All Gave Something. Some Gave All.
I am writing this because I can’t get it out of my mind. Thing is, I don’t think you should get it out of yours either.
I was at a large hardware store picking up bolts to attach plywood over my windows, a somewhat futile attempt to keep the pending hurricane out of my living room. As I was standing there, I noticed a young man coming toward me with a cart full of 2x4’s, apparently supplying himself for some building project. He was maybe 25 years old, very good looking, about 5’-7” tall. His hair was cut short. He was wearing a black T-shirt and khaki shorts. He was a bit on the stocky side but not fat.
On his right leg he wore a prosthesis, a type I had not seen before. He walked without a limp. I watched for a moment, noting the concentration on his face as he pondered the hardware he was going to need.
I continued looking at him, wondering, but trying hard not to stare. He passed me, and as he did, I noticed writing on the back of his shirt. It was somewhat faded and difficult to read. Above it, however, I could barely make out the small picture of a soldier in camo, wearing a helmet, and holding a rifle. I began thinking that my suspicions might be correct.
I came up behind him and put my hand softly on his shoulder, just to the side of his neck. He stopped, turned, and looked at me.
“How did it happen?” I stupidly asked.
“How did what happen?” He replied.
I simply pointed to his prosthetic leg.
He smiled broadly, comfortably, without shame or displeasure or pride or self pity.
“A rocket in Baghdad. It’s funny. About 6 months earlier we got hit by an IED. It threw my head forward into the back end of the 50 cal and I split my lip. They gave me a Purple Heart for that. I felt kinda stupid. Then, during a firefight, a Rocket Propelled Grenade hit me in the ankle.” He pointed to where the ankle had been. They had removed his leg to the knee.
“What branch were you in?” I asked.
“The Army.”
“Me too”, I said, “Special Forces during Vietnam.”
“No kidding, I was in Delta.” He said, as a huge smile crossed his face. He was obviously delighted to be talking to a brother.
I clasped his hand, and we both squeezed hard. His smile was broad and genuine with not a flicker of bitterness. His eyes gleamed with a pure love for life.
“At least it is over with now.” I said.
“No, I’m going back.”
I could not believe what I was hearing. “You mean they will allow you to go back?”
“Yeah. I will be leaving soon. Two tours under my belt and leaving for a third.”
I put my arms around this valiant young man and held on. He held me tightly as well, and we embraced for long moments there in the front aisle, neither of us caring what people thought. He owed no one. But all Americans owed him.
I asked him why not stay stateside. He had done enough, had given enough.
“I love my job, and I want to return to my buddies.” Again, that broad, handsome smile. He had beautiful brown eyes like my grandson’s that gleamed with happiness and a zest for life.
I looked down at his hands. They were sensitive and strong. I saw no ring.
“This thing is not a problem. I don’t mind it at all.” He said, quite unabashedly.
We turned and walked toward the checkout stand and the young lady waiting there.
“Are you from Corpus?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Try to stay safe. Promise me.” I said, wanting to ensure myself that he would be ok, that he would not lose other parts of his young self or his life. I wanted him not to go. I wanted no one to go. I didn’t want my grandson’s to follow him, to fight on foreign soil, to be hated by his countrymen like we were after coming home from Southeast Asia. I didn’t want the war to end and for those who we fought for and against to return to their tribal barbarism as they had for centuries and this man’s life to have been altered for nothing, for his comrades to have given their precious lives for nothing.
“I will.” He replied.
I passed him on my way out as he stood, waiting for the clerk to process his hardware and wood. And as I left, I heard him say behind me.
“Thanks for your service.”
I can’t get this gallant, beautiful young man out of my mind. As I have grown older, I find my behavior deplorable. I get angry at the traffic, the street lights, the long lines, the days of boredom, of technology that becomes obsolete every 6 months, of kids whose minds are unaware of their surroundings because of it. But I have my legs.
I am angry because our society seems to be devolving: Tattoos, rap music, gangbanger clothes, the endless, mindless reality shows on TV, the overpaid entertainers and ball players, the American people taking life for granted, expecting what they did not earn, a Commander in Chief who ravages our country with an ideology that is opposed to what America is. And yet, as our young sacrifice their lives and limbs for us, and as I find myself angry at all that is around me, this hero of our nation smiles and tells me:.
“Thanks for your service.”
All I could think was: If I ever had any shred of valor, it was stolen from this young man.
I'm fed up to the ears with old men dreaming up wars for young men to die in.
I am writing this because I can’t get it out of my mind. Thing is, I don’t think you should get it out of yours either.
I was at a large hardware store picking up bolts to attach plywood over my windows, a somewhat futile attempt to keep the pending hurricane out of my living room. As I was standing there, I noticed a young man coming toward me with a cart full of 2x4’s, apparently supplying himself for some building project. He was maybe 25 years old, very good looking, about 5’-7” tall. His hair was cut short. He was wearing a black T-shirt and khaki shorts. He was a bit on the stocky side but not fat.
On his right leg he wore a prosthesis, a type I had not seen before. He walked without a limp. I watched for a moment, noting the concentration on his face as he pondered the hardware he was going to need.
I continued looking at him, wondering, but trying hard not to stare. He passed me, and as he did, I noticed writing on the back of his shirt. It was somewhat faded and difficult to read. Above it, however, I could barely make out the small picture of a soldier in camo, wearing a helmet, and holding a rifle. I began thinking that my suspicions might be correct.
I came up behind him and put my hand softly on his shoulder, just to the side of his neck. He stopped, turned, and looked at me.
“How did it happen?” I stupidly asked.
“How did what happen?” He replied.
I simply pointed to his prosthetic leg.
He smiled broadly, comfortably, without shame or displeasure or pride or self pity.
“A rocket in Baghdad. It’s funny. About 6 months earlier we got hit by an IED. It threw my head forward into the back end of the 50 cal and I split my lip. They gave me a Purple Heart for that. I felt kinda stupid. Then, during a firefight, a Rocket Propelled Grenade hit me in the ankle.” He pointed to where the ankle had been. They had removed his leg to the knee.
“What branch were you in?” I asked.
“The Army.”
“Me too”, I said, “Special Forces during Vietnam.”
“No kidding, I was in Delta.” He said, as a huge smile crossed his face. He was obviously delighted to be talking to a brother.
I clasped his hand, and we both squeezed hard. His smile was broad and genuine with not a flicker of bitterness. His eyes gleamed with a pure love for life.
“At least it is over with now.” I said.
“No, I’m going back.”
I could not believe what I was hearing. “You mean they will allow you to go back?”
“Yeah. I will be leaving soon. Two tours under my belt and leaving for a third.”
I put my arms around this valiant young man and held on. He held me tightly as well, and we embraced for long moments there in the front aisle, neither of us caring what people thought. He owed no one. But all Americans owed him.
I asked him why not stay stateside. He had done enough, had given enough.
“I love my job, and I want to return to my buddies.” Again, that broad, handsome smile. He had beautiful brown eyes like my grandson’s that gleamed with happiness and a zest for life.
I looked down at his hands. They were sensitive and strong. I saw no ring.
“This thing is not a problem. I don’t mind it at all.” He said, quite unabashedly.
We turned and walked toward the checkout stand and the young lady waiting there.
“Are you from Corpus?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Try to stay safe. Promise me.” I said, wanting to ensure myself that he would be ok, that he would not lose other parts of his young self or his life. I wanted him not to go. I wanted no one to go. I didn’t want my grandson’s to follow him, to fight on foreign soil, to be hated by his countrymen like we were after coming home from Southeast Asia. I didn’t want the war to end and for those who we fought for and against to return to their tribal barbarism as they had for centuries and this man’s life to have been altered for nothing, for his comrades to have given their precious lives for nothing.
“I will.” He replied.
I passed him on my way out as he stood, waiting for the clerk to process his hardware and wood. And as I left, I heard him say behind me.
“Thanks for your service.”
I can’t get this gallant, beautiful young man out of my mind. As I have grown older, I find my behavior deplorable. I get angry at the traffic, the street lights, the long lines, the days of boredom, of technology that becomes obsolete every 6 months, of kids whose minds are unaware of their surroundings because of it. But I have my legs.
I am angry because our society seems to be devolving: Tattoos, rap music, gangbanger clothes, the endless, mindless reality shows on TV, the overpaid entertainers and ball players, the American people taking life for granted, expecting what they did not earn, a Commander in Chief who ravages our country with an ideology that is opposed to what America is. And yet, as our young sacrifice their lives and limbs for us, and as I find myself angry at all that is around me, this hero of our nation smiles and tells me:.
“Thanks for your service.”
All I could think was: If I ever had any shred of valor, it was stolen from this young man.
I'm fed up to the ears with old men dreaming up wars for young men to die in.
George McGovern
It is fatal to enter any war without the will to win it.
It is fatal to enter any war without the will to win it.
General Douglas MacArthur
Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.
Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few.
Winston Churchill
Older men declare war. But it's the youth who must fight and die!
Older men declare war. But it's the youth who must fight and die!
Herbert Hoover
War will exist until that distant day when the conscientious objector enjoys the same reputation and prestige that the warrior does today.
War will exist until that distant day when the conscientious objector enjoys the same reputation and prestige that the warrior does today.
John F. Kennedy
When the rich wage war, it's the poor who die.
When the rich wage war, it's the poor who die.
Jean-Paul Sartre
All are silent, unheard clichés to this young warrior. He is an American soldier, and he had given his leg for us, no matter the right or the wrong of it, no matter the debates, no matter the talk of heads bobbing in unison on TV. He had given as they talked, and he would give more.
“Thanks for your service.” He said as I walked away. Can you believe that?
I can’t get this young man out of my mind.
Nor should you.
All are silent, unheard clichés to this young warrior. He is an American soldier, and he had given his leg for us, no matter the right or the wrong of it, no matter the debates, no matter the talk of heads bobbing in unison on TV. He had given as they talked, and he would give more.
“Thanks for your service.” He said as I walked away. Can you believe that?
I can’t get this young man out of my mind.
Nor should you.
And thank you for your service.
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