BRIAN MATTHEW KENNEDY

THE SCOTTISH SOLDIER

Consider the Scottish Soldier, a young man of 19.

Beardless or not, this is not a boy.

He is a short haired, tight-muscled kid who, under normal circumstances is considered by society as half man, half boy. Not yet dry behind the ears, old enough to buy a drink, old enough to die for his country but not yet considered old enough to sign a hire-purchase agreement or to sit in the Parliament that sent him to fight.

He never really cared much for work, and he would rather polish his own car than wash his father's, but he had the gumption to do 'something' for his own future and 'signing on' was never an option for him.

He's probably got a couple if 'O' levels or Standard Grades and was perhaps only an average student. He loved sports and games,and was very good at them having a fierce competitive streak.

That competitiveness though was always tempered with a strong sense of fair play.

At home he drives a ten year old GTi type car, if he can get decent priced insurance because underwriters see him as 'high risk'. He has a steady girlfriend that either broke up with him when he left, or swears to be waiting when he returns from half a world away.

According to his background influences, he likes to listen to rock ,hip-hop, rap, techno, garage or pop. Now he stirs to the sound of the pipes and marches to the beat of a drum. Tonight his lullaby will be mortars and artillery.

He is 1ý stones lighter now than when he was at home because he is working or fighting from before dawn to well after dusk.

He has trouble spelling, thus letter writing is a pain for him, but he can strip his rifle in 30 seconds, by touch alone, and reassemble it in less time in the dark.

He can recite the parts list of a GPMG, SA80 or a mortar and use any one instinctively if he must.

He digs slit trenches and latrines and can apply first aid like a professional.

He can march until he is told to stop or stop until he is told to march.

He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation, but he is not without spirit, dignity or conscience.

He is self-sufficient. He has two sets of uniforms: he washes one and wears the other.

He keeps his canteen full and his feet dry.

He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never to clean his rifle.

He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes, and fix his own injuries. If you're thirsty, he'll share his water with you; if you are hungry, his food.

He'll even share his ammo with you in the midst of battle when you run low.

He has learned to use his hands like weapons and weapons like they were his hands.

He can save your life - or take it, because that is his job.

He will often do twice the work of a civilian, or an emergency services worker, draw half the pay and still find ironic humour in it all. He has seen more suffering and death than he should have in his short lifetime.

He may have stood beside groups of bodies, and helped to create them.

He has wept in public and in private, when he hears 'Flowers of the Forest'. for friends who have fallen in combat and is unashamed.

He feels every note of the 'Last Post' course through his body. He'll remain steady at attention, while tempering the burning desire to 'educate' those around him who haven't bothered to stand, remove their hat, or even stop talking. In an odd twist, day in and day out, far from home, he defends the right of the ignorant, or the dissenting, to be disrespectful.

Shame on the 'Upper Class' who see him as cannon fodder or servant. They have no nobility.

Shame on the 'Middle Class' who sneer to think themselves intellectually superior and would never mix with him.

While they pore over their Sunday Supplements and denounce his actions, they forget who secures their safety.

They have no notion.

None of them are fit to lace his boots.

Honour to the 'working Class', from whence he comes. The true backbone of the country, they support him unreservedly, disregarding the pettiness of the politics or self-appointed jurists, and pray to keep him safe.

Just as did his Great-grandfather, Grandfather, and Father before him did, from The Somme, Normandy, Burma, Korea and Ulster, he is paying the price for our safety and freedom.
This is the Scottish Soldier that has fought, in the name of honour and freedom, for his Family, his Laird, his Clansman, his Chieftain, his Monarch, his Country and his Adopted Countries throughout the ages of Man.

He has asked nothing in return, except the right to peace, freedom and respect.

Remember him, always, for he has earned our admiration with his blood. We should be proud to call this quiet hero our friend.

Let it be our prayer, to the God of your choice, "Dear Lord keep our troops in your loving care. Protect them as they protect us. Bless them and their families for the selfless acts they perform for us. Amen."

And for the fallen, lest we forget: They shall not grow old as we who are left grow old. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

WE WILL REMEMBER THEM.


	THE SCOTTISH SOLDIER Consider the Scottish Soldier, a young man of 19. Beardless or not, this is not a boy. He is a short haired, tight-muscled kid who, under normal circumstances is considered by society as half man, half boy. Not yet dry behind the ears, old enough to buy a drink, old enough to die for his country but not yet considered old enough to sign a hire-purchase agreement or to sit in the Parliament that sent him to fight. He never really cared much for work, and he would rather polish his own car than wash his father's, but he had the gumption to do 'something' for his own future and 'signing on' was never an option for him. He's probably got a couple if 'O' levels or Standard Grades and was perhaps only an average student. He loved sports and games,and was very good at them having a fierce competitive streak. That competitiveness though was always tempered with a strong sense of fair play. At home he drives a ten year old GTi type car, if he can get decent priced insurance because underwriters see him as 'high risk'. He has a steady girlfriend that either broke up with him when he left, or swears to be waiting when he returns from half a world away. According to his background influences, he likes to listen to rock ,hip-hop, rap, techno, garage or pop. Now he stirs to the sound of the pipes and marches to the beat of a drum. Tonight his lullaby will be mortars and artillery. He is 1ý stones lighter now than when he was at home because he is working or fighting from before dawn to well after dusk. He has trouble spelling, thus letter writing is a pain for him, but he can strip his rifle in 30 seconds, by touch alone, and reassemble it in less time in the dark. He can recite the parts list of a GPMG, SA80 or a mortar and use any one instinctively if he must. He digs slit trenches and latrines and can apply first aid like a professional. He can march until he is told to stop or stop until he is told to march. He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation, but he is not without spirit, dignity or conscience. He is self-sufficient. He has two sets of uniforms: he washes one and wears the other. He keeps his canteen full and his feet dry. He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never to clean his rifle. He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes, and fix his own injuries. If you're thirsty, he'll share his water with you; if you are hungry, his food. He'll even share his ammo with you in the midst of battle when you run low. He has learned to use his hands like weapons and weapons like they were his hands. He can save your life - or take it, because that is his job. He will often do twice the work of a civilian, or an emergency services worker, draw half the pay and still find ironic humour in it all. He has seen more suffering and death than he should have in his short lifetime. He may have stood beside groups of bodies, and helped to create them. He has wept in public and in private, when he hears 'Flowers of the Forest'. for friends who have fallen in combat and is unashamed. He feels every note of the 'Last Post' course through his body. He'll remain steady at attention, while tempering the burning desire to 'educate' those around him who haven't bothered to stand, remove their hat, or even stop talking. In an odd twist, day in and day out, far from home, he defends the right of the ignorant, or the dissenting, to be disrespectful. Shame on the 'Upper Class' who see him as cannon fodder or servant. They have no nobility. Shame on the 'Middle Class' who sneer to think themselves intellectually superior and would never mix with him. While they pore over their Sunday Supplements and denounce his actions, they forget who secures their safety. They have no notion. None of them are fit to lace his boots. Honour to the 'working Class', from whence he comes. The true backbone of the country, they support him unreservedly, disregarding the pettiness of the politics or self-appointed jurists, and pray to keep him safe. Just as did his Great-grandfather, Grandfather, and Father before him did, from The Somme, Normandy, Burma, Korea and Ulster, he is paying the price for our safety and freedom. This is the Scottish Soldier that has fought, in the name of honour and freedom, for his Family, his Laird, his Clansman, his Chieftain, his Monarch, his Country and his Adopted Countries throughout the ages of Man. He has asked nothing in return, except the right to peace, freedom and respect. Remember him, always, for he has earned our admiration with his blood. We should be proud to call this quiet hero our friend. Let it be our prayer, to the God of your choice, "Dear Lord keep our troops in your loving care. Protect them as they protect us. Bless them and their families for the selfless acts they perform for us. Amen." And for the fallen, lest we forget: They shall not grow old as we who are left grow old. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning, WE WILL REMEMBER THEM.