Infantrymen respond again
The average age of the Infantryman is 19. 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's being called again. Sitting on the cusp of combat in a God forlorn desert, he awaits orders to carry out the mission of his country.
Hundreds of thousands are being called to duty, but most of them won't fire a shot in anger or face the enemy eye-to-eye as the Infantry man does.
The Infantry man of today, like all others, never really cared much for work. Today's Infantryman would rather wax his own car than wash his father's; but he has never collected unemployment checks.
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 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 often will 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 than 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, grandfathers, and great-grandfather, he is paying the price for our freedom. His great-grandfather slogged through muddy trenches in the Argonne, one grandfather endured the bitter cold Ardennes while the other sweat in the South Pacific, his father faced real bullets in the "peace action" called Korea, and his older brother was in Vietnam.
Just as they did, the young Infantryman of today will face the enemy with the tools of his trade, a rifle with bayonet attached and a few grenades. You can't get closer to war than that.
Beardless or not, he is not a boy. He is the American Fighting Man that has kept this country free for more than 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.
