Free Republic

The old sergeant was on patrol with his squad when he spotted a young man sitting on the curb. Skin and bones with what appeared to be a bullet wound in his left hand. The sergeant stopped, checked his patrol and then sat down beside the young man who eyed him with deep-seated suspicion.

The old sergeant had been granted leave and it had come as sort of a surprise for the men in his platoon. Even though they had been fighting in Iraq for over a year they had never seen the sarge take leave. “I never even realized sarge had anyone to visit on leave,” one young trooper said. “Yeah, another said, the army is his family. He even has camouflaged blood.”

The replacement was just settling in to his new surroundings when an old sergeant walked by barking at everyone to get squared away before the next patrol. “Wow what a hard ass, the new soldier whispered to the soldier next to him.” Shhh, he might hear you man. That dud is bad to the bone. People say he doesn’t even have a heart. But he keeps us alive and he is the best sergeant in the Army.”

The old sergeant was continually on his men about the importance of taking care of their feet and thus their boots. He had just noticed that one of his men was wearing a pair of boots about 2 sizes too small and it irritated him. He had been on this particular soldier many times about his boots but every time he saw him he had on a new pair but they never seem to fit.