At the end of the last century several prominent people recommended that GI Joe be named the most important person of the Century. Who were these GI Joes?

They were kids: 19, 20, or 21 years old. At such a young age they carried the future of the world on their shoulders.

But they carried a lot more. They carried…well, listen to some of the things they carried: assault rifles and machine guns shotguns, and pistols hand grenades and knives, and all of the ammunition they could manage explosives and machetes.

They toted artillery pieces and mortars on their backs, and their dead and wounded in their arms.

They carried in their psyches, in their souls: the paralyzing reality of the earth shaking under them from heavy bombs the green or red tracer trails of bullets aimed at them the roar of rocket propelled grenades and shoulder fired artillery the whomp-whomp of choppers, and sometimes the frightening sound of silence.

They carried P-38 can openers and heat tabs watches and dog tags shovels (for sanitary needs and foxholes) insect repellent and Zippo lighters, gum and cigarettes toilet paper under the band of their steel pots salt tablets and kool-aid Tabasco sauce.

It didn’t make c-rations better, but it made everything taste different.

They carried compress bandages and ponchos, canteens of water and iodine tablets to purify it C-rations stuffed in GI issue wool socks hanging from their web gear. 

They wore fatigues, boots, bush hats, steel pots, and often carried their flak jackets when it was too hot to wear them.

They carried malaria, dysentery, ringworms, and leaches.

They carried the land itself as it hardened on their boots. They carried memories, stationery, pencils, and pictures of their loved ones. They carried Dear John letters, worn from jungle crawling, and blurred by sweat, and tears.

They put their lives at risk for one another, but disguised that love with macho remarks like, “Don’t mean nothing!”

Some demonstrated unbelievable heroism, and others just tried to survive.

They crawled into tunnels, ran onto beaches under fire, exhibited sophomoric bravado, so as not to die of embarrassment; flew fighters and bombers in skies lit up from ground fire.

They fought off Kamikaze attacks from dive-bombers and lived in metal tubes called submarines, in the dark oceans and under the ice pacts.

They carried the emotional baggage of men and women who might die at any moment. They were afraid of dying, but more afraid of showing that fear. Now and then, there were times of sheer panic, when they screamed, or wanted to, but wouldn’t; when they twitched and made moaning sounds, covered their heads, and whispered, “dear God!” and hugged the earth; times when they fired their weapons blindly and cringed and begged for the barrages to stop; times when they made promises to themselves, their parents, and God; hoping not to die.

They carried grief, terror, longing, and their reputations.

They carried the fighting man’s greatest fear, the embarrassment of dishonor.

I knew these guys. I was with them.

They also carried hope, not just of personal survival; but hope for a better world.

They carried the tradition of the United States military, and memories and images of those who served before them.

They carried each other; they carried America; they carried us.

They, YOU, military veterans who served honorably in our Nation’s uniform, you GI Joes and GI Janes, are the greatest Americans. I am proud to be one of you, and all Americans should be proud to claim kin.

I now close, with a quotation by General Douglas MacArthur.

Just before his death in April 1964 he responded to the question, "Wherein lies our security?" He answered: "It is the American man at arms. From personal experience I know how well he guards us. I have seen him die at Verdun, at St. Mihiel, at Guadalcanal; in the foxholes of Bataan, in the batteries of Corregidor, in the battle areas of Korea,. on land, on sea, and in the air; amidst jungle and swamp, hot sands and frozen reaches, in the smoldering mud of shell pocked roads and dripping trenches. He was gaunt and he was ghostly; he was grieved and he was loused,. he was filthy and he stank; and I loved him,"

MacArthur wrote. "He died hard, that American fighting man. Not like a dove which, when hit, folds its wings gently and comes down quietly. But like a wounded wolf at bay, with lips curled back in a snarl. He left me with an abiding faith in the future of this nation,. afaith that our beloved land will once more know the serenity of hope without fear; a faith in the course of our destiny as a free, prosperous, and happy people."

This concludes my tribute to America's Military Veterans, America's best sons and daughters.

Chaplain (COL) Henry Lamar Hunt US Army, Retired PO Box 463 Candler, FL 32111; lamarhunt(at)comcast.net .