He remembered long ago when Williamson, the bombing officer, had been hit by a stick bomb some one in a German patrol had thrown as he was coming in through the wire that night and, screaming, had begged every one to kill him. He was a fat man, very brave, and a good officer, although addicted to fantastic shows. But that night he was caught in the wire, with a flare lighting him up and his bowels spilled out into the wire, so when they brought him in, alive, they had to cut him loose. Shoot me, Harry. For Christ sake shoot me. They had had an argument one time about our Lord never sending you anything you could not bear and some one’s theory had been that meant that at a certain time the pain passed you out automatically. But he had always remembered Williamson, that night. Nothing passed out Williamson until he gave him all his morphine tablets that he had always saved to use himself and then they did not work right away.

From “The Snows of Kilimanjaro,” by Ernest Hemingway

Last evening, I sat with a group of friends who were playing their guitars and singing. And then the news came through, “Thirteen American soldiers died and eighteen were wounded in Afghanistan. Scores of Afghans were killed in the terrorist attack.” My heart froze with pain. I left the gathering without explaining to anyone the reason. I thought of their families, parents, children, of every one of us who have seen them grow up. I am sad and angry. Our young men perished in a country where its army deserted their people and left them at the mercy of the enemy.  Shame and responsibility should fall upon them. Our young men died doing humanitarian work, helping refugees who have assisted our troops in preserving America’s freedom. Freedom does not come easy. It has a high price. This snippet by Ernest Hemingway speaks for the bravery of our soldiers and is dedicated to them.