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 life.
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.