A friend up in Michigan, one of those rare living survivors of the Bataan Death March, and years of imprisonment back in 1942, sent me this and he is older than dirt. I submit this, with his permission, because of the problems of post-traumatic problems of returning Iraq vets.

&uot;If I could, I’d enlist today and help track down those responsible for killing thousands of innocent people in New York City and Washington DC.

But, I’m over 80 now and the Armed Forces say I’m too old to track down terrorists. You can’t be older than 35 to join the military. They’ve got the whole thing backwards. Instead of sending 18-year-olds off to fight, they ought to take us old guys. You shouldn’t be able to join until you’re at least 35, even better over 50.

Those 18-year-olds haven’t lived long enough to become a cranky old goat, and a cranky goat is a dangerous soldier. If we can’t kill the enemy we’ll complain them into submission. &uot;My back hurts!&uot; &uot;I’m hungry!&uot; &uot;Dang that prostate.&uot;

An 18-year-old hasn’t had a legal beer yet and you shouldn’t go to war until you’re at least old enough to drink. An average old guy has consumed half a million cans of beer by the time he’s 80 and a jaunt through the desert heat with a backpack and M-60 might flatten the belly.

An 18-year-old would rather not get up before 10 a.m. Old guys get up early every morning for nature’s call and then can’t get back to sleep. We lie awake and can hear a pin drop three hundred yards away. We’d make better sentries than a pack of Dobermans. If we are captured we couldn’t spill the beans because we’d probably forget where we put them. In fact, name, rank, and serial number is a brainteaser.

Boot camp would actually be easier for old married coots. We’re used to getting screamed and yelled at and we actually like soft food. They could lighten up on the obstacle course, I’ve been in combat and never did see a single 20-foot wall with rope hanging over the side, and I never did any pushups after completing basic training.

I can hear the Drill Sergeant now, &uot;Get down and give me…er…one… old timer.&uot; And all that running nonsense is a waste of energy; nobody can outrun a bullet.

An 18-year-old has the whole world ahead of him. He’s still learning to shave, to actually carry on a conversation, and to wear pants without the top of his butt showing. He still hasn’t figured out that a pierced tongue catches food, tattoos are forever, and a 400-watt speaker in the back seat can rupture an eardrum. All great reasons to keep our grandsons at home to learn a little more about life before sending them off to possible death. They may not amount to much, but at least they should have time to straighten up, or not.

Let us old guys track down those cowards who attacked our hearts and souls on September 11. The last thing the enemy would want to see right now is a couple of million old codgers with attitudes. The al-Qaeda wouldn’t know what terrorism is until they fell into our hands. The ragheads would all wish they were back in Abu Ghraib in their panty hose, posing for their pictures.

Robert Pocklington lives in Suffolk and is a regular New-Herald columnist. He can be reached at robert.pocklington@suffolknewsherald.com.