Last week (or was it two weeks ago?) a CBS reporter was seriously injured, and two of her crew were killed. This was a front page story for a couple of days. It was a real tragedy. Did you know, though, that there was someone else involved too? I didn't but, fortunately, I read A Rose By Any Other Name, and I learned differently today:
Patriot of A Soldier's Perspective has taken issue with the fact that much was made of the CBS employees who died and the reporter that was critically injured, yet there was someone else who died that day. He was referred to only as "a soldier" or "a U.S. soldier," but even after his name was released by the military, he was not mentioned. His name was James A. (Alex) Funkhouser and he was a Captain. He was also a son and a very dear friend. One of his friends, Kim, sent Patriot a note along with a picture (which can be found here at A Soldier's Perspective).
As for me, I can't think of any other story that better illustrates how profoundly selfish the MSM has been in its war coverage. For the most part, it's coverage has not been about the war. Instead, it's been about its own role in the war, about its politcal views regarding the war, about its desire to take down President Bush, and about its general disdain for this country.
Capt. Funkhouser's death, and the fact that the media treated him like a cipher, not a person, reminded me in a perverse way of one of the most beautiful war songs ever written. It's from the Civil War, and was apparently written by a woman who was moved by a soldier's dying in the hospital. It's a reminder that every soldier is Somebody's Darling:
Into the ward of the clean white-washed halls,
Where the dead slept and the dying lay;
Wounded by bayonets, sabres and balls,
Somebody's darling was borne one day.
Somebody's darling so young and so brave,
Wearing still on his sweet yet pale face
Soon to be hid in the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.
Somebody's darling, somebody's pride,
Who'll tell his Mother where her boy died?
Matted and damp are his tresses of gold,
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;
Pale are the lips of most delicate mould,
Somebody's darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful purple-veined brow,
Brush off the wandering waves of gold;
Cross his white hands on his broad bosom now,
Somebody's darling is still and cold.
Give him a kiss, but for somebody's sake,
Murmur a prayer for him, soft and low,
One little curl from his golden mates take,
Somebody's they were once, you know,
Somebody's warm hand has oft rested there,
Was it a Mother's so soft and white?
Or have the lips of a sister, so fair,
Ever been bathed in their waves of light?
Somebody's watching and waiting for him,
Yearning to hold him again to her breast;
Yet there he lies with his blue eyes so dim,
And purple, child-like lips half apart.
Tenderly bury the fair, unknown dead,
Pausing to drop on this grave a tear;
Carve on the wooden slab over his head,
"Somebody's darling is slumbering here."