<p>
<em>Frank Meszar III </em>was born in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, on 18 July 1944. He was killed on 2 March 1969 while leading his company in the attack. His family, his friends —who buried him with full military honors in Arlington National Cemetery. In his span of twenty-four and a half years, he had accomplished what every man desires hut many never do. He had found himself and his place in life.</p>
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What was he like? He could turn a card or pop a cork as a gentleman, for pleasure and not as vice. He drove his Corvette with a heavy foot, but never scratched a fender. He was at home in the major cities of Europe. In a ten-day period, he dated young ladies in London, Washington, Savannah, San Francisco, Tokyo, and Sydney. And yet, he confidently commanded a cavalry troop on the German zonal border as a Second Classman. He went through airborne training with two sprained ankles. He owned one of the finest private military history libraries in the Service. He could discuss in detail the battles of the Napoleonic Wars or of the American Civil War. His decorations include the Silver Star, Bronze Star Medal with cluster, Air Medal with two clusters, Army Commendation Medal, and the Purple Heart. In short, he enjoyed life, but with a constancy of purpose. From an early age he knew he would be a professional soldier. He was proud that he was the last of an unbroken military line that had its origins in Arpad’s entry into Hungary.</p>
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After graduation and Ranger and Airborne training, Frank spent a year on the DMZ in Korea as an Infantry Platoon Leader and Company Commander. He volunteered for Vietnam where he served with the 173d Airborne Brigade and was an advisor to a Vietnamese Army unit. He then extended and commanded a rifle company in the 1st Cavalry Division.</p>
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I saw Frank at Fire Base Grant a week before he was killed. He had just returned with his company from an eighteen-day search and destroy operation in the jungle War Zone C. We had a most enjoyable visit. Frank was relaxed and happy. It was apparent to me that he was doing what he wanted to do and knew he was good at it. In the following lines I have tried to express how he and I felt about our profession.</p>
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The Cup of Life</p>
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How drinks your son his cup of life?</p>
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For drink he must, or spill or swill, in his appointed time.</p>
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Hiding on a northern neutral shore, pursing fitfully through a straw,</p>
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In abject terror less he lose the purile pap?</p>
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Or, more common, in stolid suburb sipping the uric smell ofsqualling brats and shrewish spouse,</p>
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While cursing his plywood plastic jail?</p>
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But worse, a worthless wastrel, who slops his slop,</p>
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Unconscious of the maggots on the tarnished brim?</p>
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Else, a callow guru who mocks the Maker s brew,</p>
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Yet with lampreyed greed he sucks the sorcerer’s mendacious mead?</p>
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Even envied, a grey flanneled great,</p>
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So enamoured of his golden grail, he cannot taste the ale?</p>
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Then pity me not, nor my son;</p>
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He stood ten feet and more.</p>
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With a deliberate stare into the face of fate.</p>
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He quaffed full draught his Warrior's Cup,</p>
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And smashed it to the jungle floor.<br />
</p>