(A News and Sentinel Op-Ed - Photo Illustration - MetroCreativeConnection)

As I sat all alone in the courthouse square, an old soldier named Sam walked up to me there.

He was tall but stooped, his dark hair all but gray. He stood there in silence, like he had something to say.

His eyes were sad, so sharp and clear, piercing your soul, but lacking in fear. The soldier was tired and weary, aged past his years. His lips wore a smile, but his hand wiped a tear.

It was then I first noticed the blood on his boots. I feared he was injured; wondered what I should do.

“Mister, I said, what happened to you? From where came the blood, that stain on your boots?”

He simply smiled at me and haltingly said, “That stain on my boots, it’s nothing to fear. That’s blood from the path I took to get here.”

Upon hearing his reply, I scratched at my head: How could it be true, this strange thing that he said?

“Old Soldier,” I said, “would you care to have a seat, and tell me of the blood that now marks your feet?”

“Why, thank you, sir. I’d be thankful to share. So many in your land, they no longer care.”

“Now tell me,” I asked. “What of the blood? What is its origin? Where is it from?”

“When I purchased these boots, they were new, fresh, and clean, the envy of nations, no blood could be seen.

“My boots were first marred on Lexington green, when I stood my ground at the frightful scene.

“Minutemen were fallen all upon the ground. Their guns lay beside them. There was scarcely a sound.

“These bloody boots nourished the soil and brought freedom to the world. An idea was conceived, and a new flag was unfurled.

“At Valley Forge, I wasn’t that bold. I stained the white snow, and my feet were so cold. My garments were tattered, and I had nothing to eat. But my boots were not bloody; there were none for my feet.

“We climbed in the boats and launched from the shore. We won the battle in Trenton, and I acquired some more.

“But my journey continued, and my boots just marched on. The challenges were many and the threats were not gone.

“The leather was marred at Antietam that day, from thousands of deaths, the Blue and the Gray. Brother versus brother, father against son, neighbor fighting neighbor, but nobody won.

“Ulysses S. Grant and Robert E. Lee, the nation was in turmoil; men yearned to breathe free. Abe Lincoln, he wept over a nation so dear. My boots were then stained with a president’s tears.

“War came to Europe; we couldn’t let it slide. Our boots boarded the ships, and braved the blue tide.

“Our troops charged to the front; they suffered great cost, boots soaked in men’s blood, a battalion was lost.

“When the armistice was signed, we thought we were done. But America still needed its boots and its guns.

“The oil-topped seas were roiling with flame. Sailors were dying, calling Mom’s name. Zeroes were coming, dropping bombs all around, but my boots were washed clean as the Oklahoma went down.

“But I swam from the wreckage and continued my trek, taking my place on a carrier’s deck. “As Doolittle’s Raiders flew away from the ship, with Tokyo’s shores the aim of their trip.

“They struck at Japan and won some payback for home. Now the blood on my boots was from the emperor’s own home.

“My boots were again bloodied on Omaha’s shore. Men shredded by guns and the horrors of war.

“The beaches were littered with men who stood tall. But the soldiers kept coming, bringing down Hitler’s great wall.

“I raced through the blood of dark Iwo’s shore. Marines gave their lives and their valor was sure. On that dark, lonely isle, my boots were bright red. I tripped over the bodies and wept over the dead.

“My brothers were fallen, far too many to count. Tears washed aside the blood; a flag was raised on the Mount.

“Fifty-eight thousand pairs of bloodied boots, with names inscribed on the Wall. Each one of them paid the ultimate price when their nation came to call.”

I dared not to speak as the man drew a breath. His soul and his boots had seen so much suffering and death.

The old soldier collapsed upon the court bench; his head, all at once, fell to his chest. No doubt he’d come far and just needed some rest.

Silent, he sat there; my heart filled with dread. What would I do if the warrior was dead?

Fearing the worst, I reached out to him, but he jumped from his seat with vigor and vim. The old soldier stood up with his back straight and tall, with the splendor of youth, as when he answered the call.

“These boots were stained so many times since, whenever life is in danger and freedom’s at risk.

“They’ve waded through rice paddies. They’ve sprinted through sand. They’ve slogged in the snow, stood in foxholes on land.

“The leather is stained, its bright crimson hue shows us the sacrifice that most never knew.

“The blood on these boots is precious to me. Ev’ry drop of blood purchased the right to be free.

“I continue to wear them, even though they are old. They remind me of battles and heroes untold. They speak to our heritage, the brave and the bold. And I’ll proudly wear them, until my body is cold.

“Yes, these boots are bloody, my friend. But they are tested and true and will last to the end.”

The story he told left me touched by what he said. I wanted them also, those boots, so I pled: “Where can I get a pair of these boots for myself? Tell me what store and the place on the shelf.”

“You’re wearing them now,” the old soldier said. “They were purchased for you by the brave and the dead. You have only to wear them and recall what they’re for. Be thankful to them who bought them before.

“Just walk in freedom, now you know the score. Thank God for our troops, and know they’ll buy more!”

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R.G. Yoho is a local author and speaker.