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.
