[Congressional Record Volume 144, Number 129 (Thursday, September 24, 1998)]
[Extensions of Remarks]
[Page E1800]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]


[[Page E1800]]
             A TRIBUTE TO WWII VETERAN WILLIAM HAYWARD REED

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                           HON. RALPH M. HALL

                                of texas

                    in the house of representatives

                      Thursday, September 24, 1998

  Mr. HALL of Texas. Mr. Speaker, I rise today to pay tribute to all 
WWII Veterans by reading a poem that I had the pleasure of hearing 
while back in my District. One of my constituents, Millie Jean 
Purgerson, wrote this poem in dedication to her uncle, William Hayward 
Reed, and his service to this great nation during WWII.
  Millie Jean Purgerson, is a 12-year dedicated Dallas Independent 
School District teacher with a Master's degree in Education. An active 
member of the Northeast Texas Writer's Group, Millie Jean is also a 
freelance writer. Five years ago Millie Jean began researching her 
uncle's death and military service with no more information than that 
listed on his 1948 tombstone.
  Millie Jean's mother's brother, William Hayward Reed, was in the 79th 
Division, 314th Regiment, 3rd Battalion when killed in action in 
Rhowiller, France, in a battle known as the Little Bulge. He was only 
19 years old at the time of his death. So, Millie Jean felt it her duty 
to convey her uncle's story to all Americans. This poem, a moving 
story, applies to tens of thousands of our young men and women who lost 
their lives so early in life while serving their country in a war a 
world away from home. As we adjourn today, let us do so in honor of and 
respect for this Great American--William Hayward Reed. Mr. Speaker, if 
I may, ``Hayward--A Tribute'' by Millie Jean Purgerson:

     Hayward, a farm boy in the heyday of his youth.
     Up before the sun rose to light the aging wood heater.
     The wind blew through the cracks in the walls.
     The black tar paper stretched to keep out the cold draft.

     Oh, the aroma of Mama's country ham frying in the skillet.
     Biscuits baking in the cook stove and coffee steaming in the 
           blue granite pot.
     Fluffy, country-fresh scrambled eggs with rich red-eye gravy.
     Home-preserved muscadine jelly and fresh churned creamy 
           butter.

     Hayward had not yet really tasted the adventures of life.
     The farm work was hard and demanding.
     There had been no time for girls or cars,
     Country fairs, Sunday afternoon rides, or church socials.

     Then the call came from Uncle Sam's draft.
     ``We need you! It is your time to serve your country!''
     He said good-bye to his loved ones and friends.
     He hugged and kissed his mama for the last time.

     A lump grew in his throat and tears welled in his eyes.
     He tried to explain to his faithful old hound
     That he would be away for a while.
     Little did he know that he would never return.

     The train ride to boot camp seemed like an endless journey.
     The cropped haircut, strange clothes, fast moving orders and 
           expectations.
     Bunking with boys who were forced to become men by a war they 
           had not created.
     Anticipating the adventure, yet lonesome for the warmth and 
           smells of home.


     Drills and marches, training for a fight beyond their 
           imagination.
     Then the final order.
     Be ready to board the train for New York by morning.
     The destination yet unknown to the men. France!

     Off in the distance the shoreline of a strange new land.
     Boats, tanks, movement, strategy.
     Orders, gun and tanks exploding.
     The noise, the confusion, the panic of the moment.

     Heavy boots, wool socks, sore, aching, blistered feet.
     The same clothes worn day after day, lost their sophisticated 
           military appeal.
     He dug his own bed, a cold, damp fox hole.
     When rain filled his haven, he used his helmet to dip it dry.

     Penetrating deeper into the war-ravaged countryside.
     The destruction his eyes beheld ripped at his gut, making him 
           heave in horror.
     Senseless slaughter of innocent people, young children, old 
           women,
     Made his heart weep, his eyes fill, and his body tremble.

     A land once so beautiful, now lay smothered in total ruin.
     A people rich in their culture without a home.
     All they ever knew and loved
     Crumbled at the mercy of the enemy.

     Marching into Rohrwiller, physically exhausted, emotionally 
           drained.
     No time for thoughts of tomorrow, every movement on constant 
           guard.
     Covering his buddies advancing to the front.
     The chill of the darkness like a blanket spread over the 
           city.

     Then came the barrage like a blast from hell
     From the water factory's many windows!
     Mowing down the soldiers like hail in a rainstorm,
     Until the new fallen snow reeked with the smell of blood.

     Their cries of pain and agony filled the night air
     As one by one their breathing stopped.
     Hayward lay mortally wounded.
     In his dying breath, he whispered his final word, ``Mother.''

     He will never see the brilliant sun rise over the tall pine 
           trees in the pasture.
     He will never celebrate another Christmas.
     He will never know the joy of holding his firstborn child.
     He will never hear his mother call his name, again.

     

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