We had been trained. People pick the army – they become mechanics, water-supply specialists, cooks, clerks – but the infantry is different. The Infantry picks the men: men who do poorly in math, excel at athletics, drink a lot, love their mothers, fear their fathers; Men who have something to prove or feel they have already proven it all. We are both proud and ashamed of what we are. The stepchildren of the Army, Infantrymen are like guard dogs at the rich man's house. When people come to visit, the media, the USO, they lock us in the garage and tell us not to bark, but when night falls and there is noise outside, everyone is glad we're there.
Excerpt from "The Last True Story I'll Ever Tell" By John Crawford
I love the infantry because they are the underdogs. They are the mud-rain-frost-and-wind boys. They have no comforts, and they even learn to live without the necessities. And in the end they are the guys that wars can't be won without. -- Ernie Pyle
Bill Barilko disappeared that summer He was on a fishing trip The last goal he ever scored Won the Leafs the cup They didn't win another 'til nineteen-sixty-two The year he was discovered I stole this from a hockey card I keep tucked up under
My fifty-mission cap I worked it in I worked it in to look like that It's my fifty-mission cap It's his fifty-mission cap And I worked it in (worked it in) I worked it in And I worked it in to look like that And I worked it in to look like that