Three friends in a shack were drinking beer,
Each ones eyes were filled with tears,
Each had decided to go to war,
To keep the commies from his door.
Too, it seems, by some odd chance,
Each had joined a different branch.

The Marine arose to his full six feet,
His face expressed a deep conceit,
"When this is over and we meet again,
My tales will be of real he-men!"

The flier arose to his lean six-two,
Conceit top him was nothing new.
"When this is over and we meet again,
my tales will also be of men."

The soldier sat, he did not rise,
Nor could they read what was in his eyes.
"If this is over and we meet again,
I'll say nothing more my friends, 'til then."

Each shook hands on this farewell bet,
And promised the others he'd not forget,
The one whose story was the best,
Would drink his drinks on all the rest.

The war is over and they are back,
drinking beer in that same old shack.
The Marine, with ribbons on his chest,
Stood up in front of all the rest,
"Friends, I really had a fight
At Khe Sanh where things were tight.
For I saw night and day,
In fields where a thousand bodies lay."

The flier arose, his wings agleam,
And told of the action that he had seen.
"Oh, yes, more MIGS to my delight,
More by far than I could recite.
I think you'd lose your appetite,
If I told the tales of every fight."

The soldier sat, he did not rise,
He now wore specs upon his eyes,
A strange new look upon his face,
Slamming down his beer he shook the place,
"What I saw I cannot say,
For I was in the ASA!"

The Marine and the flier both arose,
and held their drinks in deep repose,
then they said, for they both knew,
"Soldier, we owe the drinks to you!"
They both had heard, and knew damn well,
There sat a man returned from Hell!

Author Anonymous
Contributed by Robert Whitmire, Former ASA Warrior