EAGLE ROCK TRADING POST

A TRIBUTE AND PRAYER FOR OUR TROOPS

IN

IRAQ and AFGHANISTAN

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 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 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.  And now we even have woman 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....... 

  
 
 

Prayer

"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."  

'Twas 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 distance 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 United States 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 lay 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 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 Marine stationed in Okinawa, Japan.
The following is his request. I think it is reasonable..... don't you?

Would you do me the kind favor of sending this to as many people as you can?
Christmas will be coming soon and some credit is due to our U.S. Service Men and Women for our being able to celebrate these festivities. Let's try in this small way to pay a tiny bit of what we owe.