Charles Calvin Rogers was a math major. A Lieutenant Colonel. An artillery commander. A decorated senior officer whose job involved staying back behind the front lines calculating firing angles with a slide rule and a portable astrolabe, launching artillery shells the size of small children at enemy coordinates screamed into his ear via radio by panicking junior-grade infantry officers, and blowing the crap out of things at such long distances he needed a decent hill and a pair of high-magnification binoculars just to get a decent look at the fireworks.
He wasn’t supposed to be bayonet-charging a horde of North Vietnamese Army regulars on the Cambodian border in the middle of Halloween night with two goddamned chunks of burning-hot mortar shrapnel embedded in his ribs and AK-47 bullets ripping up the jungle underbrush around from every direction.
That's the kind of man America used to produce by the thousands. I fear that isn't the case today.
But when the opportunity presented itself, he didn’t pass it up. He rallied his troops, slapped a magazine into his rifle, and didn’t stop cracking skulls until the sun came up.