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, barely 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 College graduate; he was probably an
average student, pursued some form of sport activities,
drives a ten year old Ford, 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 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 clothes: 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 in 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 English Fighting Man that has kept this country free for centuries.

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 us 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.

"Lord, hold our troops in your loving hands. Protect them
as they protect us. Bless them and their families for the selfless acts they perform for us in our time of need. Amen."

Hope also that the ignorant ones who have a stereotypical, blinkered view of our military can find it in themselves to think twice before they speak disrespectfully, and can make opportunities for themselves to understand what exactly it is that the servicemen and women of this country do.

T'was The Night Before Christmas, He Lived All Alone, In A One Bedroom
House, Made Of Plaster And Stone.
I Had Come Down The Chimney, With Presents To Give, And To See Just Who, In
This Home Did Live.
I Looked All About, A Strange Sight I Did See, No Tinsel, No Presents, Not
Even A Tree.
No Stocking By The Mantle, Just Boots Filled With Sand, On The Wall Hung
Pictures, Of Far Distant Lands.
With Medals And Badges, Awards Of All Kinds, A Sober Thought, Came Through
My Mind.
For This House Was Different, It Was Dark And Dreary, I Found The Home Of A
Soldier, Once I Could See Clearly.
The Soldier Lay Sleeping, Silent, Alone, Curled Up On The Floor, In This
One Bedroom Home.
The Face Was So Gentle, The Room In Such Disorder, Not How I Pictured, A
lone British Soldier.
Was This The Hero, Of Whom I'd Just Read?, Curled Up On A Poncho, The Floor
For A Bed?
I Realized The Families, That I Saw This Night, Owed Their Lives To These
Soldiers, Who Were Willing To Fight.
Soon Round The World, The Children Would Play, And Grownups Would
Celebrate, A Bright Christmas Day.
They All Enjoyed Freedom, Each Month Of The Year, Because Of The Soldiers,
Like The One Lying Here.
I Couldn't Help Wonder, How Many Alone, On A Cold Christmas Eve, In A Land
Far From Home.
The Very Thought Brought, A Tear To My Eye, I Dropped To My Knees, And
Started To Cry.
The Soldier Awakened, And I Heard A Rough Voice, "Santa, Don't Cry, This
Life Is My Choice.
I Fight For Freedom, I Don't Ask For More, My Life Is My God, My Country,
My Corps."
The Soldier Rolled Over, And Drifted To Sleep, I Couldn't Control It, I
Continued To Weep.
I Kept Watch For Hours, So Silent And Still, And We Both sat & Shivered,
From The Cold Night's Chill.
I Didn't Want To Leave, On That Cold, Dark Night, This Guardian Of Honor,
So Willing To Fight.
Then The Soldier Rolled Over, With A Voice, Soft And Pure, Whispered,
"Carry On Santa, It's Christmas Day, All Is Secure."
One Look At My Watch, And I Knew He Was Right, "Merry Christmas My Friend,
And To All A Good Night."

This poem was written by a peace keeping soldier stationed overseas. Christmas will be coming soon and some credit is due to our British service men and women for our being able to celebrate these festivities.

PS: Nice one linchi