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The average age of the military man is 19 years. He is a short
haired, tight-muscled kid who, under normal circumstances is
considered by society as half man, half boy. Not yet dry behind the
ears, not old enough to buy a beer, but old enough to die for his
country.
He never really cared much for work and he would rather wax his own
car than wash his father's; but he has never collected unemployment
either.
He's a recent High School graduate; he was probably an average
student, pursued some form of sport activities, drives a ten year
old
jalopy, and has a steady girlfriend that either broke up with him
when he left, or swears to be waiting when he returns from half a
world away.
He listens to rock and roll or hip-hop or rap or jazz or swing and
155mm Howitzers.
He is 10 or 15 pounds lighter now than when he was at home because
he
is working or fighting from before dawn to well after dusk.
He has trouble spelling, thus letter writing is a pain for him, but
he can field strip a rifle in 30 seconds and reassemble it in less
time in the dark.
He can recite to you the nomenclature of a machine gun or grenade
launcher and use either one effectively if he must.
He digs foxholes and latrines and can apply first aid like a
professional.
He can march until he is told to stop or stop until he is told to
march.
He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation, but he is not
without spirit or individual dignity.
He is self-sufficient. He has two sets of fatigues: he washes one
and
wears the other. He keeps his canteens full and his feet dry.
He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never to clean his
rifle.
He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes, and fix his own
hurts. If you're thirsty, he'll share his water with you; if you are
hungry, his food.
He'll even split his ammunition with you in the midst of battle when
you run low.
He has learned to use his hands like weapons and weapons like they
were his hands. He can save your life - or take it, because that is
his job.
He will often do twice the work of a civilian, draw half the pay and
still find ironic humor in it all. He has seen more suffering and
death then he should have in his short lifetime.
He has stood atop mountains of dead bodies, and helped to create
them.
He has wept in public and in private, for friends who have fallen in
combat and is unashamed.
He feels every note of the National Anthem vibrate through his body
while at rigid attention, while tempering the burning desire
to 'square-away' those around him who haven't bothered to stand,
remove their hat, or even stop talking. In an odd twist, day in and
day out, far from home, he defends their right to be disrespectful.
Just as did his Father, Grandfather, and Great-grandfather, he is
paying the price for our freedom.
Beardless or not, he is not a boy.
He is the American Fighting Man that has kept this country free for
over 200 years.
He has asked nothing in return, except our friendship and
understanding.
Remember him, always, for he has earned our respect and admiration
with his blood.
Maybe you were him, maybe you are him, or maybe you know someone who
is, we who aren't salute you, for you make us free, even free to
disagree.
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