Sometimes I forget; today I remembered

Sometimes I get so wrapped in the politics of this war against terror, I forget what it’s really about. When Harry Reid makes bonehead comments about losing the war in Iraq, when John Murtha calls our troops murderers, when Dick Durbin calls our troops SS concentration camp guards, when Nancy Pelosi kisses the ring of terrorist supporting despots, I get so fricken angry that all I can do is just pound out my thoughts about the hatred I have for those sorry excuses for humans on this poor cracked and dented keyboard.

Today, though, I forgot about them for a minute.

Most of my readers know that every Saturday morning I go to Walter Reed Army Medical Center for my weekly dose of SOS (it stands for “Shit on a Shingle”; hamburger gravy over scrambled eggs and a biscuit – the real reason I stayed in the Army for twenty years). I love being among soldiers, and I love SOS so it’s the highlight of my week.

Today was a little different. My wife and I were coming out of the parking garage and a young soldier and his wife were making their way into the hospital, too. He was in a wheel chair and his right leg was gone just below his thigh – I noticed he was wearing an 82d Airborne Division T-shirt. So as I walked by him, I shook his hand and said “Thanks, Airborne”. He gave me a big smile and took my hand firmly and said “Thanks” to me.

Then I asked him what unit he was in and he told me he’d been attached to the ’05 (That’s the 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment) when he’d been wounded in Tikrit. That’s what he called it – wounded. His whole right leg was gone, but he called it a wound. So I grabbed his wheelchair and started pushing him toward the elevators and we talked – I’d told him I’d been in the Three-Two-Five 25 years ago and he laughed and asked how my knees were holding up. We carried on like two old friends, two brother paratroopers reminiscing.

He told me that he was convalescing well and he hoped to be out of the hospital soon and that he wanted to remain on active duty. That he’d heard other guys whining about their condition, but he was going to hold up just fine. I told him that he sounded like he was holding more than just fine and we smiled at each other. I hope he didn’t notice I was holding back tears – tears of pride in the generation that succeeded mine. 

We all got on the elevator and went up to the third floor where my wife and I were getting off. He stuck his hand out and thanked me for my service. HE THANKED ME! I was dumbfounded. This twenty-year-old kid, missing his leg, was thanking me for my service. I grabbed his hand and thanked him for doing what I couldn’t do any more, and I got off the elevator in a partial daze.

It was at that moment I realized these kids don’t care about the politics, they don’t give a tiny rat’s ass that Code Pink stands their drones up in front of Walter Reed with idiot Bush=Hitler signs. They don’t care that Nancy Pelosi is the Speaker of the House or that Harry Reid makes moronic statements that he later “regrets” were taken out of context. They don’t care what Jack Murtha or Dick Durbin say about them.

All they care about is their job, doing it right, keeping us safe and living up to legacy that they’ve been left by the generations of warriors that came before them. All the talk about conditions at Walter Reed, all the surrender flag-waving rhetoric and hippie drum beating is just background noise. These folks are writing our history and they don’t have time for the critics and naysayers.

Sometimes I forget that this war isn’t about the politics, but today a young paratrooper and his young wife reminded me. And I think we’ll all be just fine.

Category: Politics, Society, Support the troops, Terror War, Walter Reed