to fight for it.
I have shelves of English murder mysteries, but I can hardly bring myself to read them anymore.
An off-duty member of the SAS emerged as a hero of the Nairobi siege yesterday, after he was credited with saving up to 100 lives.
The soldier was having coffee at the Westgate mall when it was attacked by Islamists on Saturday. With a gun tucked into his waistband, he was pictured helping two women from the complex. He is said to have returned to the building on a dozen occasions, despite intense gunfire.
A friend in Nairobi said: ‘What he did was so heroic. He was having coffee with friends when it happened. ‘He went back in 12 times and saved 100 people. Imagine going back in when you knew what was going on inside.’
Sources said the soldier was with the Special Air Service, or SAS. He cannot be named for security reasons. The British Special Forces regularly train and operate out of Kenya, and have been involved in tracking UK citizens involved with hardline Islamists in Somalia and Yemen.
Former members work with both the UK and Kenyan governments and security firms across East Africa...
Saddest poem I know...
THE RECALLPosted by John Weidner at September 23, 2013 8:11 PM
I am the land of their fathers.
In me the virtue stays.
I will bring back my children,
After certain days.
Under their feet in the grasses
My clinging magic runs.
They shall return as strangers.
They shall remain as sons.
Over their heads in the branches
Of their new-bought, ancient trees,
I weave an incantation
And draw them to my knees.
Scent of smoke in the evening,
Smell of rain in the night—
The hours, the days and the seasons,
Order their souls aright,
Till I make plain the meaning
Of all my thousand years—
Till I fill their hearts with knowledge,
While I fill their eyes with tears.