PRESTOPUNDIT

Almost 300 Marines based at Camp Pendleton have died in Iraq, by ones and twos and sometimes by the dozen. Thirteen of them have been from the infantry unit I refer to with deep respect and affection as "my Marines" – the 1st Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment. And more than a hundred of them have been wounded. My Marines are home right now at Camp Pendleton, but chances are they'll be going back to Iraq again soon, some for the third time. Many of them tell me they aren't particularly happy about it.

And why should they be? It's hot, dirty, dangerous work, and when it isn't dangerous it's boring. Meanwhile, here at home, their families will go through constant and unrelenting fear and uncertainty, this in the midst of a political climate that increasingly questions the worth of their sacrifice. True, public support for the troops themselves remains high. But some politicians and activists seem to almost gleefully seize on the problems and the mistakes in Iraq, and to confidently predict failure. That's not exactly a morale-builder.

And yet, for all of that, the Marines keep going back.

I frequently give talks about the Marines in Iraq to various Orange County groups - service clubs, military associations and so on. And there's a story I usually tell.

It's not a story about the Marines' courage in combat, although I could tell plenty of those. Instead, it's a small story, one that might seem insignificant in the larger scheme of things, but one that to me sums up the dogged, day-to-day determination and dedication that has kept the Marines going back into the combat zone - and in the process has helped make today's election possible.

It's a story about a young lieutenant's boots. It happened last spring, during my last trip to Iraq. I was standing at a windswept, forlorn, Godforsaken forward outpost just outside Fallujah, listening to a couple of Marine lieutenants talking. The two lieutenants were infantry platoon commanders, maybe 22 or 23 years old - which is sort of amazing in itself. I mean, most major American corporations would hardly trust 22-year-olds to run the office coffee machine, while the U.S. military entrusts to their hands the very lives of 30 or 40 men.

Anyway, one of the lieutenants was talking about some stains on his boots. He had these dark, oily-looking stains all over the tops of his boots, and he was saying how much he hated walking around like that, but he just didn't have time to break in another pair. Anyone who's been in the infantry knows that, next to his weapon, his boots are a grunt's most important piece of equipment - and it takes a long time to break them in properly. So I'm listening to this, and I'm thinking, what's this kid talking about? I mean, it's 120 degrees out there, there's dirt blowing everywhere, nobody's had a shower for at least a week, we're all filthy, and it's not like there's going to be a parade ground inspection. So why is this lieutenant worried about stains on his boots?

Then the lieutenant talked some more, and I looked at his boots again, and I realized what the problem was. The stains on the lieutenant's boots weren't oil or grease.

They were blood.

They were the blood of a Marine in the lieutenant's platoon who'd been shot in the head a month earlier in Fallujah. And as the lieutenant had held him, the dying young Marine had bled all over his boots.

Now, this lieutenant had seen his share of combat; he was not a soft or emotionally frail young man. Nevertheless, it bothered him. It bothered him that every day, every time he looked down, he had to see that blood and remember, vividly, that young Marine dying.

But as hard as it was, this lieutenant still kept wearing those bloody boots. Because he needed the boots to accomplish the mission.

And that, to me, symbolizes what all of our Marines and soldiers and sailors and airmen have done, and are doing, and will continue to do for as long as we ask them. As tough as it is, and in the face of danger and adversity and doubt, they figuratively and sometimes even literally carry the blood of their fallen comrades on their boots.

And they still march on.