Feeding the Troops

Just up north of us is Fr. Drum. Home to the 10th Mountain Div. These are the kids that are down on the ground in the Middle East doing the grunt work.

And I do mean kids.

We have, for the past 3 years, participated in Riverfest. It's a big festival they put on for the troops and their families with a carnival and a boat ride around an area called the Thousand Islands. They end up on Heart Island, home to the Bolt Castle http://www.boldtcastle.com/ where volunteers cook and serve enough food for 5500 folks.

That's where we come in.

While it's awesome to support the troops, to meet the Generals that lead them, and get a handshake and a thank you from them, you can't help noticing that none of them are anywhere close to being my age.

Person after person passed by my station, I was in charge of sporks and plates, with a "thank you mam" and a look on their face that was humble and downright sheepish. Most of them had a spouse in tow and a couple kids. Some of them with mom and dad. Some, gaydar told me, were DADT (Don't Ask, Don't Tell) and would ultimately catch my eye, with a knowing nod.

One couple's tot dropped their place setting, the father, an obvious soldier with his buzz cut, looked at us embarrassed, "I'm sorry mam. Honey you have to hold on to it, now pick it up." I smiled and grabbed it from the ground first, "It's OK...we have tons of them! Have a clean one and you," I squatted down to her eye level, "Tell the food servers that you get whatever you want." The little girl, who had to be two or three looked at me, "Anything?" I looked at her dad, who had to be just out of high school, he nodded and smiled. "Yep...anything!", I assured her.

She beamed. It was priceless.

I imagined, a military family, probably was on budget, without each other for months on end and moved often, the thought of "anything your heart desires" was probably a big deal, even for a child.

But I couldn't help thinking....so young. They were all so fucking young!

The oldest among them may have been nearing 30. Those 'older' had a bit of a swagger to them. I wondered silently what they had seen. If the younger crowed was still basic training, had they been over there? Could these meek, mild mannered, men and women actually be the gun slinging heroes that face death every day? Watch their friends get ripped apart by enemy fire. Hold an open wound with their bare hand, the blood seeping between battle torn fingers that rest upon gun oiled triggers.

Off to the side a couple of boys walked away from the crowd. They were darker figures, even from a distance. Their posture, their walk, their shoulders hunched. You could tell they had seen some action. Would they be able to have a normal life. Night times free of horrific dreams and cold sweats brought on by the raging battle that still plays out on the back of their eyelids? They already stood off alone from everyone else.

My guess was no...they were damaged. Damaged so young, so early in life. Protecting a country that would probably not take care of them when they were done.

Is war so important? To send a 19 year old father into a place that, while physically they might return, mentally they never will.

What price is freedom?

For me...it was to stand for 5 hours in chilling rain, soaked to the skin, smile on my face, handing out sporks. And when they said, "Thank you mam." I said, "No......thank YOU."