Much is made of the generals. Much is made of those who never were at the front lines. Much is made of those who sent the young directly to their deaths, straight into downhill fire on beaches, straight up over the foxholes into downhill artillery, straight into unmapped jungles filled with cave snipers… all knowingly decimating the front lines of the young. And the young, the so very young, the teenagers being the greatest bulk of soldiers in wars… the young went forward right into fire.
Honor the teenager: For it was teenagers and it is teenagers, who fight our wars. World War II was won not by old men, it was won by the precious young, by those now dead, by those still alive, who served on the front line, what they call the bullet line, the fire line, the death line.
When today, we see mainstream media loving to ever deify the drunkards, the drugheads, those who have gotten massacred in a different kind of war for the soul, entirely, it is a tiresome trope that continues to see the teenager as the idiot, as the know-nothing, as the degraded… worthy thereby of not retaining life. It is an ugly picture of teenagedom that wrongly portrays every mother’s young son and daughter, any father’s young son and daughter, those who are the most precious to them on earth, whether they can say so or not.
I see the denigration of teenagers today, and the uplifting as newsworthy those who have often lost their ways today, as one more nail in the coffin, of seeing teenagers as expendable. As a mother, as a grandmother, I can only say, Rage against the machine, and if you want peace and dignity for all, never give a king an army.
Today is the day to remember the teenagers, the veterans who were not veterans when they started out, but young, often shy, inexperienced in life, yet at the top of their desire to do right, to help, to fight for a principle they’d been taught would win the world, keep others safe… and thus the teenagers went into direct danger.
My pictures I carry in my heart in the wars of my time are that of an entire band of teenagers storming beaches against impossible odds, shot down in the waters before they ever reached shore, hoards floating dead in the water like a logjam explosion. My pictures I carry are of the gold star mothers on our road in WWII who lost their only sons, their teenage sons, on the Arizona. My pictures I carry from Nam are of a teenaged medic, closing the eyes of a teenage soldier who was killed near Hué.
Next time they propose a statue for the Grand Way in Washington DC along with the beauties of memory: The Wall, the Korean War memorial, the Nurses memorial, the WWII memorial, let there be a statue of the Lone Teenager… representing huge generations of the ones who fought in the green fields, in the forests, in the jungles, and so many died… all teenagers when entering the fire zones, all teenagers, the greatest numbers over all age groups.
And dont speak to me about ‘teenagers today’ in that sarcastic tone of voice. It’s the teenagers of our world who have kept the nations as free as many are today. It’s the teenagers that have kept their troth with us and kept it, and kept it, despite all insanities by those older than they, the teenagers have kept their troth with us and signed, sealed and delivered it written in the red of their own blood.
At our house, a military family USAF 21 years (ret.) it’s not Happy Veteran’s Day: It’s Blessed Veterans’ Day. Blessed Day of the Young, those who survived, those who gave their lives.
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CODA
the young soldier is Ian Fisher