My brother, whom is part of the United States Marine Core, he is serving overseas in Iraq right now. He is only 20 years old. He is my hero because I have never encountered a person like him in my entire life, he is emotionally and physically the strongest person Ive met. He is more concerned to help others than himself. This "The Marine" letter will explain my feelings to you:
The Marine
The average age of a marine man is 19 years. He is a short
haired, tight-muscled kid, under normal circumstances 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 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 wait in 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 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 of 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's told to stop or stop until he
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 in the midst of battle when you
run low.
He has learned to use hands like weapons and weapons like they were
his hands. He can save you 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 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 fells every note of the Nation
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's
paying the price for our freedom. Beardless or not, he is not a boy.
He is the American Fighting Man that has kept his 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. As you go to bed tonight, remember this
shot… A short lull, a little shade and a picture of loved ones in
their helmets…
Prayer Wheel
"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
"Che cosa facciamo nella vita, echos nel eternity."
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