Crying Stones
by Stephen Wayne
for Sargent James E Hampton USAF
July 2000 Doe Run, Missouri
In the years of 1965 - 1969 many youth of my generation told the
establishment (anyone over 30) to fuck off, and told Uncle Sam
where him, and his war, could go. That all went over like a turd in a
punch bowl.
Many of those same youth took their senior trip to Vietnam; my
brother was one. He survived, and came home quietly to live a
productive life... but he remained a soldier until the day he died.
He married his high school sweetheart, and they had two daughters.
He studied at university, received two degrees, and was working on
his masters (writing his book) when Gulf War I started.
He served as military security on a Midwest bomber base, and
began to investigate domestic terrorist cells. After that war, he
covertly infiltrated some of those same cells; the effects of which (at
least in part, and I believe in a big part) eventually took his life, at a
relatively young age. He died of massive heart failure in July of
2000.
Jim told me some things about his service experiences that he never
told anyone else... things that I will never tell anyone else... because
some things should not be told.
Six young men, and one young woman, all in uniform, showed up at
his funeral. They shot their rifles, three voiles, into the quiet blue
Ozark sky; two of them folded the flag from my brothers casket, and
their leader presented it to my mother, saluted her, and thanked her
for her son's meritorious service to this nation.
I will never forget the look of tremendous grief on my mother's face,
or the tears in her eyes; one of the few times I have ever seen her
cry - in front of strangers. I pray that I never have to experience such
grief in my life - the terrible grief of loosing one's child.
Latter that evening, walking alone in the woods, beyond the
cemetery, where Jim and I used to play at cowboys, indians,
soldiers, and war... I began to write this song... Crying Stones.
Was in the year of sixty five, first tasted love so much alive...
Then he became a killing man, all glory bound for Vietnam...
Way down beside the China sea, he learned that war was not a
dream...
That life and death are nation games, that love and hate are
passion's names...
Down in the jungle rain and sun, he came of age beneath the gun...
Still living blood of those who kill, flow in the wounds that never
heal...
And the truth soon reads like fiction, when the lies become the
legends...
Still the lady holds her torch, up high, as the stones begin to cry...
Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ... ah ah ah... ah ah ah ah ah ah ah...
But Charlie fought and Charlie died, and Charlie's children burned
alive...
While somewhere in the wood stock fields, flower children
screamed and popped their pills...
The years go fast as he grows old, and life don't last the old man
knows...
Cruel hate still haunts his memories, and time is still the enemy...
Down in a small town USA, the children laugh the children play...
And there they take granddaddies hand, the killing man of
Vietnam...
And the truth soon reads like fiction, when the lies become the
legends...
Still the lady holds her torch, up high, as the stones begin to cry...
Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ... ah ah ah... ah ah ah ah ah ah ah...
Some people spat upon his face, some people mocked him in their
rage...
Some people hate him and his pride, some people live because he
died...
Across the heavens there's a star, for every night and day of war...
More than the sands beside the sea, more than this vast eternity...
So listen children listen well, no god created any hell...
Not like the hell that you will find, in shadows of a soldiers mind...
And the truth soon reads like fiction, when the lies become the
legends...
Still the lady holds her torch, up high, as the stones begin to cry...
Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ... ah ah ah... ah ah ah ah ah ah ah...
But If the truth we do not shout, those silent stones will cry it out...
by Stephen Wayne
for Sargent James E Hampton USAF
July 2000 Doe Run, Missouri
In the years of 1965 - 1969 many youth of my generation told the
establishment (anyone over 30) to fuck off, and told Uncle Sam
where him, and his war, could go. That all went over like a turd in a
punch bowl.
Many of those same youth took their senior trip to Vietnam; my
brother was one. He survived, and came home quietly to live a
productive life... but he remained a soldier until the day he died.
He married his high school sweetheart, and they had two daughters.
He studied at university, received two degrees, and was working on
his masters (writing his book) when Gulf War I started.
He served as military security on a Midwest bomber base, and
began to investigate domestic terrorist cells. After that war, he
covertly infiltrated some of those same cells; the effects of which (at
least in part, and I believe in a big part) eventually took his life, at a
relatively young age. He died of massive heart failure in July of
2000.
Jim told me some things about his service experiences that he never
told anyone else... things that I will never tell anyone else... because
some things should not be told.
Six young men, and one young woman, all in uniform, showed up at
his funeral. They shot their rifles, three voiles, into the quiet blue
Ozark sky; two of them folded the flag from my brothers casket, and
their leader presented it to my mother, saluted her, and thanked her
for her son's meritorious service to this nation.
I will never forget the look of tremendous grief on my mother's face,
or the tears in her eyes; one of the few times I have ever seen her
cry - in front of strangers. I pray that I never have to experience such
grief in my life - the terrible grief of loosing one's child.
Latter that evening, walking alone in the woods, beyond the
cemetery, where Jim and I used to play at cowboys, indians,
soldiers, and war... I began to write this song... Crying Stones.
Was in the year of sixty five, first tasted love so much alive...
Then he became a killing man, all glory bound for Vietnam...
Way down beside the China sea, he learned that war was not a
dream...
That life and death are nation games, that love and hate are
passion's names...
Down in the jungle rain and sun, he came of age beneath the gun...
Still living blood of those who kill, flow in the wounds that never
heal...
And the truth soon reads like fiction, when the lies become the
legends...
Still the lady holds her torch, up high, as the stones begin to cry...
Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ... ah ah ah... ah ah ah ah ah ah ah...
But Charlie fought and Charlie died, and Charlie's children burned
alive...
While somewhere in the wood stock fields, flower children
screamed and popped their pills...
The years go fast as he grows old, and life don't last the old man
knows...
Cruel hate still haunts his memories, and time is still the enemy...
Down in a small town USA, the children laugh the children play...
And there they take granddaddies hand, the killing man of
Vietnam...
And the truth soon reads like fiction, when the lies become the
legends...
Still the lady holds her torch, up high, as the stones begin to cry...
Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ... ah ah ah... ah ah ah ah ah ah ah...
Some people spat upon his face, some people mocked him in their
rage...
Some people hate him and his pride, some people live because he
died...
Across the heavens there's a star, for every night and day of war...
More than the sands beside the sea, more than this vast eternity...
So listen children listen well, no god created any hell...
Not like the hell that you will find, in shadows of a soldiers mind...
And the truth soon reads like fiction, when the lies become the
legends...
Still the lady holds her torch, up high, as the stones begin to cry...
Ah ah ah ah ah ah ah ... ah ah ah... ah ah ah ah ah ah ah...
But If the truth we do not shout, those silent stones will cry it out...
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