Please bold over my quote where I said no one needs to sign up, or discouraged the service, check yourself.

"Toe the line" means to stand in formation for accountabilty and inspection. If you have been a Platoon Sergeant (Gunny for Marines) then you know what this means and respect it. We need thousands of true patriots to join now and put the beat down on both our enemies abroad and politicians here who fail to understand the prominent role of the US military in shaping world events. If you are against recruiting warriors, I am against you. Be proud to serve your nation in harm's way.

I know what it means I said at zero one hundred hours z time - on a freaking internet board, it wasn't time to take roll call. I encouraged the young starter of this thread to consider all options ie, air force, army or marine reserves and even Coast Guard before jumping at a twenty thousand dollar signing bonus for the national freakin guard. Stand down, asshat.

:rolleyes:

From a vet who has seen the horrors of war, and died during them

Wilfred Owen, Dulce et Decorum Est (It is Sweet and Noble)

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares2 we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest3 began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots4
Of tired, outstripped5 Five-Nines6 that dropped behind.

Gas!7 Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets8 just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime9 . . .
Dim, through the misty panes10 and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering,11 choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud12
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest13
To children ardent14 for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.15

8 October 1917 - March, 1918

Whoa! What a great point. This clears up everything in the world. Thanks. Now we need to make 6 billion copies and rent a jet plane.

A perfect example of your life philosophy. Something challenges your belief system, you immediately reject it without thinking about what informs said belief systems. That's pathetic.

I immediately rejected it because you tried to make a point but completely missed. Keep telling me about my life philosophy. The only points you seem to hit are when you throw china plates at the corner of your coffee table.

oh, jeez. I'll summarize so your wee lil head can comprehend. Don't rush into anything serious without serious thoughts about the totality of the consequences brought forth by your actions.

seems to me a smart decision - gathering facts and making an educated decision. Nothing wrong with following your heart's path just use your head to map the directions.

You really are dense. KCJohnny is praising the glory of fighting and dying for your country like he's Alfred fucking Lord Tennyson, and I responded in kind with a piece on the reality of warfare. If you lack reading comprehension skills, that's not me missing my point, that's me talking above you. I'll bring a leash next time so you can be walked through slowly.

I like this one...

Bivouac Of The Dead
By Theodore O'Hara
(Written in memory of the Kentucky troops killed in the Mexican War - 1847)

Portions Of This Haunting Poem Are Inscribed On Placards
Throughout Arlington, As Well as On
The McClellan Gate There

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on Life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On fame's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents to spread,
And glory guards, with solemn round
The bivouac of the dead.

No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind;
Nor troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dreams alarms;
No braying horn or screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shriveled swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed,
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,
And the proud forms, by battle gashed
Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are past;
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore may feel
The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce Northern hurricane
That sweeps the great plateau,
Flushed with triumph, yet to gain,
Come down the serried foe,
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew the watchword of the day
Was "Victory or death!"

Long had the doubtful conflict raged
O'er all that stricken plain,
For never fiercer fight had waged
The vengeful blood of Spain;
And still the storm of battle blew,
Still swelled the glory tide;
Not long, our stout old Chieftain knew,
Such odds his strength could bide.

Twas in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyr's grave
The flower of his beloved land,
The nation's flag to save.
By rivers of their father's gore
His first-born laurels grew,
And well he deemed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory too.

For many a mother's breath has swept
O'er Angostura's plain --
And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its moldered slain.
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,
Alone awakes each sullen height
That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground
Ye must not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air.
Your own proud land's heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave;
She claims from war his richest spoil --
The ashes of her brave.

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast
On many a bloody shield;
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes sepulcher.

Rest on embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave;
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
For honor points the hallowed spot
Where valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanquished ago has flown,
The story how ye fell;
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor time's remorseless doom,
Can dim one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb.

No kidding?

That was a really great talk you gave. Once again, clearing everything up.

Ok, if you sarcastically respond with what I'm doing, acknowledging what I was doing in reference to what KCJohnny was doing, doesn't that signal an implicit acknowledgement that I got the point, since you can clearly see the debate between the two sides, as you claim is so obvious in this post?

Hey man, didn't you see me say how great it was? Seriously, you need to write a book about your greatness after you finish printing off those 6 billion copies.

LMAO

way to be an adult about things

Me, an adult? I thought I needed a leash to keep up with Dr. Hamas.