Lest We Forget

An extra post from Jacqueline

For those of you who check in on a Sunday, or who come back for another look at the blog, I'm taking the liberty of posting twice this week, because I couldn't let today go by. It was only a month ago that I walked the battlefields of The Somme in France, so the anniversary of the 1918 Armistice, that we now know as Veteran's Day here in the USA, is not only a day I never let pass without thinking of those lost to war and those still stuck in it - military or civilian - but thoughts of the war to end all wars are still fresh in my mind.



Two days ago I was sent the following in an email. It originated in Canada, probably from the Royal Canadian Legion, though it could just as well have been from here in America, from Britain, Australia, New Zealand ... or any country with troops on the ground somewhere in the world away from home. No matter what your political beliefs, your position on peace and war, or who is right and wrong, I'm copying it here for you today - Veteran's Day, Remembrance Day, Armistice Day, whatever it's called in your country:

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 a 155mm Howitzer.



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 humour 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.

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.

And now we even have women over there in danger, doing their part in this tradition of going to War when our nation calls them to do so.

As you go to bed tonight, remember this shot..

A short lull, a little shade and a picture of loved ones in their helmets.