by: Author Unknown,
In World War I he was called a "Doughboy." In World War II he was "GI." Now, in Vietnam, he's called a "Grunt." It's not a pretty name, but then neither is an infantryman's lot. It is a twenty-four hour a day working,
sweating, grunting job. But believe it or not, he's sort of proud of the name ---"Grunt."
True, at the end of any given day the Grunt would never be chosen for an honor guard on appearance alone. Because of the work he must do, it is inevitable that his hair be mussed up and maybe a little sun-bleached; his face grimy from mud and dust; and his uniform dirty, wrinkled and torn. He's no glamor boy. Those boots, a trademark of sorts, are brown, not black, and scratched from scrambling in and out of choppers. The dirt is unavoidable, and though he doesn't like it, he learns to live with it as an irrevocable part of this war.
He works hard. On a sweep, he walks over rock-hard dikes into knee-deep mud of rice paddies, through stinking, leech-filled canals and then claws his way through hedgerows and undergrowth alive with biting, burning red ants or bloodthirsty stinging mosquitoes. Sometimes these prove to be more of a challenge even, than the enemy. Certainly they are more plentiful.
When he gets a chance, he stops and grabs that worn-out, dirty, lonesome sock, and from it, takes some C-ration cans. Washing down that food with ample gulps of warm canteen water, he may think about home, his wife or girl, or flying that beautiful "Freedom Bird" to the land where times were better.
Now that he has that rare spare moment to rest, he cleans his M-16 and maybe scrawls an answer to one of those crumpled, stained and soggy letters he's been carrying in his breast pocket. But there are hours of lost sleep and a body aching for rest. If only for a moment, he dozes into a sleep so deep that only those who have worked to near-exhaustion can understand.
In a fire fight, the Grunt's display of guts and courage is common --- but never commonplace. Sure he's scared, like any other human being. He has no time to think of being scared, though, and the difference is self-control. He knows what to do and he does it. Many times he does much more than what is expected of him ... then he is called a hero. Perhaps later that Grunt will say, "Man, I never thought I'd do some of the things I did today." But he did them because his life or the life of his buddy depended on it.
Because of what he does in his job and the hardships he endures, the Grunt is a special kind of man. He has lived in a way that most people can neither comprehend nor imagine. The CIB, that blue and silver symbol, identifies this different kind of man who has lived in hell, who has known that glorious feeling of coming out of a situation alive when he could have been killed, and who has died a little each time a buddy was wounded or killed.
Yes, he even calls himself a Grunt. And he's kind of proud of it because it's more than a name --- it's a title.
Friendship and bonds were forged between us all through the fires of war. When one of us was lost the hurt was felt by all. Sometimes the hurt was more than with others only because we each hung out with certain people. In a company, you know everyone, but only a few do you ever get so close too that the hurt becomes unbearable.
sweating, grunting job. But believe it or not, he's sort of proud of the name ---"Grunt."
True, at the end of any given day the Grunt would never be chosen for an honor guard on appearance alone. Because of the work he must do, it is inevitable that his hair be mussed up and maybe a little sun-bleached; his face grimy from mud and dust; and his uniform dirty, wrinkled and torn. He's no glamor boy. Those boots, a trademark of sorts, are brown, not black, and scratched from scrambling in and out of choppers. The dirt is unavoidable, and though he doesn't like it, he learns to live with it as an irrevocable part of this war.
He works hard. On a sweep, he walks over rock-hard dikes into knee-deep mud of rice paddies, through stinking, leech-filled canals and then claws his way through hedgerows and undergrowth alive with biting, burning red ants or bloodthirsty stinging mosquitoes. Sometimes these prove to be more of a challenge even, than the enemy. Certainly they are more plentiful.
When he gets a chance, he stops and grabs that worn-out, dirty, lonesome sock, and from it, takes some C-ration cans. Washing down that food with ample gulps of warm canteen water, he may think about home, his wife or girl, or flying that beautiful "Freedom Bird" to the land where times were better.
Now that he has that rare spare moment to rest, he cleans his M-16 and maybe scrawls an answer to one of those crumpled, stained and soggy letters he's been carrying in his breast pocket. But there are hours of lost sleep and a body aching for rest. If only for a moment, he dozes into a sleep so deep that only those who have worked to near-exhaustion can understand.
In a fire fight, the Grunt's display of guts and courage is common --- but never commonplace. Sure he's scared, like any other human being. He has no time to think of being scared, though, and the difference is self-control. He knows what to do and he does it. Many times he does much more than what is expected of him ... then he is called a hero. Perhaps later that Grunt will say, "Man, I never thought I'd do some of the things I did today." But he did them because his life or the life of his buddy depended on it.
Because of what he does in his job and the hardships he endures, the Grunt is a special kind of man. He has lived in a way that most people can neither comprehend nor imagine. The CIB, that blue and silver symbol, identifies this different kind of man who has lived in hell, who has known that glorious feeling of coming out of a situation alive when he could have been killed, and who has died a little each time a buddy was wounded or killed.
Yes, he even calls himself a Grunt. And he's kind of proud of it because it's more than a name --- it's a title.
Friendship and bonds were forged between us all through the fires of war. When one of us was lost the hurt was felt by all. Sometimes the hurt was more than with others only because we each hung out with certain people. In a company, you know everyone, but only a few do you ever get so close too that the hurt becomes unbearable.
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