WAR: an open letter.

[musketman]

To all of our men and women who are now at war, keep your heads down and come home safely...

 

[No Powder]

AMEN

 

[Claude Mathis]

A friend sent me this today.

The average age of an American infantry soldier 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.