We Love Our Country
"America will never seek a permission slip to defend the security of our country."
I Know Who Pays The Price For My Freedom!
The average age of the Infantryman 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-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.
