They have been the guardians of what we hold dear, of what we enjoy
without thought, of the nation, and of the idea that encompasses these
things. While we have indulged the luxury of expressing what we think
just and justified, while we have pondered the right and wrong of war,
they have preserved for us that bubble of security and serenity in which
we write and rail and make known our thoughts as a free people.
As the years of our lives have unfolded and a strange imperative geography has elbowed its way into our consciousness with once-unfamiliar names — Bastogne and Tarawa, Schweinfurt and Guadalcanal, Inchon and Danang, and Kuwait and Baghdad — the Guardians have always been there for us at the near ramparts and at the far reaches of the earth.
They have not all been brave, not all virtuous, or wise, or disciplined. They have not all felt the very fire of battle. Indeed, for all those who have winced and curled at the shell’s concussion or survived some hasty heroism in the face of the “rifle’s rapid rattle,” there are many whose service has been in some noisy engine room or at a clerk’s desk or a remote supply depot.
They have served with pride, with extraordinary courage, with a deep sense of duty. They have served with reluctance, with fear, with fateful resignation.
But they have been there.
They have always been where we as a nation needed them.
Yes, they get a little loud sometimes when they’ve had one too many down at the VFW. They look a little embarrassing to some when they try to suck in that paunch while marching with the American Legion on Memorial Day. And sometimes, in splendid detachment, we try to measure their pensions or medical benefits in dollars, totally ignorant of the fact that they must be figured in a dark hard coinage beyond our calculation — a coinage stamped at the cusp of harm and numbered in years lost in a Japanese prison camp or sleepless nights of cold terror on Pork Chop Hill or the hidden scars from that day the Humvee was ambushed in Iraq.
Read more: http://www.american.com/archive/2010/november/the-guardians
As the years of our lives have unfolded and a strange imperative geography has elbowed its way into our consciousness with once-unfamiliar names — Bastogne and Tarawa, Schweinfurt and Guadalcanal, Inchon and Danang, and Kuwait and Baghdad — the Guardians have always been there for us at the near ramparts and at the far reaches of the earth.
They have not all been brave, not all virtuous, or wise, or disciplined. They have not all felt the very fire of battle. Indeed, for all those who have winced and curled at the shell’s concussion or survived some hasty heroism in the face of the “rifle’s rapid rattle,” there are many whose service has been in some noisy engine room or at a clerk’s desk or a remote supply depot.
They have served with pride, with extraordinary courage, with a deep sense of duty. They have served with reluctance, with fear, with fateful resignation.
But they have been there.
They have always been where we as a nation needed them.
Yes, they get a little loud sometimes when they’ve had one too many down at the VFW. They look a little embarrassing to some when they try to suck in that paunch while marching with the American Legion on Memorial Day. And sometimes, in splendid detachment, we try to measure their pensions or medical benefits in dollars, totally ignorant of the fact that they must be figured in a dark hard coinage beyond our calculation — a coinage stamped at the cusp of harm and numbered in years lost in a Japanese prison camp or sleepless nights of cold terror on Pork Chop Hill or the hidden scars from that day the Humvee was ambushed in Iraq.
Read more: http://www.american.com/archive/2010/november/the-guardians
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