Military Soldiers Poem /Tale?

THE AVERAGE AMERICAN SOLDIER

I cannot help myself from feeling pride and being proud for all our service personnel each time I read this. Just heard Secretary of Defense Rumsfeld say today, "Our troops are ready to go. We just need the word from the President," or words to that effect. The days ahead will bring a lot of hardship and death to many people on all sides. Only God can help them now, as it appears a war is written in the sand.

The average age of the Infantryman 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 155mm Howitzers.

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 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 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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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 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 is 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 grown-ups 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."

Don't know about a poem mentioning video games, but The Young British Soldier, by Rudyard Kipling, is a classic, and to be appreciated by any soldier (they will understand the humour)....

http://www.kipling.org.uk/poems_youngbrit.htm

Anything ny Brendan Behan should suffice.